Further proving that I am a nut who uses a Magic 8 ball in times of indecision, I am going to share with you that I play a game with myself in which I follow green lights. I think of this in its highest form in San Francisco, when we lived and worked within walking distance (Nob Hill and Financial District respectively). I rarely walked home the same way. And in LA, I knew every surface street option on my way to work and back to dodge traffic. It’s harder to do that now, living in the country where often there is only one main road. But I still play.

Recently I was en route to CVS and the grocery store—in that order—but a bunch of ongoing traffic interfered with the left turn to CVS, so I moved into the right lane and headed for the market. Again a choice: the back road or the front? The front is longer but more efficient (probably more legal); the back route is closer as the crow flies but goes through a parking lot with snow banks, pot holes, and a chain linked gate. The latter path is a better choice if there’s a red light or a lot of traffic ahead. Lacking these impediments, the front route won.

As a consequence of these two steps I turned right into the grocery lot and saw G and her boyfriend leaving the store. Her hair in a ponytail, her step deliberate and strong, I cherished seeing them, unnoticed. I knew they had planned to go marketing after school but thought they already had come and gone. Watching them from afar, I wondered whether to reach out or not. Chances were high they did not see me in my ubiquitous silver Subaru.

Based on the rules of autonomy I have been embracing, I decided to head into the store and not make contact. I found a shiny copper penny in my path which I took as a sign that I was doing the right thing.

It was not until I returned to the car that a thought hit me. Were they driving together? (He has his license but is in the six month probationary period.) I felt nauseous. What if she had been lying to me about using the shuttle or getting rides from older friends?

As soon as she got home, I asked G if my fears were warranted.

“No, Mom! We use the car like an apartment. We hang out in it. You’re right, it would be so easy! But it would also be easy for us to get caught. He could lose his car privileges for a year!” Her energy was calm, “Why didn’t you say hello? You could have taken the groceries home with you.”

Relieved, I answered, “Two reasons. One, not long ago I might not have gotten a warm reception—is it possible you’ve matured in the past three weeks? And two, I asked earlier if you wanted me to meet you at the Coop and take home your stuff, but you said no.”

“Oh, that’s because I don’t want you to go out of your way or plan your life around me.”

Duly noted. This is in G’s autonomy playbook.

Reflecting on this later, the notion of trust bubbles up. I am amazed at its elastic nature as it manifests in my life. How fragile it is and how quickly it can be in jeopardy. If you’ve been following this blog it might not surprise you that trust was a high-risk commodity in my early years. One parent I could trust completely, the other, less so.

Growing up I thought I could trust my mind—not my heart—but I’ve come to discover that the mind is a clever saboteur. It creates the “what-ifs,” the “shoulds,” the anxiety, the rabbit holes. It adores a good stew of doubt; I hear it cackle as it stirs the cauldron.

Talking with other parents, I am discovering that having a teenager invites us to look deeper than ever within ourselves. Although optional, I see it as the highest calling yet. A summons to examine bias, habits, reactions, defenses, fears, weaknesses.

Raising a little kid offered a different buffet: to play, heal, and wonder. These were not easy years, but they were profound. They presented me with the challenge of parenting without fear as a tool. I felt a deep sense of purpose yet the focal point was primarily on my child’s development, not mine.

Now G is living Kabral’s arrow. She is headed toward goals, dreams, and struggles that are not only separate but totally different from mine. When her words or actions abrade, the mind races to clamp down and restore order. But this is not the answer. Like when G was small and I parented radically differently from the mainstream, I am trying to trust the way.

“The mind creates the abyss, the heart crosses it.”[1] My mission, I see now, is even more loving kindness, bridging the space between heart and mind. “Acceptance is like magic”[2] it releases both of us, calms the mind, and invites love, the greatest healer of all, to say: yes, everything is as it should be. Whatever happens, good or ill, this is where we will discover our next lesson.

[1] Stephen Levine, Who Dies*, p. 20.
[2] Ibid, quoting Paul, dying of Hodgkins Disease, p. 149.

* An extraordinary book.