Taller Than The Trees
Next Saturday, I drop off my oldest child in Idaho.
I am leaving him in a place I don't know well. He's spending five technology-free weeks with Northwest Youth Corps working with one of their camping corps groups. He might be in the front country, but most likely, because of his scouting experience, he will be in the back country. They will work eight hours a day, doing hard, physical labor, like removing invasive species, doing trail maintenance, and building benches or bridges along trails. Every week will be a different experience with a new job in a surprise location. Food will be prepared by the corps members and will contain a heavy concentration of bagels, pasta, and peanut butter. They will go into "town" once a week, and get to shower and find some real food and try to call home. They'll be smelly, and exhausted, and hungry.
Every time I tell people about his summer plans, I start to get that guilt. You know, the mother guilt. It's the worst guilt of all. It eats at you and prevents you from sleeping well. It puts a knot in your stomach and makes you want to lie down and take a nap. As I explain away, and look at the pained and confused expressions on others' faces, I think that we might just be really bad parents.
What kind of mother lets her son do this kind of thing?
Typical teenagers work at the grocery store. They are counselors at summer camps. They get a job at the mall or a fast food restaurant.
But our boy isn't your typical teenager. He is driven by this desire to make a difference and to connect with nature. Like his parents, he is full of wanderlust, willing to see everything our country has to offer. We have raised him to love nature, travel, history, new adventures, and national parks. So it's only natural that he would seek out this kind of summer opportunity.
Our boy is headed out to try this independence thing. To live with others that are not his family. To do good work that helps the planet. To remember on his own things like brushing teeth, putting on deodorant, taking medication, and drinking enough water.
And he is so excited to do this.
He might fail a few times, and he will have to deal with the consequences without his parents' guidance.
But more than likely, he will be successful. He'll realize that he can take care of himself. He will learn new cooking skills. He'll have to problem-solve when his tent gets flooded. He'll need to manage things like homesickness and trying foods that he never thought he'd eat.
When he comes home, we won't recognize him. He'll be stronger. He might even be taller. His hair will be longer. He will have a new set of skills. And he'll carry himself with a confidence that we have never seen before.
And this is what he needs. He has walked away from the one thing that he felt defined him since sixth grade. He has decided that he is no longer willing to be part of a group that screams, "All are equal," but in reality, they mean "But some are more equal than others." After six years of trying to be part of a group, but getting nothing but cruelty, isolation, and rejection in return, he is off to create a new version of himself.
He needs some time to think about what senior year will bring. What will he do with his free time? What new activities will he pursue? What kinds of people does he want to associate with and be associated with?
What kind of strength has he developed from saying, "I am worth more than the way you have treated me for the past six years"?
Our biggest hope is that when he comes back, like Thoreau, he can say, "I took a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees."
I am leaving him in a place I don't know well. He's spending five technology-free weeks with Northwest Youth Corps working with one of their camping corps groups. He might be in the front country, but most likely, because of his scouting experience, he will be in the back country. They will work eight hours a day, doing hard, physical labor, like removing invasive species, doing trail maintenance, and building benches or bridges along trails. Every week will be a different experience with a new job in a surprise location. Food will be prepared by the corps members and will contain a heavy concentration of bagels, pasta, and peanut butter. They will go into "town" once a week, and get to shower and find some real food and try to call home. They'll be smelly, and exhausted, and hungry.
Every time I tell people about his summer plans, I start to get that guilt. You know, the mother guilt. It's the worst guilt of all. It eats at you and prevents you from sleeping well. It puts a knot in your stomach and makes you want to lie down and take a nap. As I explain away, and look at the pained and confused expressions on others' faces, I think that we might just be really bad parents.
What kind of mother lets her son do this kind of thing?
Typical teenagers work at the grocery store. They are counselors at summer camps. They get a job at the mall or a fast food restaurant.
But our boy isn't your typical teenager. He is driven by this desire to make a difference and to connect with nature. Like his parents, he is full of wanderlust, willing to see everything our country has to offer. We have raised him to love nature, travel, history, new adventures, and national parks. So it's only natural that he would seek out this kind of summer opportunity.
And he is so excited to do this.
He might fail a few times, and he will have to deal with the consequences without his parents' guidance.
But more than likely, he will be successful. He'll realize that he can take care of himself. He will learn new cooking skills. He'll have to problem-solve when his tent gets flooded. He'll need to manage things like homesickness and trying foods that he never thought he'd eat.
When he comes home, we won't recognize him. He'll be stronger. He might even be taller. His hair will be longer. He will have a new set of skills. And he'll carry himself with a confidence that we have never seen before.
And this is what he needs. He has walked away from the one thing that he felt defined him since sixth grade. He has decided that he is no longer willing to be part of a group that screams, "All are equal," but in reality, they mean "But some are more equal than others." After six years of trying to be part of a group, but getting nothing but cruelty, isolation, and rejection in return, he is off to create a new version of himself.
He needs some time to think about what senior year will bring. What will he do with his free time? What new activities will he pursue? What kinds of people does he want to associate with and be associated with?
What kind of strength has he developed from saying, "I am worth more than the way you have treated me for the past six years"?
Our biggest hope is that when he comes back, like Thoreau, he can say, "I took a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees."
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