The roots part is fine; it’s wings that are troubling

My daughter has been traveling around Ireland for the past week. Alone. With a backpack and a phone and a sense of adventure.

Tonight she heads back to Rome, to her academic program, and I will take a very deep breath when I know she is safely ensconced in her dormitorio (conveniently located next to a convent).

There’s a modern-day cross-stitch sampler saying that you start hearing when your child is a babe in arms: “There are two things we can give our children: One is roots, the other is wings.”

But when you are putting all your energy into making sure this crying, fragile creature who has just appeared in your life is dry and fed and warm, it is very hard to imagine how difficult the wings part will be. Putting down roots takes all your energy; once you get past feeding and walking and talking, there are sharing and chores and sports and homework to navigate.

Creating a family and building a nurturing nest so these small people can learn what they need to learn is quite a task.

So when those wings appear, even though you’ve been working toward this for a very long time, it’s sometimes surprisingly difficult. I’m a little embarrassed that it’s this difficult to trust my adolescent children to make good decisions and be smart and safe. I don’t know why this is. I know that these kids — indeed, most of the young people I know — are pretty smart and savvy, are kind and respectful and aware. And I want them to get out there and fly. But I worry.

I worry about everything. What if they haven’t packed enough lunch? What if they forgot to bring a water bottle to track practice? And sunscreen! And money! What if the roads are icy? What if the train is late?

And even though I firmly believe that they have the skills and knowledge to figure it out if there is a problem — and even though I think forgetting your lunch or sliding off the road are not actually terrible — and even though I think terrible things are actually quite rare, somehow I forget what I really think when they are out there on the loose in the world. And instead, I remember what I fear.

Letting go without fear — this is the part that takes practice.

I know that fear is not healthy, for them or for me. My children need to explore without the burden of my anxiety. I want them to be secure in the knowledge that I trust them and their judgment, and that I believe the world is generally a good place and that they will do just fine out there. They can’t be tethered by my fear, wings pinioned by the burden of all the bad things that have happened in the world.

This is my task now: To truly let them go and find their wings, knowing that they might be hurt — and learning to be at peace with that.

Hanging next to our bed is a lovely Irish woodcut print with the prayer below:

God, keep my jewel this day from danger

From tinker and pooka and black-hearted stranger

From harm of the water and hurt of the fire

From the horns of the cows going home to the byre

From teasing the ass when he’s tied to the manger

From stone that would bruise and from thorns of the briar

From evil red berries that waken desire

From hunting the gander and vexing the goat

From depths o’ sea water by Danny’s old boat

From cut and from tumble — from sickness and weeping

May God have my jewel this day in his keeping.

Because when it comes down to it, it’s all a leap of faith.