Ten years ago this week, drinking my après yoga beer at the Bistro, I wrote “Dear Preschool” with tears welling up my eyes. I had incredible fear about the grief I thought I was going to experience once Betty was not spending all the minutes of all our days with me.

Once we dropped her off with Mrs. Shaw and Panda, Devlin and I went for a bike ride in the badlands; something we could not pull off as a party of three. When we scooped her up a few hours later, she plopped in the back seat sighing  “Well, they didn’t teach me how to read and they don’t have healthy snacks.” Girl has always set high standards.

That heart wrenching state I allowed myself to be in the entire month of August 2015, was unnecessary – a sort of emotional self-sabotage. The thought of missing Betty and the perceived void it would create was far worse than the actual grief itself.

I thought I learned that lesson. And I thought once you learn a lesson, then you don’t have to suffer through the ignorance ever again. I was wrong. In the dark of the morning on March 10, I began suffering from grief I was projecting onto the future. All the months of the spring, I could not think the thought of Betty leaving without a flood of emotion wrapping it up and shaking it like a rag doll.

By June, I recognized how unhealthy that pattern was for me. I began the practice of paying fierce attention. I noticed when I had the thought, I noticed the emotions that came along with it, I noticed the sensations in my body and where the emotion was showing up physically. I’d simply notice. Then I’d flip the script. I’d remind myself that not only am I not my thoughts and emotions, but that I can control them. I’d say to myself, “Yo, homeslice. That is an unnecessary burden you are creating and carrying. Drop it. Hasn’t even happened yet. She’s here. You are all here for one last summer together at the Moose Willow. Save the sad for when the day comes, and remember it probably won’t even be as sad as you’re projecting. Be here now. Oh – and don’t forget your raging and fluctuating midlife hormones are playing a role here too.” 

Lo and behold, it worked.

I spent the summer here and now knowing that is the end of an era. I crept up the stairs in the late-morning to wake my darling homies up. I’d lie on the bed next to them and soak it all in. Plenty of mornings after visiting each of them, the three of us Macaroni Piggies would gather on Betty’s bed and flop in a love lump while we welcomed the day. I never had to ask for it, it just happened, and every time it did I stored a chunk of love away in my heart’s pocket to pull out for future use.

I served up meals, snacks, smoothies, treats, and advise at the Cowpoke Counter Café, knowing it’s likely my final chance. I used the early morning hours to stretch in the sunshine and check in with my brain and my heart. I gathered fresh bouquets of wildflowers and scattered them around the house. I tended to the hanging baskets and meticulously pruned the parts that were no longer serving the plant so that it could flourish to its greatest potential. My morning saunter took me through the patches of Blue Flax and Coneflower we began planting from seed years ago. Then I’d stroll down by the creek where the Indian Paintbrush carpeted the banks. I’d choke witnessing the beauty of a deep scarlet Paintbrush sidled up against a deep hued Elephant Head. When the Fireweed added itself to the mix I almost had to look away. I remember learning once that Robin Kimmerer, the author of Braiding Sweetgrass, asked a professor once why Goldenrod and Aster looked so beautiful together. He replied that she was in the wrong department. This was science, and she was looking for answers in art.

Hmmm…I wondered why we must compartmentalize. Duality in all things, right?

Knowing that major change and transition was on the near horizon, caring for the plants tethered me. I thought several times this summer about my college application essay. It was about participating in daily gardening rituals with my next door neighbor. She tenderly watered and pruned and nourished each plant twice per day. She did it with her feet bare constantly trading  textures between the soft Pennsylvania grass and the rich dark soil. We always paused at the bird bath to give it a refresher. Wish I had a floppy disk reader because I don’t remember the details of the essay. I do remember knowing that caring for a flower garden was an admirable and worthy pursuit. I patted myself on the back a time or two acknowledging that I am still smack dab in the middle of my most authentic life. 31 years after writing the essay, I’m living it out.

In those awful spring months, I allowed myself to play the role of the victim, something I swore off in my early 20’s.  It was a sneaky thing I caught myself doing. My dialogue for months was that I was getting robbed of four more years. What a bullshit thing to think. How could I be the victim of Betty’s success.? I can’t. Flipped the script on that one too.

I am not the main character in this story, just playing a supporting role – so I better start acting the role I’m cast for.  I looked for ways each day that I could help Betty (and Devlin too) live their best summer lives. I scheduled only three yoga classes to teach for the entire summer. The rest of my time was theirs. I drove all over the county so that they could make summer money and spend time with their pals.

In June, we made a list of the things we wanted to accomplish or experience over the summer. The list was prominent in our living room and everyday I’d look at all the things we did not make time to do. I wasn’t sad about it though, I didn’t try to force it. Instead, I held tight to the summer things we always do, the things that don’t make the bucket list. We chilled together up at Bog Lake a few times, we paddleboarded the creek a bazillion times, and the river a few. We ate dinners on the side porch wearing our permethrin drenched clothing. The kids occasionally indulged me in adventure lunches – as long as they could drive the side by side. We spent a day lounging at Double Cabin. We ate cherries and peaches and picked wild strawberries and raspberries. We watched the stars shoot around the skies.

All my superheroes were with me. Of course, La Madre ran the show. Mad Faith whispered me reminders while I walked through the wildflowers that the end of an era simply means the beginning of a new one. Ultra Violet only rode her bike a wee bit, but bounced like a fool filled with glee every time we all paddleboarded together. Hardscrabble dug up the dirt and the grass in the flower beds, scoured the lodge, moved the rocks, stacked the logs, and polished the walls and furniture. They were all on edge a bit because they knew a new Super Hero was going to be joining the ranks. Nobody knew who or when, but all of us were looking over our collective shoulder to see when she was comin’ round the mountain.

She arrived mid-summer. After some rounds of negotiating, I agreed to take over management of our town’s community fitness center. While always believing that my mission is to use my skills and talents to serve the widest field of action, I have never wanted to be an entrepreneur. I even hate saying the word – it comes out like I have a mouth full of marbles. Running “the gym” will be more than just serving the health and wellness needs of Dubois, it will be a business that I am solely responsible for, and comes with significant investment in overhead.

It was when I was crunching the numbers to see if it were possible to make it a profitable business, that I found Bianca Fayne looking over my shoulder making a tsk tsk sound. I looked up and recognized her immediately. She was wearing a distinct pair of stylish readers. She was sleek and classy, with a modern version of the costume she wore back in the 80’s when Rebecca Gonzalez used to draw her with a pencil skirt and blazer. She was a character my middle school besties created and used to represent a bad ass business woman. Sometimes she was an attorney, sometimes a real estate agent, sometimes a banker. It didn’t matter her role, she was at the top of the ladder.

We were in a Gifted and Talented group together with mostly boys since the 1^st grade. It was easier for the boys to see themselves as high execs in any industry – even the President of the United States. We had Bianca Fayne to bridge our gender gap. She was ballsy, self-assured, and knew her worth. She took charge and would never submit.

Funny, I was never into her.

She was basically Becca’s avatar – and Becca became an attorney.

My avatar was “Chunk”, good natured, affable, full of humor and wit, without lofty ambition. Chunk isn’t a nemesis like Fatty-Go-Blatty, she rides shotgun. Chunk was varsity and accepted the Warrior Award.

If I were smarter than I am, I could have seen Bianca Fayne coming round the mountain.

Although most of my superhero squad is forever quelling the nemesis of Fatty-Go-Blatty, there is a seedier nemesis that has been lurking all along. She goes by “Pro Bono” and gets away with her self sabotaging behavior under the guise of altruism and the cloak of righteousness. In all my 49 years, I have never been able to stand up to her.

Bianca Fayne will. I’m certain of it. I floated through my life believing that time and grand experiences were more valuable than money and I’ve acted according to that philosophy. I don’t regret it, but the path forward in this new era, is a novel trail. Now, it is imperative that I make money. That I have a job that supports the trajectory my family has chosen to pursue.

Despite never truly wanting to take this journey,  I remember that I never wanted to be anyone’s wife or anyone’s mom either. Turns out I can be best at the things I never believed were the things for me.

None of my Super Heros have ever been invited – they show up when the time is right, and Bianca has done just that.

I believe in the Cosmic Highway and I’ve learned to look all around me, in all directions, for the next stone to light up and leap on. I believe in the Universe conspiring to lift me and to meet me in my efforts to live my most authentic and purposeful life. I can trust in these foundational beliefs because I got this far by clutching to them tightly.

I don’t need to write a Dear Colorado Rocky Mountain School, letter. I don’t feel like throwing CRMS against the wall like wet spaghetti like I did about Preschool 10 years ago. This was written in the stars.

It was brought to my attention this spring (or rather my memory) that when Betty was incubating in my belly I wondered what she would do for high school. I knew that subjecting her spirit to small mountain town life was at some point going to be limiting.  

As a final project in graduate school, I designed my ideal, utopic educational experience…my dream school. When I found SOAR, I was pleased with how close it came to the mark. When Betty and I toured CRMS, I found the school I dreamt about. Socratic teaching of the humanities, heavy on the arts, an element of service to others, outdoor experiences, farm-to-table dining, and a staff of highly qualified instructors. I have no fear associated with Betty’s experience. I know with my whole heart and soul that this path is her Cosmic Highway. The fact that she found it, pursued it, and landed it is a testament to her ability to read the signs and manifest her destiny. I could not be prouder.

Tomorrow, we move her into her dorm and say our good-byes. Then she heads off on a 10-day backpacking trip. She’ll share the experience with her new homies and she’ll get the chance to know herself a little deeper. She’s ready, so as a supporting role actor, I must be ready too. I’m as close to it as I’ll ever be.

Devlin has been dishing out hilarious advise to her for the last few days as we’ve explored and hiked and camped in the area around her new digs. This morning he said “Just remember Betty, Be Cool and Be Kind, right mom?”

Right Dev. She will. I’m certain she will.