One Fish, Two Fish

"Sam. Take off your shoe, and I'll put them in there to carry home."

"No, Trinidad. I have sandals," said Sam.

"They don't hold water. Nor mine," I said. Trinidad's shoulders sank as he stared into the creek.

"It's time to go," I said.

"Wait! I've almost got one," said Trinidad, nose inches above the water once again.

"Can you finish in about two minutes?" I asked.

"Yeah. Sure. I've almost got one," he said. Hmm, I thought.

"Okay! Here it is! I caught three, and they're all big. I think they can make it in my net until we get home," said Trinidad, fiercely determined.

"They will be out of the water the whole way? You're carrying them in your net?"

"Yeah! I just have to bring these for M--. He's going to put them in his bubble tank and they'll do great there. He's been trying to catch one, and now I have two! They're going to live, Mom. I'll run the whole way. It will only be a minute. They will be okay!" His blue eyes bore into mine.

I am: worried for their life, their comfort, wanting to contribute to gentleness in the world, wanting to live responsibly, wanting to support the development of compassion in my son, all -- all my need to contribute to the All as Me.

And yet. I am: not my son.

His arms swing nervously, staccato, at his sides. The net rests in the water, long handle in one hand. His feet, ankle deep in the muddy scum of Amazon Creek, are not my feet. His heart, beating a tattoo in his small but growing chest, is not my own. His mind, searching for meaning, understanding, connection in this plane, asks again -- and loudly -- if I can find it in me to let him be, to learn what he would most like to learn, to gather the consequences like autumn leaves about his youth to send his growing skyward.

My feet on the barkomulch path take stock of mySelf. I will watch him, I thought. I will hold this space for whatever may come. "Run," I said.

I turned and walked as I heard him clamber up the steep bank behind me, feet slipping and catching purchase again and again on the dry grass. Sam could not bring himself to leave his older brother and held the space between us, an anchor to us both with every nervous stride.

I gathered my courage to let be, and I walked. I did not look back. This is my gift, I thought. Let Sam bear witness. In that moment, I trusted my feet.

Trinidad tore past me at a run, Sam close behind. My steady pace quickened, and finally, I, too, broke into a run past neighbors who saw one, two, three on a mission for life, for learning.

As I stepped up to the porch, Trinidad rounded the corner, beaming. "They survived!" he said.

"They are in water now?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "My drinking glass. It was the closest I could find." I nodded.

And so we shared a parting, a reckoning, an opening. May the chasm between us hold all the love in this world.