I quit loving with difficulty
In my freshman year of college, our class was required to participate in a university-wide cheerdance competition as part of a school tradition. And so, despite being the most non-graceful and non-athletic person alive, blessed with flat feet perfect for tripping over nothing, I found myself being tossed around in the air countless times a day. Not for any particular skill or charisma, but simply because my classmates decided that I was one of the easiest people to toss.
I don’t remember exactly how much time we spent practicing, but it felt like months—probably three. On top of classes and homework, we would rent out a basketball court and practice a three-minute routine over and over and over again. This went on well into the night and through the weekends. I often didn’t get home until well past midnight.
The university I attended was a 15-minute drive away from home, so I was still living with my parents at the time. Every night, my dad would wait up. He would fight off sleep until he saw me enter through the front door.
For as long as I could remember, he had always done this. He wouldn’t go to bed until his children were all under his roof, unless they were meant to be spending the night somewhere else. So, aside from feeling guilty that I was making him stay up later than usual, I didn’t really think much of it.
Years later, he and I were talking about the ridiculousness of this school tradition, and in between laughs, he said, "Every day, I was bracing myself for a phone call telling me you had gotten hurt.”
This casual admission took me by surprise. In my mind, I imagined him slightly annoyed, sleepy on the sofa, killing time by watching sports or movies, but in actuality, he spent all that time anxiously worrying about me. Because, of course, he did. He’s my dad.
I don’t have my own kid yet, but lately, I’ve been trying to love everyone the way I imagine a parent would. I'm trying not to take it too personally when my words fall on deaf ears or my existence is temporarily forgotten, as they get too caught up in whatever season of life they’re in. Trying to trust their decisions, no matter how afraid I am for them. To let them trip, make a mistake, and get hurt. To give them space. To not add any unnecessary pressure. To remove myself if need be.
I'm letting them come and go at my dinner table, a warm meal always ready for when they decide to visit and a “tell me where you’ve been, who you met, what you’ve learned.”
My dad never really stopped me from doing anything. Even when he knew whatever I was pursuing wasn’t for me. Even when he thought it was a stupid endeavor. Oh, he would express his disdain, alright. But he never actually butted in. Even if it took me miles away from family. Even if it meant he had to stay up all night, afraid that somewhere out there, beyond his reach, I was hurt. All he hoped for was that I was safe and knew my way back home.
I’m trying to love others the same way.
There’s a Todd Dillard poem where he likens the act of loving to having two parakeets perched on your shoulders.
I quit loving with difficulty, a line from it reads.
Lately, I’ve been choosing to love easy, too.
Two parakeets on my shoulders. They’ll fly away if I move.
So I move.
