On April 17, 2019 a few days shy of three months in the wilderness program, our daughter having completed all the tasks and requirements, graduated. In the photograph, taken at the ceremony, she is demonstrating her ability to light a fire from raw materials, blowing the little wisp of smoke in the wood dust wrapped in the birchbark cone into flame.
One other person was graduating. The two and their fellow students, guides, therapists, and parents, stood together in a big circle outside. Currents of emotion swept around and through us: excitement, anxiety, some envy, pride, and a bit of awe from everyone as the two demonstrated their skills.
The third skill, using the bow-drill to light a fire, was last and toughest. Our daughter’s first tries did not take and, frustrated, she retired with her therapist for a few minutes to regroup. I knew she could do it; I was pretty sure she would do it, but everyone was dead quiet when she returned. One of her mates, who had come only a few days after her and who would also be leaving soon, and with whom she had had a hard time communicating (he is from a culture that where males really do not show emotion or weakness) encouraged her from one side while her therapist remained close on the other. A true cliff-hanger, but then that wisp of smoke appeared and grew more certain and everyone yelled in triumph. Our daughter was radiant (also bright-eyed and pink-cheeked from effort).
Soon we were in our own car, just the three of us, heading home. First thing, of course, we had to hand over her cell phone so she could start some music. We all knew that this drive would be the most restful moment of our short time together; early the next morning our daughter would get on a plane and head across the country, three flights and twelve hours of travel, to enter the transition program she, with our support, had chosen.
There was so much to do too. Mountains of laundry to sort into piles: whatever she wanted to take tomorrow; what was to go later in other piles and what was to stay. The smell of woodsmoke and a whiff of eau de B.O. permeated everything. (I had already sent two boxes of clothing and linens.) I had prepared favorite foods for dinner and put together some home supplies (maple sugar and block of cheddar cheese!) to take along. Everybody was busy all afternoon, early dinner and an attempt to get to bed; time passed in a blur. Even so there were moments when I just had to stop and savor her fleeting presence.
Early the next morning, at 4:30 she was gone, home for less than twelve hours. The guest room had been the staging area and the piles of sorted laundry lay in careful heaps on the bed. I sat and inhaled the woodsmoke aura. This is what our daughter had smelled and lived the last few months. Once I attended a dance and my date gave me a gardenia corsage and I treasured it, I admit, for ages until it was nothing but little brown curls like singed paper. I would, I realized treasure this scent too, nothing sweet about it, bracing and redolent of hard work and courage.
What to say to comfort you? Three months turns into a year with a question mark after that. This turnover might be the hardest thing we did that year.
Momentum is at the core of the fast turnaround. Staying in motion keeps the process in motion, no room for second thoughts, for fears to grab hold, for old habits to resume, for minds to change. Short as our time together was we had enough to see how tentative she was. No question but that she had made important breakthroughs in understanding how her behavior impacted herself and others. There was space and a strong desire in her to keep the process moving. Depressing as it was to admit, we did get it that at home we would all likely, even inevitably fall into the old patterns. She would need constant support and guidance to follow through and make the changes permanent. She needed to go. And we needed to let her go.
A year on, when I am overwhelmed with missing her I am grateful there are still items from her time at wilderness that I can sink my nose into and for that moment I am with her, and she with me and, reminded of her bravery, I can be braver too.
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