Reflections

It occurs to me tonight, with the sun still bright on the water and the strong stench of fish in the air, that so many of my moments are nearly replications of the past. The break wall is hot under my legs as I stretch out to watch my kids play this evening, and I spy the fossil of a shell like I did as a young girl. There are buckets, shovels, the building of castles and the inevitable sand and water in the eyes.

Marty takes off down the beach, creating a carefully orchestrated bouquet of seagull feathers as he walks. He keeps right on walking. He hops on the slanted break wall, and I bite my tongue as I am about to yell at him to get down. Those were MY rules when I was a little girl, and I never thought to question them. But Marty helps me question everything. Why CAN’T he climb there? He is built like a monkey, and perfectly safe. I let him go. He wanders with head down, finding treasures. I turn to watch the other two build and splash and throw rocks in the water. They have not yet mastered the art of skipping them. When I look up, Marty is gone. My heart quickens for just a second, but I give him a few minutes to return on his own.

He saunters around the bend on his way back, sees me and runs over with an apology. (I am smart to dress him in yellow. He is easier to find.) But I am not even mad. I am learning so much about this boy, things I first learned from my father and the way he lived. But I was too tentative to live so astutely myself at such a young age as seven. Or nine. Or thirty. I was a rule follower, a nervous Nellie, a “good girl.” It has taken me nearly forty years to start questioning and walking on break walls and finding my voice.

I envy my son his freedoms and his ability to do this already. It strikes me tonight that they are much alike, my son and my father, though maybe it is just the presence of the lake that makes me think of my dad. But Marty understands somehow what his grandpa knew. Do what you want. Follow your heart. Test limits. Have fun. Question everything. Find your passion. Sing the song first and pay the piper when the music ends. Play first and worry later.

Maybe it’s like the baldness gene or a penchant for musicality, and full-throttle life, living without boundaries, has to skip a generation. Or maybe it is just easier to learn the lesson the second time around. No matter what, I am lucky to have such fine teachers, both my father who paved the way for me, and my son who reflects the lessons even as the slanting sun reflects upon the lake tonight.