On Taking Flight: A Fledgling's Prayer

Fledge. v. [flej]

-       to acquire the feathers necessary for flight or independent activity;

-       to leave the nest after acquiring such feathers

-       to rear until ready for flight or independent activity

Over the years I have become, and I’m not using this word lightly, obsessed, with the Eagle cam in the Washington Arboretum. I watched them every day from their hatching from eggs until they fledged. I was obsessed with them learning to eat, getting their feathers, and with them learning to perch and then fly. This year I have had fledging on the brain.

And maybe I become even more aware of it at this time of year because it’s when many of my young friends start to go off to college and I (with their parents) watch with both a joyful and heavy heart as they make the big leap into flight. And for so many of you this past week has really been the great migration--so many fledgings: first grade, high school, college. New jobs, new moves, new lives. Humans fledge hundreds of times. Maybe even thousands if you count all of the hops, leaps and flights.

I love the fact that the verb 'to fledge' is reflexive in its own way. That it is both the act of leaving the nest, but also the act of raising a bird to flight. It is both.

And so this is my offering to those who are fledging, and those who have raised their young for flight--no matter how young or old the fledgling or big or small the flight.

“The Fledgling’s Prayer

These are my wings—
Feathers and muscles and sinew
grown from your love and care,
sewn and mended
with your devotion and constancy.

And now—
I am ready to soar
with all that I am,
from all that you gave me.

All flights are practice flights.
They happen in that
blessed space between us.
A space wide enough
to stretch my wings
but not lose touch.

Tossed into the air
an arm’s length away.
Jumping off the dock,
three feet away.
Dropped off at Kindergarten,
three blocks away.
Dropped off at college,
Three hours away.
All flights are big flights.

And how did this happen?
None of us ever knows for sure.
I think perhaps Joy and Sorrow
grabbed hands and leapt
—forming the wings
that carry me forward.
.
But remember no one leaps, really.

I didn’t fly because I
jumped—so much as I simply
forgot for a moment to hold on.
I did. I forgot.
I forgot because the wind,
or is it God? –
whispered in my ear,
and sang the melody of my future.

I forgot for a moment to hold tight
and the wind caught my wings
pulling me forward.
It does. Life pulls you forward.

You are not the wind beneath my wings
as that old song croons.

No, you are the wings themselves.
I carry you with me and
you will always carry me.

The wind? Well that is God’s song
for each of us, our purpose, our passion.
It is the tidal pull of the universe
helping me to find my place,
helping me to share my gifts.

And you, sitting proud and brave
on the edge of our nest.
This small prayer is for you.

May the sight of my wings flashing
and the tales of my long flights
bring you as much joy as they bring me.
I can hear the wind calling and my heart
is full of the hopes we have both carried.

The fullness of myself,
the fullness of your love,
and the fullness of the world you gave me
take up my whole being.

This fullness defies language
except to say
that it used to be the feeling
I had when I leaned on you,
when you had hold of me.

And now—oh joy—
the nest I used to rest in
has made a place inside of me.

But for you, as for me,
there is also sorrow.
I am sad that this prayer
is all I have to offer you
in return for my wings.

And my heart aches imagining views
and vistas we will not share.
Do they exist if you don’t see them too?
Do I exist, if you can’t see me?
If I forget you for a moment,
will you remember me?

I pray that we both may find comfort
in the pages of books you read to me long ago,
that no matter what—
we are doing or
no matter where we are flying—
we both live under the very same moon.
And all we need to do is to look up
in to the night sky
to know that we are still connected,
to know that we will always belong,
to know that wherever we are,
we are home.”
— Gretchen Schmelzer

© 2023/2017 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

For more information on the Eagle Cams of the American Eagle Foundation

 

The Healing Power of Pause.

“In bullfighting there is an interesting parallel to the pause as a place of refuge and renewal. It is believed that in the midst of a fight, a bull can find his own particular area of safety in the arena. There he can reclaim his strength and power. This place and inner state are called his querencia. As long as the bull remains enraged and reactive, the matador is in charge. Yet when he finds his querencia, he gathers his strength and loses his fear. From the matador’s perspective, at this point the bull is truly dangerous, for he has tapped into his power.”
— Tara Brach, Radical Acceptance

It has taken me so long to learn the power of a pause. I was a disciple of effort—and misunderstood the pause. I believed pausing wouldn’t just be a short rest, I believed that it would mean ‘losing ground.’ That any lack of forward motion meant you were going backwards. I didn’t understand that the pause is a time of work all its own.

As a child therapist, I understood quiet. Children naturally work and then pause. They work at one thing and then shift to another. They get engaged in what they are building and ignore you. Pausing the conversation and doing their own work. Child therapy has its own rhythm—has its own ebbs and flows. Much of what you do is follow along and be there—stay with them.

In my own healing I had a much harder time with pausing. Yes, I was used to effort, but it was more than that. Being more visual than musical, I saw the pauses as white space, and white space in art is what allows an object to stand out—to be seen. Pausing felt dangerous—there is no way to hide in a pause—no distractions. I would be seen by another, but I would also be able to see, and hear myself in the pauses. Much like the pause in music, feelings would reverberate. I would feel them. So for a long time constant motion felt safe, and pausing didn’t.

In the beginning, exhaustion substituted as a pause. I would only be able to stop and take things in when I simply got too tired of driving forward. But in those moments I was really aware of the feeling of calm, connection and groundedness that could come from these moments of pausing. Exhaustion would force me to let go and rest.

Mozart said that the music is not in the notes, but in the silence between them. And I have found that the music of healing comes with the pauses. The pause you need can be a simple pause in conversation. Or a break from forward motion while you sort through what you have already talked about. It can be a break from hard work altogether—a chance to write, play, draw. Or it can be a complete break—a time out from healing while you focus on something in your daily life that needs attention.

In pauses you feel your feelings, you renew your energy and find, as Tara Brach states above, there’s not just rest or calm in the pause, there is also power. When you can pause, when you can stay, you realize you are bigger than the thing you have been running from or hiding from. You realize that you have the capacity to hold it, to feel it, to heal from it. Whereas the trauma had you feel powerless, surviving the pauses reacquaints you with your own power in a quiet and wonderful way. And it’s a place you can always return to. That place of rest. The pause. 

© 2023/2016 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD


Embracing "First Drafts" for Healing and Growth

“Nobody is ever meant to read your first draft. The first draft is you, telling the story to yourself. ”
— Neil Gaiman

Sometime before the Covid years I went to an Elementary School Science Fair—and found that I was shocked at the perfect and professional displays that the children were presenting because most of them had used PowerPoint. I shouldn’t have been. I obviously went expecting what I remembered from science fairs: hand lettered poster boards with drawings in colored pencil, dioramas made out of shoe boxes—everything hand made. But time had marched on, and new technology had entered elementary school. These projects looked polished, almost corporate, which felt jarring given the seven-year-old standing in front of me. It made me feel like something was lost, though I couldn’t put my finger on it. I confess I like seeing a child’s version of a great horned owl much more than I enjoy clip art.

Don’t get me wrong. I think kids should learn the latest technology—but there’s something about learning, about being connected to the process, about experiencing the steps between an idea and a polished product that are harder to see or appreciate when it happens automatically. The new technology makes first drafts seem unnecessary—or even too childish for children. It makes it seem like there’s always a way to get it right the first time.  

But getting it right the first time isn’t how you heal. And it isn’t how you grow.  When you heal, or grow, when you are trying to get your story out, or trying to sort what you know, or what you know now—it can be really hard. And part of what makes it hard is the lack of practice or familiarity, and perhaps, most importantly, honoring of the fact that this piece of work is just a draft. You can get hung up on truth—or you can get hung up on clarity—both of which are important, but at this phase of sorting, naming, exploring—the goal is to get out what you can—what you know at this moment—what you can bear—what you can hold.

You forget that you can write something one day and contradict yourself the next. You forget that you can write your way into an idea and get lost for a while—and not have a clear idea of where you ended up—or where you wanted to go. You forget that you may tell the same story over and over—trying to connect, not the words, but the emotions, until suddenly, one day—it all comes together.

And while you may be telling the story to yourself, you sometimes need a listener: often a therapist or someone in a helping role, or a growing role. And that’s why it’s so important in the helping and growing professions to learn how to listen, rather than (as is fashionable and satisfying) to learning how to fix. Because you need the chance to talk in drafts—to be able to have first draft conversations. Conversations where you are sorting. Where you say something and listen to it in your heart, mind and body. And then you revise. Conversations you have and then months later, you come back to—and you start again. And again.

If I go back to my experience creating a project for a science fair—to a large poster of a peregrine falcon hand drawn from a picture in the Encyclopedia Britannica—what I got through the trial and error and practice of drawing wasn’t just a drawing, it was a relationship. It was a relationship to the peregrine, one I still have today—where I am overjoyed when I see one. But through the process I was also building a relationship with myself—or with the part of me that was learning how to learn— or was learning how to persevere in the face of something challenging. Building a relationship with the part of me that cared deeply for something—to know what that kind of care feels like.

You only get a relationship with what you spend time with. Which is where first drafts come in again. First drafts are where we start all of our relationships. How can you have a relationship with your process, your story—the way you understand yourself or others—if you don’t have a practice of first drafts? How do you allow yourself to start? How do you allow yourself to revise? How do you allow yourself to start again?

© 2023 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

For more ‘first draft’ inspiration you can watch this interview between Tim Ferriss and Neil Gaiman

Or you can read the best known primer on first drafts: Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird


What to do when your kids leave home.

They are leaving home.

The move feels so big. Sometimes it’s bigger for you. And sometimes it’s bigger for them. Camp, School, College, Apartment. Doesn’t matter. It feels huge, transformational. But even though it feels like it’s one big move, that’s actually not the way it happens. Leaving home is really done over years in the smallest of steps. Mundane steps that you don’t see as the runway to independence. It is a runway that was built brick by brick--with every goodbye and every goodnight. You and your child have been building the muscles for departure with every hello and good-bye; we are apart and we are connected.

With each drop-off and pick-up at school and at camp, your child has been building the capacity to hold his world and be held by yours—building the muscles to hold all of that in his heart. You forget that in addition to the many things your child is learning at school or at camp: math, science, history, swimming, archery—they are also learning attachment.

Attachment is one of the most important things we learn --and, unless there is a problem, one of the most invisible things we learn. Attachment is learned in the everyday back and forth of life. We teach it with peek-a-boo when they are babies and hide and seek when they are older. We teach it with every good-night and good-morning. We teach it with every mistake and every repair. It is hard to see because it changes shape all of the time. As a parent, attachment means being ballast—leaning to the side of the boat that needs to be brought in to balance. Sometimes it looks like holding and soothing and picking them up in your arms, wiping away tears. And sometimes it means holding the line, having the hard conversation, making them stretch: join a sport, get a job, pay your bills.

But at each milestone of stepping out and away, your child will walk on their new legs of attachment and feel them for the first time, again. They will wonder, “Can I do this? Can you? Will you remember me? Will everything be okay when I return? If I forget you, will you still be there? Who am I without you?” They will feel joy and pride in their new steps away, and fear and sadness at the loss of the more secure time they felt before. It is both. And holding both is really hard to learn. It takes most adults until mid-life to really have the ability to hold two truths in their arms at the same time and most kids can’t. They swing wildly between the poles—one day all excited and proud about the new adventure and the new friends, and the next day full of despair at the prospect of leaving.

And here’s the paradox for parents. We think that leaving home and the big milestones of our lives are about independence—but they are really about connection. Whether they are two, ten or twenty, your job is the same. You are already good at it. It is simple but not easy. You keep up your job as ballast. You help them hold both by holding the other: the other truth (yes, I will remember you), the other emotions (I know it’s hard, but you are learning so much), and the other end of the rope (I’ve got you, and you’ve got this, we are doing great, even if it doesn’t feel like it).

So as you send them off: to camp, to school, to college, to their new lives. Remember this. They are learning so many new things, but they are also, most importantly, learning attachment. They are learning how relationships hold over space and time. They are learning that love and care can stretch far and wide. They are learning that they exist, even when you can’t see them, and that you can hold them in your mind and heart—and they can do the same. They are learning that they carry all of the love and knowledge and resourcefulness of home in their own legs—that they can stand on their own feet and feel the sturdiness of them. And they are learning that home is woven through every cell of their bodies.

© 2023/2015 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

For a longer, wonderful read on attachment, here is an article by Robert Karen in the Atlantic. Or purchase his book, below.