This is so beautiful. As my youngest has been dealing with the wildfires in L.A. this week all I could hope is that every walk I've taken with him as a child, is residing within him still as well.
So evocative. I love owls and the connection to your son is woven so beautifully throughout the essay.
During the pandemic a great horned owl was my regular visitor here at the Monterey Museum of Art, where as the Director, I live on the historic campus called La Mirada. Sadly, we had to cut down the ancient pine it perched in most nights because it threatened the house. I sobbed as the arborists brought down the tree because I knew I had lost the owl. It was one more loss in a year already heavy with them.
What tenderness here: "In my son’s earliest days, when he was so very sick, that’s what I did, night after night. I rose from bed and went to him, changed him, held him, swaddled him, sang in his ear. I’m not over it. I’ll never be over it. Those years are a broken shard of undigested bone in my throat."
Your words pricked my heart, as I am dealing with a similar dynamic with my 14-year-old daughter. "On our best days," you wrote, "that's my son and me." I think of my daughter, too, and as you personified the poem about the owl to reflect upon fatherhood, I can see something similar in the heartbreak I often feel with this strange, tenuous dance between her and me. Everything is delicate.
But once we shared an owl moment, too. She was ten years old, and it was dawn in winter. In a house full of seven people, only she and I were awake. We heard its eerie call, and both of us leapt to the back door. There it stood, perched atop our old rickety playhouse. And it turned its head toward us, stared for a few seconds, then spread its wings and soared past the window where she and I stood, wide-eyed with wonder. I was even able to photograph it in the instant it made eye contact with us.
I want to let you know, too, that the generative writing workshop on Saturday was incredibly powerful. You have so much wisdom and I feel honored to have received it. Thank you.
What an amazing moment to share! Eye contact, no less! I'm so very glad to know you found the Larksong class helpful, Jeannie. It was such a pleasure to hear everyone talk about what they are working on. Nothing inspires me more than feeling a part of a group like that. Excited for next time!
"I like to think that every walk through the woods we’ve ever taken somehow resides in him still, not as a memory but as something more, an essence, a residue of my love for him, of my desire for him to feel at home in the world. Life takes so much from us, brutalizes us, strips us down for parts. Everyone we ever love will die. No getting around it. To feel at home in a world like ours—to accept it exactly as it is and not how we wish it were—is our only refuge."
This is so beautiful. As my youngest has been dealing with the wildfires in L.A. this week all I could hope is that every walk I've taken with him as a child, is residing within him still as well.
Thank you for these words and wisdom.
Sending good thoughts to you & your son. Those fires are heartbreaking.
It’s too easy to ‘heart’ things on Substack but I really really ‘heart’ this. Beautiful.
Thank you, Lorna!
So evocative. I love owls and the connection to your son is woven so beautifully throughout the essay.
During the pandemic a great horned owl was my regular visitor here at the Monterey Museum of Art, where as the Director, I live on the historic campus called La Mirada. Sadly, we had to cut down the ancient pine it perched in most nights because it threatened the house. I sobbed as the arborists brought down the tree because I knew I had lost the owl. It was one more loss in a year already heavy with them.
Thanks for sharing your writing. I invite you to read my Substack, Work in Progress. https://open.substack.com/pub/coreybmadden/p/ask-for-help?r=cvi5r&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
Oh yes—I feel that. 💔
Steve,
What tenderness here: "In my son’s earliest days, when he was so very sick, that’s what I did, night after night. I rose from bed and went to him, changed him, held him, swaddled him, sang in his ear. I’m not over it. I’ll never be over it. Those years are a broken shard of undigested bone in my throat."
Your words pricked my heart, as I am dealing with a similar dynamic with my 14-year-old daughter. "On our best days," you wrote, "that's my son and me." I think of my daughter, too, and as you personified the poem about the owl to reflect upon fatherhood, I can see something similar in the heartbreak I often feel with this strange, tenuous dance between her and me. Everything is delicate.
But once we shared an owl moment, too. She was ten years old, and it was dawn in winter. In a house full of seven people, only she and I were awake. We heard its eerie call, and both of us leapt to the back door. There it stood, perched atop our old rickety playhouse. And it turned its head toward us, stared for a few seconds, then spread its wings and soared past the window where she and I stood, wide-eyed with wonder. I was even able to photograph it in the instant it made eye contact with us.
I want to let you know, too, that the generative writing workshop on Saturday was incredibly powerful. You have so much wisdom and I feel honored to have received it. Thank you.
What an amazing moment to share! Eye contact, no less! I'm so very glad to know you found the Larksong class helpful, Jeannie. It was such a pleasure to hear everyone talk about what they are working on. Nothing inspires me more than feeling a part of a group like that. Excited for next time!
Owls are wise and mysterious. Silent and graceful in flight. Deadly talons. Such a mixture. Like parenthood. ♥️
Like parenthood! Exactly.
Beautiful - every word of it - and in particular the ones highlighted by Kathy.
Thanks, Beth! ❤️
"I like to think that every walk through the woods we’ve ever taken somehow resides in him still, not as a memory but as something more, an essence, a residue of my love for him, of my desire for him to feel at home in the world. Life takes so much from us, brutalizes us, strips us down for parts. Everyone we ever love will die. No getting around it. To feel at home in a world like ours—to accept it exactly as it is and not how we wish it were—is our only refuge."
I feel all of this, Steve. Thank you.
Thanks, Kathy! So good to see you yesterday!
I wrote so much after that class! Thank you!