Today on my walk around the lake there were a pair of parent swans and three teenage cygnets. The cygnets were almost the size of their parents, but they were completely grey. They weren’t little and cute and fluffy. And they weren’t big and striking and beautiful like their swan parents. They stuck together and followed their mom, at least for now, and dad came and went.

I stared at them for a while because their in-between-ness warmed my heart. They had the graceful necks that would soon make them the stunning creatures that they are—and you really wouldn’t know to look at them—if you had never seen a swan—that there would be this next transition into beauty for them.

I have these transitions of growth in mind because it’s that season again—it’s fledging season—when kids go off to school—whether you are dropping your child at college, or whether you are walking them to first grade.

The thing about fledging is that it’s a period of practice and not an event. There’s the long, uncomfortable phase of growing feathers—not feeling quite yourself. And then there’s the long phase of sitting on the edge of the nest and flapping your wings. And then there are practice flights. Practice hunting or fishing or eating. And more flapping.

We need to do more celebrating of the flapping. And we need to celebrate beginnings. We often celebrate endings—things like graduations and retirements. But we don’t celebrate beginnings. There seems to be the belief that celebrations need to be earned—rather than simply be an act of grace for the journey forward. I got to see this idea in action this week visiting a German friend. Here they celebrate the first day of school with a series of events that ends in a big family party—with presents and cake and lots of fun and conversation.

And probably—we need to hold the connections between the two—beginnings and endings. These cygnets will lose this special phase of their lives soon—as they shift into their graceful regal stature. We need to find a way to celebrate both: the beginnings and the endings. The losses and the new beginnings. It’s hard to hold them both as we grow. But it’s really the combination of the two that allows us to grow.

A poem for all who are supporting growth:

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,
rom 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

© 2022 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD