The Tiny Black Key: Lost or Found

It kind of looks like a diary key, but might be too small. It’s made of metal and has a heart-shaped hole so that you can put it on a key chain. I know of nothing on the premises that has a lock small enough for it.


It showed up last night on the mahogany end table in the living room. There is nothing else on the table except for a white antique hobnail lamp.

I picked up the key and examined it. It reminded me of the first leather diary that I wrote in faithfully when I was a young girl. I wondered what happened to my dairies and hoped that they didn’t end up in the wrong hands.

I brought the key into my office where it sits on my desk. I thought of throwing it away, unlike all of the well intentioned, random buttons that I have placed in a neat line on the shelf in the bathroom.

I looked at the key again. What if something locked suddenly needs to be opened to reveal valuable treasure? I would have to fish around in the garbage for the key.

Does keeping it make me a hoarder? I do hold onto things that have served their purpose well beyond their intended use. I am apt to think that I might need it at a later time but rarely do. Then the time comes when enough is enough. I throw away all of those useless items that I saved so protectively. When I am in that mood; I have been known to discard things and regret it later. It’s a delicate balance.

The mystery was solved when I asked my daughter (who has been far and away) if she knew about the key. She told me that she found it on the sidewalk in California. So now someone 3,000 miles away might have to bust open her diary to make an entry, re-read mournful confessions and hopes for her future.

I think not.
Perhaps this tiny key of wisdom and compassion was there for my daughter to find and claim, bringing her home to unlock her deepest knowing, allowing her to open the door and peer into what her soul truly wants.

Sometimes it is not enough to be loved and supported, lost or found, exhausted and well travelled. Sometimes you need to find that tiny key on a busy, littered sidewalk… pick it up and hold onto it – the knowledge – the signal that says I can feel. I can return home and give my heart to the entire process.

I will not throw it away.
Journal: Periwinkle

The Prayer: Life After Hope

I have been away; here but away. Today I reclaimed my focus, returned to my passion and resumed my work. When I fall out of step with Our Mother; I lose my integral rhythm. This learning and navigating is a vital part of life cycles – the smaller ones within the larger ones. If I meet with a particularly jarring tempo; it may take longer for my pulse to return to where it needs to be. If I don’t already know how to maintain this balance; I learn.


There is value in everything. Once we filter through the source of the upheavals in our emotional, spiritual, physical and creative selves; we can find the knowledge within and transition from student to teacher. We discover, identify and process these changes as students and when we find the light and lesson that it carries; we become teachers.

This applies to all of the fluctuations that we experience, including the raw and messy ones; they usually present the most significant opportunities of all. The danger is when we ignore our feelings or instincts. When we deny them, we are denying personal growth and missing possibilities. It is when we become fully aware of ourselves that we begin to shape our experiences into useful tools – either for our own perceptions or how we relate to others.

I learned a long time ago to be careful of what you wish for (and pray for). It is important to be careful with the wording. This has been a hard lesson for me on more than one occasion. I learned. I pray carefully and with intent. I don’t bother with the rote prayers that hit the ceiling and fall on the floor. I am clear and thoughtful and never hasty.

If you have read my articles about “Traveling Kids”, you will know the intent of my prayer. It was ongoing in earnest for almost three years. It started out as a desperate prayer, but then I realized that desperation meant fear, and I did not want fear to reside anywhere within my being. Therefore, it was imperative that I release it. How do you do that? I was faced with a challenge, because simply verbalizing or meditating on it or even praying to let go of fear wasn’t enough. I had to learn how to release it myself. Of course you can ask for assistance but it is ultimately up to you to figure it out.

I had to rely on my own transformative efforts combined with Divine guidance. This was a multi-faceted, yet genuine task. I practiced trusting the universe and accepting that everything happens for a reason and as it is meant to. I also had to accept that each of us has our own destiny. So for me it boiled down to trust. It was necessary for me to also have clear boundaries between what was mine and what was not. When I made those boundaries, I often had bursts of rage. This maintained its own value within natural emotional cycles. I felt it, dealt with it, allowed it to fall and then released it as new energy.

As soon as I felt the vibrational pounding of fear at my door; I met it with determination. “Oh…it’s you.” I faced fear for as brief a time as possible, and allowed myself to be taught by it and then recited a mantra in my head repeatedly, taming it (the fear) before letting it go. My favorite mantra is, Sophia is the love that sustains me. (Sophia is the feminine face of God). I am deeply connected to the feminine through my years of studying the Gnostic Gospels and of course my wild nature.

This struggle with fear carried with it a possible threat to my entire being, not only the rhythms of my body, but all systems. I needed to resolve it. Within time, I learned how to trust God/ Sophia and the Universe and I devoted myself to my creative work and nature. I spent much time in solitude and prayer, and found solace in the gentle curves of Our Mother in the wild. I learned how to pray. I learned how to balance. I learned how to hope. I discovered that it was better to stop asking why and focus on what to do with it. I prayed with the highest intentions. I did not miss a day and sometimes prayed several times a day. I discovered that there is life after fear and anger.

About a month ago, my prayer was answered. I didn’t recognize it at first, but it started to reveal itself. It didn’t come free. It requires a great deal of patience and effort for the answer of this prayer to reach full maturity. I am grateful for the opportunity to work with Sophia. My prayers are now filled with gratitude. It takes conscious practice to transform our lives and others for the better of the whole. If we take one step at a time; we will not fall down. There is hope.
Journal: Periwinkle, Scarlett Lily

O Daughter, Where Hast Thou Been Since I Last Saw Thee?

Traveling Kids Segment

I promised myself that I would not shed a tear when I had to say goodbye. The worst was two years ago when I dropped you off in a littered, abandoned parking lot beneath a busy underpass in Worcester, Massachusetts. Everything was broken, rusted, devoid of life. It was just before sunset and I could not breathe. This was another trip when the heavy hand of dread pressed against my chest harder with each passing mile.

You looked at me apologetically and said it would be alright. Your partner was too busy fixing his pack to notice that I was dying in the front seat of my car. The dog was up for the next adventure, the next train ride, the next handful of food. Somehow I had to find a way to breathe and never do this again.

I couldn’t erase the vision of you reaching for me in your poufy, satin dress, with your new shiny patent leather shoes and perfect ringlets as I picked you up and carried you over a mud puddle. This earlier version of you is a memory, one that I must honor and not allow to haunt me.

The questions churned in my head like a sickening merry-go-round…what could I have done to prevent this? For the thousandth time I thought about keeping you as a prisoner.

I got out of the car and stood by weakly and watched you as the sun finally slipped behind some old, vacant factory buildings. I thought I might throw up. I hugged you so tightly that I’m certain we merged. I inhaled your scent, knowing that it would soon be replaced by road dirt and grime; stuff from boxcars. You held me longer than I expected. I had become accustomed to the definite need to separate, to figure out where you end and I begin. Woman, child, cellist, poet, dreamer, creative goddess, faerie… we share it all. I promised to see you as you and not an extension of me.

I let go. At least I think I did. But isn’t that somewhat impossible? I wanted to scream at you for allowing me to drown in fear. I wanted to scream at those who abandoned us, crossing generations. I wanted to scream at God for playing this trick on me. I thought that if I loved you hard enough, it would be okay in spite of our shared betrayals. Instead, I screamed at myself, inside of myself.

I dared to listen to Mozart on the way home, knowing that he would bring out more tears and help me to find an end to them. I thought that if I suffered intensely all at once that I would purge it and be done with it once and for all. It was just part of an illusion that I once constructed and have long forsaken.

After a three hour drive and emtpied of tears, I made the decision that I would never bring you to such a place again and I would never let you see me cry when you set forth on your next journey.

I know that you were surprised when after spending two weeks with me in Florida; I dropped you off at a highway exit in Tampa…you, your partner and the dog. This time I waved and smiled and honked the horn like I was leading the hometown 4th of July Parade. Your look of astonishment matched my own feeling of awe. I had finally risen to a level of acceptance and trusted God.

This was a significant lesson. Maryjane, how are you going to continue on this journey? Will you fall apart? Will you always think the worst? Or will you have faith, trust and practice unconditional love? Will you choose to be wise and grounded, setting an example? Or will you become weak and dispirited, not the strong woman you are and can be. I was awake. We would be okay. Better than that.

After I got on the highway the tears threatened, but more of a relief this time. I let a few escape but I decided that it was time to finally take this experience and give it to God.

You were better at keeping in touch, texting and calling on a more regular basis. I have become an expert at US Geography, running to the map every time there’s a shooting or a tornado striking near where you are living in a tent somewhere with your ever-changing band, waiting for the weather to clear so you can make a few bucks busking on the corner. I held my breath and texted you, telling you to find a safe place. You did. You assured me that you were on top of it. You were.

We spent time together last summer. Good time; meaningful time. We laughed and played music and cuddled and made promises to each other. I loved sitting with you on the bench by the river watching the red squirrels dash around in preparation for winter. I left you off at your partner’s house where I found myself comforting his mother and wiping away her tears, as both of her sons are traveling kids.

When we visited in New Orleans last winter, I trailed behind as you made your way down ‘your street’ in the French Quarter and everyone knew you by name. They knew you as the girl who not only played the banjo, but who also played Haydn and Bach and the rest of the boys, because you managed to scrounge up a cello. You didn’t want me to see where you lived, but you actually had a room in an apartment. I could exhale.

This time it was you who rode away, leaving me behind. I stood in the hotel parking lot and watched you ride away on your bicycle until you turned the corner and disappeared into the dirty, disheartened city still reeling in the shadows of Katrina.

It’s been a year since you’ve been home, since we sat on the front porch together wondering about the rustling sound in the woods and then dismissing it to praise the moon instead. Once you arrived in the Pacific Northwest, you started to have problems with your phone and I slipped into the mother’s imagination thing every time I tried to call and got the instant recording. Once again, I became a slave to my cell phone, taking it with me everywhere, checking for messages and missed calls. Then I remembered that you weren’t ever alone and that I had placed it in God’s hands. It helped.

After spending a great deal of time camping in the Redwood Forest, you had your cell phone fixed and you apologized for going off the radar. You told me that you would never be the same because of the redwoods. You sounded strong. I recognized you in your voice. I was reassured at the sense of you remembering who you were and from whence you came.

I pray for you every night, even though I know that God is with you. I ask that you are guided, protected, guarded and blessed. I stopped asking my father to watch over you quite some time ago. I no longer accept fear.

The excitement between us continued to build as we discussed your plans to take a Greyhound bus from San Francisco to home; the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I am counting the hours until midnight, when you will roll in. I have prepared your favorite foods, washed the flannel sheets with a hint of patchouli in the final rinse and hung them out on the line. Beatrix Bunny is plopped by the pillows.

I look forward to imprinting your essence and looking at you, brown eyes to brown eyes. A part of me longs to know of your journey; a part of me knows that it isn’t all for me to know.
Journal: Periwinkle

Tragedy in New Orleans – Traveling Kids: Special Segment

I am not the same person that I was before I awoke this morning.

For a while I was writing about ‘Traveling Kids’ and my perspective as the mother of one. It was intended for providing basic information about a rapidly growing culture that many know little of and I will admit, therapeutic for me.

If you followed it at all, you will notice that I stopped writing about this topic. I have a few drafts waiting patiently in a folder, but I have avoided them. I guess it’s because the pain, fear and uncertainty was better off in draft form. I didn’t have the desire to polish my pain. I needed to move ahead in my life and deal with my issues privately and quietly.

This happened around the time I met my daughter’s traveling partner’s mother. On our way out of town, we stopped there for dinner. It’s the first time that I have met another mother of a ‘Traveling Kid’. It was brutal. Looking into her tear filled eyes was looking into my own. Our bond was immediate, powerful and did not require words, although many were exchanged for the mere purpose of release. That blog waits.

Then there is the blog about dropping my daughter off in an abandoned parking lot near a (seemingly) deserted train station in Worcester Massachusetts. That good bye was almost indescribable. That blog waits.

I carried on. I worked on short, effective, articulate prayers each night. I decided that it was best for my overall health and well being to quickly dismiss thoughts that threatened to churn about in my head without any solution. This became my long and short term goal. I knew that I had little or no control over my daughter’s choices at this point in time and that I had talked with her openly, leaving no stone unturned. I had to live with peace in my heart. The turmoil had to go.

This is easier said than done. It requires awareness and diligence. Oftentimes we are tricked by our own unconscious when suggestions trickle in and without knowing, we find ourselves squarely in the middle of negative, fear inducing thoughts.

My daughter was better than ever as far as keeping in touch with me. She hasn’t disappeared off the radar for too long, and when she does, it is because she is keeping her minutes down on her cell phone. She has been keeping me informed of her progress.

Her original goal was to be in New Orleans for Halloween.
Halloween came and went, and she did not make it.

She spent a great deal of time in Asheville North Carolina because of the unsavory practice of the Burlington Violin Shop, who erroneously released her cello to a well intentioned young man, when they were instructed to release it to me. He took it to Asheville as a surprise. That blog waits.

She and her boyfriend traveled back and forth between Knoxville and Asheville until she shipped her cello to her father (because it was closer and cheaper than sending it home). They spent Thanksgiving there and meandered to Chattanooga.

I cannot state with accuracy, where they were until today, but they did spend time in Memphis and then Christmas in Mobile, Alabama.

She called me and told me of her traveling adventures and plans. Sometimes they stayed in a motel and other times with friends and they camped out. She mentioned going to work on a farm in Florida. New Orleans was still in the picture, but hadn’t happened.

She called me on Christmas day. She said that she loved Mobile and that they would leave in a day or two for New Orleans. I always try to talk her out of going there. I went there a few years ago and think it’s a dark, depressing place. Throughout most of my long career as professional trumpet player, I always wanted to go to New Orleans. Many of my older seasoned friends warned me that it was not as romantic as the old days. They were right. When I went to Jazzfest, I loved the music but felt the heavy hand of depression and despair. I wanted out.

When my daughter told me that she was going there last year, fear set in. That was the worst winter of my life.

I tried to talk to her about how things have deteriorated since the BP Oil spill. How much more toxic the air, water and food must be. How much more desperate the people there must be. She agreed. We talked about it at great length.

She told me on Christmas that she wanted to go there to see her friends and play some music before going to work on the farm in Florida.

I prayed for calm, inner peace and focus. I prayed real prayers, not the ones that hit the ceiling and fall on the floor.

I was sad at first when I put the angel on the tree, because she made it when she was four. She told me not to be sad. So, I wasn’t…for her.
I am proud of myself for being so strong and celebrating the holidays with her far away living a life that I try but do not comprehend.

It all changes in an instant.

Sophia shined down on me today...She did so in the most mysterious and almost cruel way...
This morning…cup of coffee in hand…anchor on weather channel, “Horrible Tragedy in New Orleans…”
An abandoned warehouse burned to the ground last night killing eight ‘Traveling Kids.’
It was where my daughter could have been.
By the railroad tracks.
Trying to keep warm.
Burnin’ trash in the barrel.
Even the dogs perished.
She’s traveling with her boyfriend and a dog.
News says that the remains are so charred that it is impossible to determine the sex of the victims.
Calling and calling and calling my daughter. Instant voicemail. Phone is off.
Looking at the atlas, how far is it from Mobile to New Orleans? How fast does the train travel? Which train?
I forgot to pray for her last night. I fell asleep so quickly…did I pray?
Called the mother…whose tears match mine.
Called the brother…another traveler, son of the other mother…
He looked at his crew schedule. Is that what it’s called? The Hobo Cheat Sheet.
Yes. It could have been them.
Called the grounded girl in New Orleans who helped me find my daughter last year.
She’s in Miami.
The train goes to this warehouse.
Why didn’t they wake up?
I told her and I told him not to stay in abandoned buildings. Why is she doing this?
I remembered the necklace that I gave her for her birthday. A, Mother, Integrity, Remember….

I tried to call again.
I tried to call again.
I tried to call again.
Message inbox is full.
There were dogs in the fire too.

They travel with a dog.
I can’t live without her.
Beyond tears. Choking or something weird. Can’t breathe.
Brother tries to be calm but thinks that is where they would be. Could be. Can’t be.

Hit send.
Hit send.
Hit send.
Nothing matters. I might throw up.
The ring tone.
THE RING TONE.
Does that mean that her phone is on?
The brother exclaims…exclaims...and dares to exhale… “It’s okay. Her phone is on now.”

< INBOX – OPEN >
From: Anna
Hey just woke up give me a few minutes.
December 28, 12:07 pm

Screamed.
Cried.

Almost could not breathe.
Someone’s child
Someone's baby
Died in those flames.

It wasn’t mine.
Coulda’ been.

She called.
My Brown Eyed Girl.
Still in Mobile, Alabama.

I told her.
She knew from all the messages.
I cried hard.
Different, crazy, desperate tears linger into the night.
Visions of one girl…I met her in Burlington two summers ago.
She is there somewhere.

Questions.
Fear.

Someone’s baby
Everyone’s baby
Gone
Unknown
Someone’s Momma
Someone’s Pappa
Never the same
Might not know.

Thank you Sophia for shining down on me.
Shining down on you.
Shining down on what coulda been.

My heart breaks in the midst of my own relief.

The Circus Song: Traveling Kids – Part X

The internal conflict raged on as my daughter prepared once again to leave the nest. Because of our open dialogue, however, the conflict was not always internal; we brought everything to the table. For some reason it felt as if there was always unfinished business. It was mine. Perhaps it was my inability to honestly accept her way of life let alone embrace it.

It was obvious; I was a mess. But as always, the appearance of my ability to cope could win me an academy award. I did a great job talking, asking pointed questions, and knowing when to press and when to back off. I was handling it, but no one (including myself) was really handling me. I screamed inside of my head. I wanted her to say, “You’re right, Mom. This is crazy; I’m staying here and building my music career.” Or. “You know I was thinking that I would stay here after all and be still, and think about what lies ahead.” Or maybe even, “I think I like the idea of hot showers, meals and a roof over my head; a gentler way of life.”

I wanted her to be packed, but hated seeing her pack. I wanted them to go; I needed her to stay. She and her traveling partner, Colby, spent a great deal of time sewing, or at least talking about sewing. Did you know that dental floss is better than thread? Anna has always been an industrious seamstress, even more so after becoming a ‘Traveling Kid’. I learned that although she has three times more clothes than the average young woman – many designed and crafted by herself – she prefers to patch and mend the same few items of clothing to take with her.

There is something “bankie-ish” about this. Although, Anna didn’t really have a bankie to speak of. She twisted a curl around her finger and held it over her eye like a monocle while sucking her thumb, or she snuggled with Beatrix, a huge stuffed bunny dressed in a pink floral outfit with lace around the cuffs.

The day before Anna was scheduled to leave; my friends Lisa and Jim came to New Hampshire for a visit. They hadn’t seen Anna for several years, so it was almost as if they were meeting for the first time. We share a strong connection dating back to my original college days where Lisa was my first friend.  Her husband Jim is a music enthusiast. He had his flip camera with him and asked Anna to play or sing for him. She grabbed her guitar and wailed on it singing one of her original pieces, “The Circus Song.” Of course she blew him and everyone else within earshot away. Then she played a Celtic fiddle tune on my cello, simply because she can.

It was beyond difficult to know that she would be leaving the next day without a musical instrument. In my family, leaving your instrument behind is like leaving your head behind; it doesn’t work. I suggested that she call me from New Orleans at Christmastime and I would buy her a used guitar from a pawn shop or something. But it’s all so iffy, blurred and random. She has access to a guitar here, but she can’t take it with her. Colby has a guitar somewhere but it’s really belongs to his brother who might have sold it to his mother who doesn't really play but would need to hang onto it. Her cello is here, well not exactly, it is in a string shop in Northern Vermont waiting for me to finish making payments from recent repairs so that I can bring it home.  It was my cello originally, and I can't let it go. Loose ends are everywhere. Some people live for them. They get tangled and plague me.

I posted her video on facebook. No question that her signature voice, lyrics, guitar playing and look is marketable. She has it. I have not posted the cello video yet. In time.

People’s reaction to her caused a stir. She was used to a different audience from the perspective of a street musician. I have played on many street corners; I honor buskers, minstrels and troubadours. I know how it feels to have your ass frozen to a metal chair, or your toes numb in your boots while you continue to play one more song for the clinking coins in the red metal pot. I remember hoping a gust of wind wouldn’t blow dollar bills out of my black velvet lined case and I carried a silver flask filled with blackberry brandy in my garter under my skirt. Once I laughed and somehow continued playing my horn while a dog barked because he wanted me to throw a hunk of asphalt and play fetch. I have played outdoors for a lifetime. I didn’t play for my supper or a pack of cigarettes.  Not really. It doesn’t matter who plays for what. It matters that the music does not perish.

I could tell that she was wondering about the possibilities, something she must always do. She was getting offers from various agents and promoters to play in Boston. But the reality is that she chose to travel south and whatever happens happens.

The night before her departure, we snuggled. I buried my head into her mass of curls and imprinted her scent. She was different this time. I wasn’t the only one fighting the urge to cling; she was reluctant too. I don’t know if it was because we talked about every possible thing and held it up to the light, her heightened awareness of my unconditional love, or if it was the new recognition of her music at the last moment. Everyone in this part of her world knows her as an accomplished cellist beginning at a very young age; the singer songwriter is new.


I think optimistically that maybe she is beginning to understand that she deserves more than living in survival mode and has a great deal to offer herself and the world.  No need to run.

Brown eyes to brown eyes never lie. I sensed a part of her that wanted to stay. But she wasn’t really there yet.
(Continued...)

Photo Compliments of: http://graphicsfairyterms.blogspot.com//

Wild Roots, Cheesecake and Flaming Trees: Traveling Kids – Part IX

According to Colby, his mother loves him but doesn’t understand his lifestyle. He called her a few times while he was here and it was apparent that communicating was difficult. I did not eavesdrop nor did I ask questions; he was clearly stressed out after conversing with his mom.


He told me that his brother, one year younger, was also a ‘traveling kid.’ No mother should have to endure that. Her only sons are out there and all she has is that damn school of fish. Why?


Colby told me that his brother planned on living the rest of his life as a traveler and that he told his mother this, which did not go over well. His younger brother also got married a few months ago. Missing the wedding was the least of her problems.

Why should she be okay with this?


Talk of Colby’s brother opened a new line of questioning, nudging our conversation into the realm of the future. Of course no one knows what the future holds. Live in the present.

Would they come in for a landing some day?  How did they feel about being houseless (not homeless); say two, five or ten years down the road? Did they see themselves hopping trains and thumbing around the country indefinitely? I painted images with words like, toothless, wrinkled, prone to disease, etc. Anna quickly told me that she wants to travel now while she is young, before she settles into a career and family. Colby said that he planned on turning an old camper that he had at his mother’s house into a bus, a traveling art studio. He just needs to come up with money somehow for a pick-up truck. After he transforms the pop-up camper into a studio, he will go to festivals and sell his art. He is very talented. I hope that this works.


When Anna was a little girl, I used to keep a large, hot pink, beach pail stocked with craft items – popsicle sticks, glue, pompoms, thread, pipe cleaners, buttons, etc. – her ‘bucket of junk’. She simply made things all the time. She is a creative whirlwind. She also sews and knits. She used to hand make all of her clothes, I am talking stunning dresses, skirts and hats. If she is part of the traveling studio, she will not be at a loss for what to make, however, I hope that she stays on her musical path. If you have heard her music, you will understand.


Enough talk of welding old pop-up campers. My goal at the moment was to enjoy the gift of time that I had with my daughter. I was not thrilled to share her with her traveling buddy for the entire week, but it is what it is. Colby is a nice kid who somehow ended up coming out the other side of things the way my daughter did and they were traveling together. I had to go with it.


In maintaining my true nature, my nesting instincts took over as we did things like carve jack-o- lanterns, sip apple cider and cocoa, snuggle (Anna and I), stack firewood and bake chocolate chip cookies.

I threw a small party for Anna because she would be away on her birthday. No Thanksgiving or Christmas with her either. I’m the kind of Momma who likes to wrap a 24 pound turkey in bacon and roast it in a wood kitchen cook stove. We are not of the Christian faith, however we celebrate Christmas with a traditional family gathering; a time for sharing and celebrating the Yuletide. It’s all about family, music, food (never fail fudge, anatomically correct gingerbread people and tiger butter), twinkling lights and coziness. I am sad that she will not be home.


My sister and her family came over for the birthday party. I placed a few candles on a decadent cheesecake surrounded by cupcakes and we gave her gifts. I told my family that gift cards were good for her, because of the being inside of the backpack thing.

I gave her a charm necklace, seizing the opportunity to express myself on something that she will wear close to her heart. The charm in the middle is a beautiful “A” in calligraphy. There are four silver rings – two on each side of the A – each engraved with a word; Integrity, Wisdom, Remember and Mother. Of course she loved it and put it on immediately.


Later on we sat around the bonfire – a brush pile that seemed like it might burn down the entire forest. It didn’t thanks to my son, the violinist, who came for a short visit before Anna’s departure. With a garden hose, he sprayed the leaves on the trees that had not yet changed color and dropped. Flames and sparks threatened. A chipmunk darted out from beneath the burning brush into the woods. Anna sat on a stump with her guitar and sang her “Circus Song” along with many others.


I love harmonizing with her. Our voices are different, yet there is core equivalence. The roots that run deep, that are twisted and firm and sometimes even frenzied; grow together with a fierceness that is wild and aware as they merge into one.


The last I heard, she was on a Chinatown Bus somewhere between NYC and Philly.

The School of Fish Around Your Head: Traveling Kids – Part VIII

Anna and I have always danced. From pure sweet lullabies to wailing songs like CCR's Bad Moon Rising by cello rocking Rasputina; we connect. When she was four we started dancing wildly to the Andrews Sisters’ Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, Rum and Coca Cola and Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree with Anyone Else but Me. It was more of a conviction when we danced to Rachel Bisex’s, Dancing with My Mother.

With our cellos, our words, in the moonfield…We danced. We still do. She left. She returned. She left. I heard from her and didn’t hear from her. We talked and didn’t talk. I accepted and didn’t accept both the truth and untruth of her world. Our dance is unique, passionate, filled with intrigue, irony and frustration. Today, however, I long for an old fashioned waltz.

My mind wandered to that program on MSNBC – Runaways. Why did they refer to them as ‘runaways’? Many of them were in their twenties. I tossed the question around and decided that the show was not authentic. Too much focus on too few people giving only a slice of the whole pie. Everyone knows that runaways are minors, well, except for those who have been on the streets since they were minors.

The question drifted back into focus. But they are runaways in some way. At least there is the fact that many of these young people are in fact running. From what? Each has his or her own story. Some, like my daughter, will say that they simply want to travel around and see the country. Fair enough. They do not want to be part of this warped out society. But they are. They are whatever piece of it that they choose to be. They are the ones walking along the highway with a large frame backpack, hopping on trains, spanging or busking on the street, bumming cigarettes and washing up in the restroom at a truck stop. They are the ones who cannot imagine stopping and taking stock of where they are and finding a way to contribute to a society that has wronged them in a multitude of ways. Many of them are in survival mode and have been from early childhood, so that is their comfort zone.

I had never shared my feelings with another person who really comprehended my angst. I am thankful for the support that I get from those I honor greatly. These people offer encouragement, but I had not met another mother of a ‘traveling kid’. One can imagine how it feels but must actually walk in my shoes to fully grasp the experience. I presumed that most of the parents of these kids didn’t know or care, or had let their kid go years before. It is convenient to touch up the rough spots and pretend that the package is tidy or erase any and all possible underlying clues that might lead to self blame and loathing.

I wondered about the other parents. Did they worry? Did they play the role of cool friend rather than wise parent? Did they wire them money? Did they call the other (absent) parent and leave messages that went unanswered – a perpetual root of things – and face their fears alone? Did they yell and scream and give ultimatums? Did they lay awake at night, cry and make deals with God? All of the above.

Anna befriended a young man I will call Colby. I have a terrible habit of recognizing the child within a person almost instantly upon meeting. Colby was no exception; his little boy was so present in his face, mannerisms and his eyes mostly, that it was difficult to think of him as a man nearing his mid twenties. Perhaps it is because I have two sons about his age, so it was natural to think in those terms. I wanted to say, “Why are you doing this? Let’s return to the days of Lego’s, trucks and dinosaurs and figure this out.”

Instead, I nurtured him along with my daughter, thinking that there might be a spark reminding him of a gentler life that once was and still is possible. I thought about all of the things that I wanted and needed to discuss with my daughter before she set out on her journey to New Orleans. At first I hesitated because he was there. Then I thought, no way. He is here now and he is going to be my daughter’s traveling partner, he gets the hard questions too.

It worked. I asked him how he thought that his life as a ‘traveling kid’ made his parents feel? He was quite candid. I know from our conversation that his father has cut him off (although he loves me, Colby interjected) and his mother loves him as well, but she cannot relate.

I had to walk a fine line here. What does it mean not relating to your child being a ‘traveling kid?’ Is it so awful to want something else for your child? Such as knowing that she/he has a roof over her head, even a mundane job (as horrible as it might sound to a Bohemian Artist who has learned to busk for meals) would work now and then.

How much of this parental unrest is self centered – “what about me” – stuff and how much of it is genuine worry about the safety of your grown child? It’s all real, bubbling in the pot. The worry, coping, fear, anger and relief are all just swimming around your head like a school of fish with each emotion taking turns being the leader.

You learn to live with the fish as they become a part of your world, shedding new light on Jacques Cousteau. You’re in a store deciding whether you need coffee cream or not and the fish are right there swimming around you. You pat your pocket, feeling for your cell phone because you can’t hear it in the store if it’s in your pocketbook. When you find it, the anxious fish quickly passes the lead over to the relief fish.

You watch a movie, while the coping fish leads the school when suddenly a change in the scene reminds you (the imaginative creature who fills in the blanks) that your daughter could be in that sort of street alley with the menacing guy closing in on her. The fear fish moves to the front when you recall that the last time you spoke with her she said that she lost her pepper spray.

Colby and I talked freely about his family. I inquired with nurturing confidence, careful not to pry or put him in too tight a spot. Someone has to put aside all of the weirdness and place the appropriate significance on asking these young people how, what, where and why? A vital element in this dilemma stems from elders not taking the time or the initiative to place emphasis on the lives of our children. It might be uncomfortable, unpleasant and even heart wrenching, but we must peel back the layers and get to the core. Looking the other way and bitching or grieving in silence is not beneficial. They need us to have a voice; they need to have a voice; we all need to pay attention and hear. It is important.

I asked him questions pertaining to how his parents would feel should he have an accident on a train and die. I asked him if he considered the toll that his death would take on his family. You may not regard your life in the way of those who gave life to you, yet should it be lost, have you considered how their lives would be changed forever?

He looked down. My daughter and I locked eyes. Brown eyes to brown eyes. No truth hides. My voice was lower pitched than usual and firm, almost as if someone else were speaking. I would never be the same. I cannot describe how difficult it would be to continue living.

He told me that he did think about it. I was not convinced. Really? Truly? You have thought enough about your actions and risk taking that you have imagined what their lives would be like if they found out that you were dead?

He continued looking down at his feet and nodded yes. I knew at that point that if he never really pondered the effect that a possible careless death would have on his family that he did then. Even if he pushes caution to the wind along with thoughts of surviving parents, I know that once, in my presence, both he and my daughter clearly faced that possibility and responsibility to life itself.
(Continued…)

Talking, Singing, Trusting and Acceptance: Traveling Kids - Part V

After following Anna’s facebook status every few hours – rooting for her to get out of the cold rain in the woods somewhere in upstate New York – she finally arrived in Vermont. I fought the urge to jump in my car and fetch her, but it is all part of the deal.

She reunited with her friends and gathered her belongings that were scattered about Burlington. I drove to Vermont to get her. All the way there I listened to music and tried to organize my thoughts and file the questions inside of my head in some logical manner.


I drove down the street and immediately saw her standing in the middle of a parking lot filled with piles of various items of clothing that a generous friend had dragged out of his outbuilding. Everything was damp because there was a leak in the roof.

As I walked towards her, I was struck by her exquisite beauty. She approached me with a dazzling smile, a mass of rich curls piled loosely on top of her head, wearing a short corduroy skirt with leggings and hiking boots. She was a combination of an earthy gypsy and Greek Goddess.

When we hugged I wanted to absorb her into me. She felt thinner than I remember her ever being; her muscles were well defined and she had a deep bronze tan. Together we walked into the middle of the piles of stuff. I recognized a few familiar things. I bent over and picked up a sweater from the pavement, “Is this one of the boys’?”

She laughed. “Shelby gave it to me.”

After going around in circles for a bit, we rummaged through the piles, collected her things and stuffed them into the trunk of my car.

I kept looking at her, wanting to lock the car doors and never release her from my sight. She was so happy; I couldn’t start in bitching at her. I couldn’t spoil her joy, but I needed to be an advocate for myself, the mother who was worried sick for months, trying to piece it all together.

After buying coffee and getting on the highway, I decided that I could at least make my intentions known. I needed to get it. After rifling through my CD’s, we agreed on Ingrid Michaelson, O Brother Where Art Thou, Lucinda Williams, Bob Dylan, Brandi Carlile and Paul McCartney’s Ram.

I looked out the window at the puffy art clouds waiting to be identified. I swallowed and carefully chose my words. “Anna, I want you to make me understand. I don’t want to judge you; just make me understand.”

She smiled a half smile. “I know.” Her smile faded and she looked out the window. She hadn’t faced this straightforward line of questioning for a long time. She knew that I wasn’t going to whine and complain and get lost in my own agenda. She knew that I really expected the truth about her new lifestyle.

We shared intermittent episodes of dialogue. Usually I posed a gentle question; she paused and gave me a well thought out answer. We didn’t move too quickly. She truly wanted me to understand, and it took her a while to formulate her thoughts. The act of articulation was an act of owning. We made every word count.

A few times when we spoke on the telephone during her stay in New Orleans, she mentioned that there were many people who recognized ‘traveling kids’ and offered support and resources. I didn’t know at the time that the term ‘traveling kids’ was an actual name for such a huge and rapidly growing subculture. I didn’t know that she was one of them. I was about to find out who they where, what they stood for and how they lived their lives on a completely alternative plane.

Anna assured me that there was honor amongst them and that – like any culture – there were kids of many factions. As I explained in Part I of this series; they are diverse.

“Where do you fit in?” I sipped my lukewarm coffee.
“I’m not sure.” She smiled.
“Somewhere between the hippies and the old timey musicians?
“Well…yeah…”
I remembered that she detests labels and backed off.

She assured me that she never panhandled, that she always played her cello, busking for her money. She also explained that she had to be on top of her game, and that she did not use drugs or take chances that would cause her harm. She noted that there were kids who acted recklessly or in a way that was a vexation to her, and she chose not to be a part of them. She was almost insulted at some of the questions that I asked her.

I kept thinking about how Jack Kerouac was responsible for this. He was and still is one of her heroes, and she re-read his book On the Road when she was last at my house during the holidays. Thinking along those terms was a double edge sword. He lived in different times, yet he was a pioneer who left his distinguishable mark on society. I was all over the place, drifting between frustration, anger, enlightenment and pride for her courage. The fear seems to emerge as the winner every time.

We both knew enough to meter our discussion. We could only give and take so much; we sensed when one of us was drained, therefore we welcomed the silence. Every time one of our songs came on – Brandi Carlile’s The Story, Lucinda Williams’ Can’t Let Go, Carwheels on a Gravel Road, or You Are My Sunshine, I’ll Fly Away from O Brother Where Art Thou – we wailed together, relishing the fact that we still shared the magic of harmonizing. We loved our music so much that we hit replay over and over again as the sun slipped behind the craggy White Mountains.

Anna stayed with me for a little over a week. In between swimming at the Potholes, eating ice cream from ‘The Creamery’ and tickling her arm while watching movies, we sat on the steps of the front porch talking or watching fireflies and the moon in meaningful silence. Sometimes I detected a glimpse of Anna retreating into a world of shadows and solitude and I gauged when to back off and when to nudge her to open up to me.

She was restless at times, but mostly she relished her space in the corner of her bunkroom, curled up with Beatrix – her oversized, stuffed, childhood bunny – and soft pink down quilt. She actually confessed that although she enjoyed visiting with her old friends one night, she secretly regretted that she would be missing a night of sleeping in her own comfortable bed.

I cooked all of her favorite foods, did an insane amount of laundry and listened intently while she told me of her tales on the road, sparing me from some of the more difficult times. I refrained from lecturing her, yet I remained true to my beliefs and reinvented my role as her mother. When we tried to be of the same mind and yet I didn’t understand a particular piece of her story, we would leave it suspended and return to the conversation at a later time. Sometimes it worked and other times we left it as such.

I learned that the most important thing that I could do for both of us is to trust her, to reinforce my love for her and emphasize that I am always here for her under any and all circumstances. It is all reduced to acceptance, love and trust.

A critical lesson that emerged for me is to stop rewinding to the past and trying to find answers. We can learn from the past, but must not wallow in it, but use it as guidance. It is important to understand our history; we can only act in the present. Everyone makes mistakes; they were made once, to continue to dwell on them is empowering them to rule us. Not good. We are where we are now, and we are meant to be here. It is a classroom. Learn and go with it, not against it.

Mainly because of the way that I raised my children – to be strong willed, independent and to follow one’s own compass – Anna lives accordingly. Because of her upbringing, I knew that it was futile to expect that I could change her course. She is firm in her choices and if I reject her, refuse to listen or am hyper-critical, I will lose her. That is not part of the deal.

I promised her that I would not judge, that I would be honest in the way of offering wisdom and support. There are no secrets; what I know and what I will continue to learn is possibly up for debate, but probably will not change.

She spent a great deal of time writing lyrics and preparing for leaving her cello behind for a bit, since it is easier to carry a guitar on the road. She packed and unpacked her backpack and sorted out her things, agonizing over what she could or couldn’t live without.

We were both mentally exhausted, yet spiritually refreshed when I brought her back to Vermont. The sadness grew heavier with each mile, but I knew that it was vital for me to feel it so that I could release it – at least as much of it as possible. It was a combination of knowing, accepting, and separation anxiety.

I respect my daughter for being honest with me, for working so hard to help me to understand. I do and I don’t. I basically understand the lifestyle and the movement, how it works and doesn’t work. I understand why she wants to live on the road, but I don’t necessarily understand the willingness to take risks.

She possesses a different type of courage than I do. I feel safe in the woods and lived in the wild by choice for three months the summer before last. I am comfortable taking a solar shower under the trees, ditching all modern day comforts day in and day out, rain or shine. As Anna so appropriately stated, the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree. I wouldn’t want to head out into the unknown with a backpack and cello or guitar and play for my next hot meal. She said that it is liberating to get rid of “stuff” and to carry with you only what you need. I respect the hell out of that. We live in such a materialistic world where people are comforted by “things.” She is definitely on the right track.

When we arrived at her destination, I reluctantly helped her carry her stuff into the house where she was staying. When we hugged, I inhaled the sweetness of her hair. I had to let go. I drove away, looking at her in the rearview mirror until she was out of sight.

I cranked up the volume on the stereo and sang The Story as loud as I could to keep the tears from flowing, but gave in because I knew that it was the right thing to do. I turned my attention to the road and headed back through the White Mountains, hitting the replay button too many times.

When I got home, I avoided going into the bunk room. I was drawn to it, but the thought of sadness creeping in from the sight of Beatrix and all of Anna's things exactly as she left them, kept me away for a few days.

I finally walked into the room. She tidied up quite well, leaving me with nothing to dwell on or hang onto. I found a hair scrunchie and a pen. I didn’t touch them and left the room, satisfied that I didn’t have to straighten it out or fall into the perpetual and fruitless trap of longing for her.

About a week later, I got a text message telling me that she was on her way to a concert in Philly. Relieved that she was keeping me informed, I chased away all of the possible scenarios that my writer’s imagination tempted to create and carried on with my life. Sleep came easier, although I did rely on brief prayers and a request here and there from my father to keep her safe.

We are on this journey together, learning the boundaries of love and trust between a mother and daughter, knowing that whatever comes up on the road, that we are always together across the miles.

Thinking Inside the Backpack: Traveling Kids Part IV

After a period of desperate silence, I attempted to contact people who may know the whereabouts and state of my daughter. I sent a message to a young man who I had met the previous summer in Vermont. I expressed my worries and asked what he knew.

He responded immediately and told me that he heard that she had gotten the medicine that she needed for a throat abscess, and that she was doing better. He also said that every person from her original circle of Vermont friends had returned home.

The previous summer I raced (3.5 hours one way) to Vermont to pick her up from the hospital after she had an abscess on her tonsils lanced and drained.

This young man and I wrote back and forth a few times and we finally spoke on the telephone after his last message stated that he wanted to meet me in Florida and go get her. He warned me that there was a strong possibility that she didn’t ‘want’ to be found.

I had such a difficult time with that statement and thought. We were so close. Even during the teenage years when communication was a little sparse at times, we maintained a high level of mutual respect and a certain openness that I believed would carry us through a lifetime.

Meanwhile, another friend of Anna’s heard that I was trying to contact her, and she picked up her cell phone and called me. She had a job and an apartment in New Orleans; she was from Vermont and knew Anna. She mentioned that she had a very close relationship with her own mother and could not imagine how upset her mother would be if their communication ended abruptly with no explanation.

Without asking, she told me that she would find Anna and offer the use of her cell phone to call me. She also gave me her mailing address so that I could send a cell phone or money or whatever a desperate mother thinks that she can send at a time like that.

Then random messages started trickling in on my facebook from people who assured me that they knew that Anna was fine and that they spotted her here and there playing her cello. It reminded me of a “Where’s Waldo” book, or back in the days when we used to stand on the sea wall in front of our house in Maine, listening to WRKO for the updates of where “Andre” the seal was on his journey from Rockport to the Aquarium in Boston. Only this wasn’t exciting or fun in any way.

Anna’s friend sent me text messages indicating that she had ‘just missed her’. One night my cell phone – which had become a physical attachment by then – rang. It was her earthy yet melodic voice on the other end of the phone as if nothing was different or unusual. She immediately burst into laughter as she explained how she walked into her favorite bar and the bartender hollered, “Anna, call your mother!”


I told her that I was deeply concerned about her. I asked her many questions, such as where are you staying? Who are you staying with? Are you eating? Warm? Dry? I wanted to scream, but I maintained a level of outer calm while tears streamed down my cheeks. Was this really my daughter, the beautiful little girl who was so innocent, creative and bright who had turned into a fearless young woman who cares so little about the basic comforts and gentleness of life, who cares so little about the chaotic society that we live in, that she has made a deliberate choice to take risks by living on the edge, shedding any and all possessions to take to the road without a care other than her next meal? Of course I ask myself where I went wrong.


That question brings me around and around on the great mother – daughter wheel of intense parallel opposites. Are we so much alike that she could not stand it? Does society suck so much that she wants nothing to do with the status quo? Is it because loving her as hard as I could did not make up for those who hurt her? Or are all of these questions simply mute?


I envisioned myself driving around New Orleans asking vagrants and street performers if they had seen my daughter. I shuddered at the thought of not finding her, finding her, or having to sit within the dingy pale yellow cement walls of a tired police station. I imagined seeing her – a flash of youthful sweetness wearing blue and purple silk faerie wings – running up to kiss my cheek. I dreamt of embracing her and whisking her off the streets and taking her back into the safe, gentle cocoon woven of a mother’s love.


She apologized for causing worries. ‘Worries’; such a lame word for what I have experienced. It was traumatic. Not knowing what your daughter is doing, if she is even alive, if she has a roof over her head, has been taken into a sex slave operation, or whatever other scenarios a terrified mother creates while laying in bed every night staring into the darkness, trying to pray her way to sleep.


I wavered between relief and scolding while being cautious, letting her know that I deserved sleep. She said that she understood. We had agreed that she would call or text weekly just to let me know that she was okay. I learned quickly that weekly was way too much to expect, so bi-weekly would do. I needed something.


I felt an odd sense of calm after we hung up. I pushed away “my dreams” for her…dashed away thoughts of Julliard and the long elegant black dresses that she wore on stage when performing Paganini, Haydn, Bach and the others since she was five-years-old and deemed a gifted cellist. I squeezed my eyes shut and embraced the beautiful young woman sitting on the street corner wearing a patched flannel shirt, cut off jean skirt that she made herself, with hiking boots, playing a mixed bag of music with a jar half full of change and a few dollar bills beside her cello case. The roaring applause from the concert hall faded into the crackling fire that burned in the rusted barrel in the alley.


It’s weird how a mother’s mind works under this sort of pressure. I had a short window of time to send a small package to her at her friend’s apartment. Because the only belongings that she has she carries in her backpack, I had to think ‘inside the backpack’. It’s instinctive to want to give her everything that I think she needs; toiletries, food, vitamins, new underwear, socks, and cute hair scrunchies. I loved shopping for her – my only daughter. If I could have crammed homemade cookies and a week’s worth of food in the small Priority Box, I would have.


I sent her money to buy a new cell phone and a few very small tee-shirts (Pink Floyd and something else), underwear and socks all rolled up. I hand wrote a personal card and planted lipstick kisses on the envelope.


At that time I was not meant to completely understand her need to separate dramatically from society, old friends, a gentler, safer world, family and most importantly, from me.


I cannot and will not speak for fathers; I have a lifetime of trying to be both. I had a hunch then – but did not stop loving as hard as I could for two people to actually accept that it does not work. Well, not completely. Believe me when I say that it is entirely possible to raise a child or children as a single parent, I have done so with success. Like I said earlier in this series, my daughter is not doing something wrong. She is gutsy, creative and smart; she is reacting to the world in a way that suits her. I would be excited to learn about this if it were someone else’s daughter. It is a complex statement at this point, but will fall into place as the writing unfolds.


The optimum situation is for a child to have love and guidance from both the feminine and masculine in their equally important ways – role models, self esteem, validation and the complete package (so rare).


Some of these kids on the road have mothers who don’t care, or mothers who do not love them or do but don’t know how, or have never been there, have addictions, are abusive and other very sad stories. Anna is loved, always has been and always will be. She knows this. Is it enough?
(Continued)

So Your Kid is a Traveling Kid – What is a Traveling Kid? Part I

The series that I am about to write is about a new, fast growing, subculture of kids in our society – our offspring – who ‘by choice’ are basically off the radar. They are kids who may or may not have grown up in decent homes; some have a college education; many are college drop outs or never went to college at all; they may or may not have been from broken homes and may or may not be substance abusers. Like any culture, there is a cross section of society representing a vast array of our youth who have chosen a lifestyle that many are not aware of or even know exists. They are easily recognized with their huge frame backpacks, multi-patched clothing, the look of needing a good hot shower and a meal.


The following is an article that I recently wrote in Wikipedia Notes regarding Traveling Kids. I was prompted to write this in response to another article/thesis written by a graduate student at Florida State; a sociology student who portrayed Traveling Kids as deviant and criminal. I have the inside scoop and have been studying them for the past year.
-------------------------------------------------------

It is vital that I comment on this very subjective and inaccurate article. I know many young people who are part of this rapidly growing sub culture known as "Traveling Kids." They are not deviant. They are not criminal. They are not drug users. Of course, like any sub culture, you will find a cross section of many behavioral types. This includes the GOOD as well as the bad. This article/thesis is grossly one sided, not based on factual information and misrepresents the movement.

Because these kids do NOT want recognition and have gone off the radar, it is more difficult to get an accurate description of their actions, philosophies and motives. They "like" it that way. It is not sinister and they are not an underground "mob". In addition, since this is a relatively new movement, there are fewer people who have retired from that lifestyle who are available to comment and shed light on the movement.

It is understandable to me as to why these kids have chosen this path. First of all, with the downturn (crash) of the economy, going to college and staying in college is more challenging and literally impossible for those without parents who foot the bill. This is because student loans are capped well before the necessary expenses are met. Also, Pell Grants are fewer and of lesser amounts and work-study programs parcel out the work to many, making the amount earned peanuts. I know of many young people, including two of my own offspring, who have faced this unimaginable situation. The older one had an easier time obtaining funding for the first two years of music conservatory, and then halfway through his undergraduate work, funding was obsolete and cut off from him (and many others across the country). The financial aid advisor simply stated that he had "maxed out his student loans." What? He was only halfway through the program and he had a few scholarships. I discovered that this was a national crisis that affected a majority of students. He was a Dean's List student, and with his scholarships, and the meager amount of money that he had to work with (student loan)...there was not enough money for living expenses or books and few options for employment. He literally blazed his way through it and did not leave his path, but he suffered greatly. He experienced poverty in every sense of the word. So, he can be categorized as someone who refused to give up, he was driven and actually one-step away from eating from the dumpster.

How fair is that? (Sociology Student). Is the possibility of obtaining higher education in the United States is now tailored ONLY for the rich? Yes. Many students couch surf and DUMPSTER DIVE and share books in order to continue attending college alongside of their WEALTHY COUNTERPARTS. Are they getting a fair crack at their education? No. The deck is stacked. Under these circumstances, the constant worry about paying rent, getting food and EVEN BUYING TEXTBOOKS claims their energy and focus, leading to dropping out or getting lower grades.

Another of my children started college a few years later, and was faced with these impossible financial barriers from the first day. She did not have one or two years of college under her belt to lean on or as a foundation when the lack of funding became in issue. It was nearly impossible from the start.

I know of another young man who recently completed his second year as a very successful student at Berklee School of Music, and he is now working every angle to find a way to continue to get student loans. His resources have been "capped." I told him of some of the private loans available so that he does not have to quit. These private/personal loans have a much higher interest rate than student loans, government loans and Pell Grants! When these students finally graduate with an undergrad degree, they will owe enough money for a small house in today's market. If they go to graduate school, they will have borrowed enough money (with interest) for a bigger house.

I see this all of the time. KIDS WITHOUT OPTIONS.

And then there is the JOB MARKET! Do I have to go there? I will try to make it short. Zero jobs. The jobs available are chopped up into part time jobs so that the employer will not have to provide benefits. Everyone from the student, the young non-student, the older population of unemployed and underemployed, college grads unable to find jobs in their fields....ALL COMPETING FOR THE FEW JOBS OUT THERE. This environment enables employers to under pay employees and abuse their power of authority because if "you don't like it, there are 100 people who are willing to do it for less...whatever "it" is."

The other option is THE MILITARY. How convenient. With recruiters hanging around, dangling debit cards and promised bank accounts and free education, who wouldn't jump on it? War is the alternative. Really? Not everyone is a warmonger, but sometimes-desperate measures call for desperate actions. The Traveling Kids choose not to participate in the "Military Industrial Complex." I have a son currently in the military; I support our troops; it is the integrity of the leaders, the corporations and war itself that is in question.

With little or no options for youth in today's society; horrific corruption, loss of fragile eco systems, extinctions resulting in local and global devastation amidst the longest war in our country's history, why would anyone question the emergence of a growing sub culture of kids (young adults) who opt to remove themselves from the madness, travel and enjoy their lives without the twisted rules of a rapidly crumbling society slapping them around?

There is a code amongst these kids. (Most of them are educated with some college; some actually graduated). They DO NOT STEAL OR PANHANDLE. They do something for their money, such as busk (play music), sell handmade jewelry, knit hats, and juggle. Many follow the harvests and planting seasons as migrant workers. They stick together and are not much different from those (hobos) who travelled during the challenging eras of the Dust Bowl and Great Depression. These are tough times.

There are many cities, counties and states on board – aware of this growing sub culture – that offer resources. The "kids" know of these centers, which have become hubs around the country offering showers, food and a place to stay the night. Many "kids" have friends across the country and open their homes to people passing through. Traveling kids are easy to spot by their oversized framed backpacks.

I was appalled when I read this article. In order to understand the true nature of this sub culture, you must be part of it. To somewhat understand it, you must have contacts, family, friends – someone who you know well and who will take the time out to explain it in detail. These kids are not slouches, nor do they expect to get something for nothing. They do not consider themselves "homeless"; they refer to themselves as "houseless". They choose NOT TO BE A PART of this warped out society at this time, since many of them have run out of options.

There are a few different types of "Traveling Kids" that I know of.

Old Timey kids who are modeled after Woody Guthrie, many play the banjo, accordion, spoons, etc.

Crunchy Hippie Types, the ones you will see with dreds carrying guitars or ukuleles and selling their beadwork.

Bicyclers; they ride their bikes all over the country.

Of course, there are many other "types" if we were to categorize them. They are a microcosm of their generation on foot or bicycling around the country. Are they better or worse than the "kid" who sits around mooching off Mom and Dad? I find the fact that they are NOT freeloading, a higher form of character.

I needed to write this, because I do not want the general population to get the wrong idea when they see these kids en route to their next organic farm harvest or music festival. They are not homeless beggars; they are not criminals; they are not druggies. No more than anyone else. Most of them are gutsy, resourceful and open to change and evolving.

With such sparse information available, I was quite troubled that this is what people get when they Google "Traveling Kids".

I am betting that you received an "A" on your thesis, because there is no point of reference. I hope that more people respond to this one sided article.[[Link title]]

[[Editing Talk: Principles of Sociology / Traveling Kids]]~~~~

Brown Eyes to Brown Eyes : Letting Go

Beware of falling into the trap of thinking that these days will last forever, or even longer than you know that they will. We get caught up in the excitement of daily activities and often cannot imagine a very different life.

Let me be more specific. I remember the transitioning of my being and thoughts as they occurred at the moment of the birth of my first child. In many ways, I too was born on that same day. I looked at my beautiful newborn son and thought; I will protect him with my life and make sure that he is happy, healthy and unharmed. It was a time of truly putting someone else before me in a way that I had never experienced. It was the miracle of life.


I looked at him when he slept, when I nursed him and held him close to my heart. He was unmarked, innocent; a new life starting out as a fresh, unmolded piece of clay. I wondered what shape he would take. Being a potter had taken on a clear new meaning.


Sometimes, in the wee morning hours, I would think that we were the only two people on earth who were awake. Being a first time mother, I had not figured out that it was okay if he was awake, that he didn’t necessarily need anything. He wasn’t fussy, just wakeful. Exhausted and hormonally stirred, I mentioned the lack of sleep to my father. He smiled and told me that we were getting to know each other.


I never expected that kind of maternal wisdom from my father, but I got it; a gift that I continue to cherish. From that day on, whenever anyone complains about lack of sleep because of a newborn, I smile and tell them that they are getting to know each other. This way of thinking took away the edge when I sat up at night with my other two newborns. Celebrate.


When I discovered that I was pregnant again, I panicked a bit because I thought it impossible to love another like I did my son. Sixteen months later, I learned another valuable lesson in motherhood; yes, your heart can handle loving another child as you do the first. That was undeniably remarkable to me then. I loved my two sons unconditionally and knew that when my daughter was born two years later that I had the capacity to love yet another child.


I continued to think that I somehow could keep all three of them safe, loved, nurtured and happy. I have no regrets regarding my love for them then and now. Many of our experiences could be taken from the pages of “Little House on the Prairie.” We played music together, had a farm on a pristine mountaintop and I home educated them for many years. I must add that we were not religious fundamentalists hunkered down waiting for the feds with our guns cocked. We were involved in what I term a “Classical Education.”


The days were filled with laughter, learning, music and discovery. I remember thinking that this was my life and I couldn’t picture it any other way. I was too deliriously busy to entertain the thought of an end. There was always tomorrow.


Of course we had some serious obstacles to face together. Our life was far from perfect and we endured certain traumas that many people would not have escaped unharmed. The hardships themselves were not the issue. How we navigated them was what mattered. They were seeds waiting to be found, gathered and planted for a defining and bountiful future. I am pleased with how we conducted ourselves and the bond that we forged between us; a mother and her three children.


Today they are grown. My eldest is in the Navy and will be married within a year, my second son is in the beginning phases of a solid career violinist and my daughter is a Bohemian gypsy whose choices keep me awake every night. All have chosen a very different path in life that suits them. Like all of us, they are the result of their choices and actions.


I was proud of myself when my first son left for college, I told myself (and others) that I did not suffer from the ‘Empty Nest Syndrome’ because I was careful to nurture and cultivate my own interests and passions. Now I see that it was simply untrue. I did not feel the actual impact of loss because the other two were still at home. The nest was not empty.


I thought that there was something wrong with me because I was handling it so well. Of course I felt a sense of loss when he went away, but it wasn’t as intense as I have seen it in other mothers.


Then a few years later my second son went off to music conservatory. At that point I had sold everything that wasn’t nailed down to afford his music training, so I was relieved that he finally made it. We struggled financially right up until the day before he left.


I wasn’t sure how I felt. The empty nest syndrome was starting to peck lightly into my psyche but it was faint and I could ignore it. I thought that it was the perfect time to really focus on my daughter, who was like that person on the end of the ‘crack the whip’ game that we played on the skating rink of my childhood.


She was sixteen-years-old, had her first boyfriend and went to an alternative private day school. I worked four days a week and attended a low residency graduate school. As much as I wanted to have that special mother – daughter time that seemed to fit so perfectly, it simply didn’t happen.


We enjoyed each other when we had the opportunity, but she was entrenched in the teenage social scene and was anything but typical. Being blessed with an extraordinary amount of creativity that oozes out of each pore can often equal being misunderstood.


As appropriate for a natural, healthy teenager, she needed to separate from me to establish her identity and independence. We are so much alike that it is scary to me in a way and then it was frustrating for her. My mother was not an artist; I grew up as the artsy one in an athletic family. I knew what it was like to be misunderstood. But I get my daughter all too well. It was this almost oneness that drove a sort of wedge between us.


Both of us are cellists, writers, painters, melancholics, naturalists and activists. She published her first book when she was seventeen. When reading it, I was stunned when I read a section of poetry that was unmistakably familiar, yet I had not seen these particular poems before that moment. It was then that I discovered that we used to sit by our windows looking out at the same night sky writing poetry. She was in her room upstairs while I sat in my room below hers. We looked at the same moon, the same apple trees, and the same mountains and wrote very different poetry. Unlike the years of playing cello duets and being in orchestra, we did this alone together.


She went to college for two years and quit so that she could travel around the country playing music with kindred spirits. Her heroes are Jack Kerouac, Woody Guthrie and a host of others who travelled this vast country of ours.


Now I must take time to learn the language of letting go. Last winter she was in New Orleans. When she was there, she lost her cell phone and did not contact me for months. For the first time since she left the safety of our home, I was consumed with fear. It is the unknowing that is too difficult for me to accept. The pecking of the empty nest syndrome shattered me at that point.


She returned to her home base in Vermont last summer and spent time with me. Then she traveled to Chicago for a while and returned again to visit me. When we were together, I asked her to help me understand. We both did our best. She is a ‘traveling kid’, which is part of a rapidly growing subculture of youth who have pretty much given up on our society and lack of options. They travel around the country playing music and doing migrant work. It’s very exciting for them. They are resourceful and have a code amongst themselves. They do not panhandle; however, they earn their money unconventionally. This has been a way of life in this country throughout history.


If she was someone else’s daughter, I would be excited and climb on my soapbox talking about her courage and determination to stay out of a broken system that has let them down in unimaginable ways.


However, she is my daughter. She is traveling as the wind takes her with her backpack and whatever instrument she is taking on that particular leg of her journey. (She started with her cello, and is down to a ukulele). She earns her living by busking.


For the sake of my well being, I am teaching myself to let go of the fear that has gripped me. It is a process, a time to comprehend that our children are not ours at all. We love them, teach them and give them the best guidance that we know how. When they mature and spread their wings to fly, we cannot fly for them. We can let them know that we are here to catch them, hopefully, if they fly close enough and if you know where to find them if and when they fall. It is the most frightening time that I have experienced.


I became a slave to my cell phone, taking it with me into the bathroom, afraid that I might miss her call. This fear has come to own me. But I decided that it cannot, because it was taking a toll on my health. I cannot control another person, even my daughter. It is a waste of energy. I try to erase the constant images that emerge; images of her as a sweet and innocent child who had tea parties with her dolls and the cat. I try to stay in the present and maintain a sense of balance instead of feeling hopeless, afraid and lost.


She will come to visit me again before she heads west. I will not plead with her to stay, as I did before. I will not offer her the moon and stars. I will not pretend that I do not care. I will appreciate the time that we have together and we will sit outside and look at the moon together. She will promise to call me and I will try not to cry.


I am here. It is now. I cannot sell myself to fear. I can, however, pass this message along to you. If you are a parent of young children now, please cherish and savor every moment, because it will not last forever. They grow up and go away. Trust, love and patience is what will bring them back but never as yours, rather as the free spirited individual who they have become. The umbilical cord is not severed; it continues to grow.