Column: Our youngest child leaves home

Ed. — From the Sunday, Feb. 5, print edition.

VIRGINIA BEACH—Our youngest son recently moved from Virginia Beach to an apartment in Philadelphia. He was our last child to leave our family home, and I knew it would be a tough time.

Friends in the same position told me to focus on the positives of this stage in life – the rooms no longer needing cleaning, the reduced grocery bill, the empty laundry basket and the freedom to pick up and go whenever the urge hits. All of that is good and true. However, what is getting me through this transitional period are the lessons in awe I learned from my kid.

When my son was six, he attended a horseback riding camp on a farm on Knotts Island, North Carolina, south of Virginia Beach. Once a week, I picked him up after school and made the long trip to the southernmost tip of the island where the farm was located. 

We didn’t listen to the radio or use technology as a distraction during these rides. We talked about whatever caught our eye along the way – a tall egret in the seagrass, a lone white horse in a field, a seagull soaring over the water, an abandoned home, an honor-system farm stand, a rusted bike covered in kudzu.

On occasion, the back seat grew quiet, and I turned to see my son sound asleep, the window partly open, his blonde hair blowing gently across his forehead.  

Those were sweet rides with so much to see, places and things for future exploration and an abundance of questions for me to answer or not.  

After I dropped my son at the farm, I drove a few more miles down the road to the Knotts Island Ferry, which carries people across the sound to the Currituck mainland and back. I sat in the truck and graded student essays. 

But my mind was often elsewhere. The expanse of water before me beckoned for my attention. 

Sitting in my truck in the empty ferry parking lot, I imagined what I would point out to my son if he were with me. Indeed, I would focus his attention on the early evening sky, lit with burnt orange, musk yellow and rich crimson as the sun fell to the horizon. I’d have him take note of the quiet gray surf rolling into shore and onto the rocky shallows. I’d want him to pet the two ferociously joyful dogs – a black Labrador and a Golden Retriever – water-soaked and sand-heavy – who habitually stopped to visit as they journeyed from who knows where to wherever they belonged.  

One December afternoon, amid my work, I glanced up and out the windshield to see a scattering of great blue herons striding along the shoreline, ankle-deep in the water. Their slow, leisurely pacing held me spellbound. Each gracefully lifted leg was a deliberate, quiet study in measured movement.  

For almost 30 minutes, I watched the dusky blue prehistoric creatures fish a few feet from the ferry pilings and not far from my truck. When their bodies became little more than dense shadows against the darkening sky, I held my breath, waiting for the right moment to turn the key in the ignition and head back to the barn.  

From those days at the island’s edge, I remember the sense of awe in the world I shared with my son. Young as he was then, he delighted in every new experience in nature. Every day was another chance to look up at the sky, out to the fields, into the water and find something incredible looking back.  

Throughout my son’s life, I have shown him the world’s wonder and instilled a sense of wonder for all there is to see and do. Now, when he sends me a picture of himself on a busy Philadelphia street at sunset, I cannot muster the sadness of an empty nest. Instead, I bubble with joy at my success.   

Because of the time my son and I spent admiring the world, he experiences that same reverence wherever he goes. And, so, today, when I take the dog for a walk in the woods, along the path I walked with my son just last month, I’ll be sure to revel in the awe that sustains me. 

The author is a former Virginia Beach Planning Commissioner and college professor. Reach her at leejogger@gmail.com.

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