Grasping At Clouds
Trying to hold onto his boyhood is like trying to hold onto water. Or air. Or clouds. Or weather.
It's not possible to hold onto weather.
I can't continue referring to my boy as my boy. He's a Young Man and so I must refer to him as such.
If ever asked, I'd have to admit that when I think of him, I see the shy scared boy standing at the preschool gate crying and begging me to take him with me. "Don't go mommy. Please don't leave." And so I promised, pinkie swore, that I'd always come back and I'd always keep him safe. And I did.
I became his shelter from the storm, protecting him from high winds and flying debris.
My boy has become his own storm and I can't protect him from himself.
I mean The Young Man has become his own storm and I've no choice but to let go.
His storm has been brewing for decades and has finally hit --- hurtling him every which way, beating his body, battering his soul, pushing and pulling and yanking at him so that it's impossible for him to see through the gale force winds.
If I could catch his attention, and hold his hand and tell him what I know, I would sit with him under an oak tree and remind him that he's made of stars and all good things, that he is perfect in all of his imperfections, and life is hard but doable, and he shouldn't take drugs and there's so much out there to feel, out beyond the chaos, and his heart is huge and he is precious and loved beyond measure. I'd read him this Rumi quote:
“Do you know what you are? You are a manuscript oƒ a divine letter. You are a mirror reflecting a noble face. This universe is not outside of you. Look inside yourself; everything that you want, you are already that.”
And he'd pretend not to hear me, but understand.