I did it to myself. Really, I have no one to blame but me. I should have kept my mouth shut and let them soldier on, but I worried about them and just wanted them to be happy. I didn't see it coming, and I didn't anticipate it happening so quickly. Yet it did, and I'm here now, saddened by the loss of my dream.
Even though it's a recent occurrence, it really began back when I was thirteen years old. I was set to become something great, but my mother didn't care about me or my happiness. She decided to pull up roots and move from Texas to Michigan. There was no recovery for me. I tried. I pulled up my bootstraps more times than I could count. I had been climbing the mountain, and I could see the peak, but I stumbled and fell numerous times. There was no one to pick me up and send me on my way again. And to this day, I still lay there at the bottom of the mountain, wishing I could see the view from the top.
I hoped that my children would climb the same mountain and report back to me on the view. I just wanted to know what was there. Would it be as beautiful as I dreamed? Would it all be worth the climb? How long could one stay there? While I couldn't stand at the top and offer them a rope, I could yell encouragement from the bottom.
One child wasn't at all interested. He decided to climb a different mountain from a very young age, so while he doesn't have the exact view that I wanted him to see, he can see it from another perspective, and that's just fine by me.
My next three were right on track. They scaled the boulders and kept on pushing upwards. My happiest moments were when they would look back down at me and describe the view. I loved hearing about it all, both the struggles and the triumphs. It almost felt as if I were there, climbing with them.
But then I could see that one of them wanted to climb her own mountain. She had been scaling mine because she wanted me to be happy and because she loved me, but she wanted something different. In all innocence, I told her to explore her options; to see what made her truly happy. And she did. And it didn't turn out like I had hoped. Wasn't she supposed to go off in other directions, only to find that she actually did want to live my dream? Wasn't she supposed to come back to me? I shed big, sad tears when I saw her standing in black one last time.
I could see that the next child wanted to climb a mountain, just not my mountain. While she was heading up the trail to see the view that I so desperately wanted to see through her eyes, she was always looking somewhere else. She wasn't making much progress up my mountain because of that. No girl can serve two masters, I guess. It broke my heart to tell her that she needs to follow her dreams; that maybe she doesn't love what I love so much, but that I could learn to love what she loves so much.
It was hard letting these two head off in other directions. I had spent so much time and money in supplying them with all that they needed for success. They didn't just have Timberland boots and off-the-rack backpacks, but they had the lightest, most durable Bivouac supplies on the planet along with carabiners. Lots and lots of carabiners, just in case they fell. Now, I don't know what they have, and I don't know how to help them.
I had hope for the last child. Of all of my children, he had made it the furthest. He had already climbed my peak and had moved onto bigger and better ones. Kind of like climbing Mt. McKinley and moving onto Mt. Kilimanjaro. His views have been spectacular. However, he's been pushed off the trail one too many times by other, faster hikers, and he's tired of it. He wants to hike with friends and feel, occasionally, that he's the best. I can't blame him. However, he's scared to get off my mountain. He's climbed it so often that it feels like a favorite pair of shoes. Comfortable.
I like to think that there's still a shred of hope for him. That if the weather conditions are perfect, and he's had a good breakfast that morning, he might make it up the mountain again. However, the pull of something else touches his kind, caring heart. It's like my mountain is covered in the large boulders of the Sandia mountains, and he wants to climb the loamy, soil-covered southern Appalachians. He has all the abilities to do what I want him to do, but in the end he has to do what he wants to do and hike where he is comfortable.
I love my mountain. I love it on its own just because it's beautiful and it feels like home to me. I love it because it has given my children the opportunities that I was denied. They have grown stronger from climbing it, and I will never regret pushing them to do so. However, I had hoped that one of them would reach the top, build a home there, and invite me up. I wanted to see the view and feel that I deserved to be there even though I hadn't earned it myself. I needed them to get me there. But I see now that it's not meant to be, for I encouraged them to climb their own mountains, and to find their own views. They bought their own equipment for the new terrain, and they're off exploring new trails.
And I have only myself to blame. Yep, just me. I wanted them to be happy.
Even though it's a recent occurrence, it really began back when I was thirteen years old. I was set to become something great, but my mother didn't care about me or my happiness. She decided to pull up roots and move from Texas to Michigan. There was no recovery for me. I tried. I pulled up my bootstraps more times than I could count. I had been climbing the mountain, and I could see the peak, but I stumbled and fell numerous times. There was no one to pick me up and send me on my way again. And to this day, I still lay there at the bottom of the mountain, wishing I could see the view from the top.
I hoped that my children would climb the same mountain and report back to me on the view. I just wanted to know what was there. Would it be as beautiful as I dreamed? Would it all be worth the climb? How long could one stay there? While I couldn't stand at the top and offer them a rope, I could yell encouragement from the bottom.
One child wasn't at all interested. He decided to climb a different mountain from a very young age, so while he doesn't have the exact view that I wanted him to see, he can see it from another perspective, and that's just fine by me.My next three were right on track. They scaled the boulders and kept on pushing upwards. My happiest moments were when they would look back down at me and describe the view. I loved hearing about it all, both the struggles and the triumphs. It almost felt as if I were there, climbing with them.
But then I could see that one of them wanted to climb her own mountain. She had been scaling mine because she wanted me to be happy and because she loved me, but she wanted something different. In all innocence, I told her to explore her options; to see what made her truly happy. And she did. And it didn't turn out like I had hoped. Wasn't she supposed to go off in other directions, only to find that she actually did want to live my dream? Wasn't she supposed to come back to me? I shed big, sad tears when I saw her standing in black one last time.
I could see that the next child wanted to climb a mountain, just not my mountain. While she was heading up the trail to see the view that I so desperately wanted to see through her eyes, she was always looking somewhere else. She wasn't making much progress up my mountain because of that. No girl can serve two masters, I guess. It broke my heart to tell her that she needs to follow her dreams; that maybe she doesn't love what I love so much, but that I could learn to love what she loves so much.
It was hard letting these two head off in other directions. I had spent so much time and money in supplying them with all that they needed for success. They didn't just have Timberland boots and off-the-rack backpacks, but they had the lightest, most durable Bivouac supplies on the planet along with carabiners. Lots and lots of carabiners, just in case they fell. Now, I don't know what they have, and I don't know how to help them.
I had hope for the last child. Of all of my children, he had made it the furthest. He had already climbed my peak and had moved onto bigger and better ones. Kind of like climbing Mt. McKinley and moving onto Mt. Kilimanjaro. His views have been spectacular. However, he's been pushed off the trail one too many times by other, faster hikers, and he's tired of it. He wants to hike with friends and feel, occasionally, that he's the best. I can't blame him. However, he's scared to get off my mountain. He's climbed it so often that it feels like a favorite pair of shoes. Comfortable.
I like to think that there's still a shred of hope for him. That if the weather conditions are perfect, and he's had a good breakfast that morning, he might make it up the mountain again. However, the pull of something else touches his kind, caring heart. It's like my mountain is covered in the large boulders of the Sandia mountains, and he wants to climb the loamy, soil-covered southern Appalachians. He has all the abilities to do what I want him to do, but in the end he has to do what he wants to do and hike where he is comfortable.
I love my mountain. I love it on its own just because it's beautiful and it feels like home to me. I love it because it has given my children the opportunities that I was denied. They have grown stronger from climbing it, and I will never regret pushing them to do so. However, I had hoped that one of them would reach the top, build a home there, and invite me up. I wanted to see the view and feel that I deserved to be there even though I hadn't earned it myself. I needed them to get me there. But I see now that it's not meant to be, for I encouraged them to climb their own mountains, and to find their own views. They bought their own equipment for the new terrain, and they're off exploring new trails.
And I have only myself to blame. Yep, just me. I wanted them to be happy.
I am really saddened by this post because I feel your pain and loss. I think the main thing is to remember all the beauty we have all experienced along the way, and the beauty that will come, maybe not as a professional endeavor by the kids, but as an artistic pursuit for arts sake.
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