I remember my first glimpse of
independence, which was when Mom and Dad drove me to freshman year at Clark
University in Worcester, Massachusetts.
I don’t remember a word they said, as Polonius-like, they cautioned me
on how to behave in my first independent setting. They said I looked at everything wide-eyed,
and I was lost to them. It may have been
so. I had sisters for the first time—in roommates
and lunch lines, study, and play.
And then there was dating and
marriage and divorce—all of which depended on freedom to be and to chose. All choices of which were radical departures
from the paths my parents had chosen for me.
But the next major event in
independence that was a revelation to me was getting my driver’s license and buying
my first car. To move from passenger
seat into the driver’s seat was indescribable independence, containing both freedom
and control. I was in control of a private
space for the first time, and I could go wherever I wanted to go.
And, as it turned out, that private
space on wheels was a step toward what I really needed in order to feel
independent and to pursue the career I wanted to excel in. Though I had relationships and friendships
enough, I moved alone into a room of my own for the first time. And that is how I lived the rest of my life, in control of my own place and space. These days I find I
hold a little envy for those who have children and grandchildren, but despite a certain amount
of loneliness, the freedom—the complete independence—is what nurtured my
soul. It’s as if my brain and spirit
expanded into domestic space, leaving my heart free to love freely, and
especially let the love of God pour through me toward others. I think of this when I think of my mother’s
motto, “Love thy neighbor as thyself.”
When my father died and Mom lived
alone for the first time ever, lived alone after 72 years of marriage, I
offered to help her with the things that come up for a woman alone. But she took to it like a hummingbird to
sugar water. Her mourning continued in
the evenings especially, in the hours after dinner when she missed the
companionship of her husband. During the
day, she thrived in her art. She rearranged
the furniture and made a studio space in every room. She had guests for lunch, she tutored and led
small classes in drawing, etching, pastel, and acrylic. And she lived alone—with aides for mornings
and late evenings—up until three weeks
before her death.
A year before she died, in July 2023, I was staying at my mother’s house during one of Mom's hospital
visits. When she returned home she
accepted about 5 days of round-the-clock-care before asking us to leave, by 10 days of
round-the-clock care, she demanded that we leave. Her freedom and independence had become that
important to her. On reflection, I wrote
this poem:
I watched her house and she
reach for each other, I felt her cat’s cold
shoulder, and heard sharper questions about
who moved what and why. I returned home,
humbled, sure again that her nest was hers
and my nest was mine. At what age do we
stop wanting independence? In my own
home, cat leaning on my legs, repainting
them with her scent, I know the answer is
never. Someday, I may have to insist
on assisting, or help her to move. Someday
I will need someone to do that for me.
Until those days come, I’ll love the nests
we build for our adult selves, neither nestling
nor child, but ones at home
within ourselves.
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© 2024 Susan L. Chast
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