Connection

(written in 2005)

525,600 minutes, 525,600 moments so dear. 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year? . . . Measure in love. Seasons of love. Rent

When my daughter was four years old, I remember sitting with her in my inherited green cushioned maple rocking chair. She was comfortably folded in my lap, her head resting on my chest. We were reading one of her favorite children's books, The Clown of God. The house was whisper quiet and we both felt not only connected to the book we were reading, but to each other.

The early years of raising my daughter were sweet and endearing, full of tender affection. Our bond deeply embedded itself in my soul. Experienced mothers told me to treasure this bond. And I have. Experienced parents told me she would be a teenager before I could ever imagine it so. And this has become true. I am now the mother of a fifteen-year-old who, rising two inches above me, has more difficulty folding herself onto my lap...Not that this incredibly beautiful, auburn-haired, blue-eyed daughter would ever be caught dead being physically close to her mother.

During my daughter's twelfth and thirteenth year, I was in complete denial. I felt that we would always be close. I felt that we would never experience the distance often described between a mother and her teenager. I have been forced to eat my naïve words. Delighted by the infinite love I have felt for my child, I have also been frozen in sadness by the chasm that appears to have suddenly come between us. Slowly I would learn that the love and deep connection are there only in a less visible form.

About a month before the arrival at our performing arts center of the Broadway musical “Rent,” my daughter approached me about going to this play together. I knew little about this show's storyline, but my daughter's eagerness was all I needed to say yes. She already knew about its “mature” themes of Aids, homelessness, drug use, Gay issues and romance. I always trust my daughter's instincts so bought two tickets. When asked if she wanted to bring her dad or another friend, she strongly underscored she wanted it to be just her and I.

The excitement bubbled up weeks before our planned date. We extended the seeing of the musical to include dinner at a favorite restaurant. We looked up “Rent's” plot on the Internet and read reviews of the play in our local newspaper. I was so flattered by my daughter's attention in preparing for our outing that I would do almost anything to make it “perfect.”

Our “Rent” day came. We left early. Both my daughter and I love to climb the stairs to the second floor of the theater and people-watch before we enter a show. We stood scanning the crowds, observing quite a number of young people entering with their parents or friends. Our seats were in the upper balcony, but we had a clear, centered view of the stage. Having forgotten my reading glasses, my daughter read out loud the program's synopsis. As I leaned in towards her, I could see how happy she was. The play began.

The actors randomly appeared on stage in a scene that depicted “real life” slum tenement conditions and began singing the theme song, “Rent.” My daughter touched my arm. For the first part of the performance I felt a bit lost and the sound was distorted. I also quickly noted how adult this play would be and had a moment of regret. Had I done the right thing in bringing my fifteen year old to such a play? The sound eventually cleared, my understanding was less confused and the magic of this real life drama drew me in.

By the end of the first half of “Rent” I was so engrossed I hardly noticed the few tears staining my cheek. What I saw in “Rent” was the youth culture my daughter would soon be part of. At fifteen she already knows about isolation and bullying. She already knows about the pressure to conform and the pressure to be tempted by destructive habits. As a Lesbian teenager she is aware she is a minority and not like other girls. The outer culture does not always speak to my daughter, but this Broadway musical did.

The second half completely captured my mental and emotional attention. As both Gay and straight couples developed their relationships I knew as I have always known that love is universal and non-discriminating.

My daughter and I didn't say a word. We didn't have to. I could tell we were both feeling the anguish of the deaths of loved ones, the despair of poverty, and the need to creatively be oneself no matter what. The end came much too soon. The applause soared and filled the quiet theater with triumph. This play proved: Obstacles could be overcome; division could eventually bring unity; isolation could bring connection. As my daughter and I walked up the aisle to the exit, we linked arms.

Our stroll back to our car was slow and lingering. We discussed the play. “Did you like it?” my daughter asked in a pleading voice. I answered with a resounding yes. I was honest about having a hard time in the beginning, but how by the second half I absolutely loved it. We spoke about our favorite lyrics and our favorite scenes. We drove to the restaurant glazed in awe. Once at the restaurant, we gradually became the teen daughter and her mother out to dinner. We ordered fun foods like french fries and garden burgers. My daughter wrapped herself in her more self-conscious persona. She stared in front of her expecting me to talk and not her. I put on the cheery mom persona; the one that tries to keep the one sided conversation going. Our faces were full of smiles and nods.

I was determined to relax and accept my quiet daughter. Upon reaching our car, she said, “Let's drive around and listen to music.” As we fastened our seat belts and turned on the CD, Lucinda Williams began belting out the lyrics to her song, “Words Fell,” only I heard, “Words Fail.” How appropriate, I thought to myself. We started driving and I mentioned, “I know when you first get your driver's license, I can see you cruising around like this.”

“Let's drive past my old middle school,” my daughter suggested. We drove up the hill around small winding curves and up another long hill until we reached the school she had just left last year. “It seems so small,” she blurted out. I drove extra slow. I was remembering her first day of sixth grade and how huge this school had been appeared to her.

We continued driving up into the hills beyond her old school. I continued listening to Lucinda Williams not as though she were speaking about her lover, but as though she were speaking for me about the love I have for my daughter. This love is so strong and yet during these teenage years so indescribably painful. We kept driving and as we did, I bit my lip to keep from crying. I brought my eyes to the outside world. When I caught the glistening of autumn's reds, oranges and yellows, heard the music blaring from the car radio and felt the presence of this nearly grown daughter close beside me, my heart filled to bursting.

As we drove, I had a revelation. I knew our hearts were touching; I knew we didn't need words; I knew she would always be my daughter and I would always be her mother. This connection we feel is deeply rooted and will withstand the teenage storms. Couldn't I be with this daughter of mine in the present moment wherever she happens to be? It sound so simple, but somehow the older our children become the less this simplicity is remembered. I know my tears emerge more readily as I watch my teenager become a young woman. Mostly they are tears of joy and amazement at how competent and compassionate my daughter has become. But they are also selfish tears because I will truly miss her when she is gone.

© 2012