Empty nest reflections

Benns' Belief

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By Roderick Benns

Roderick Benns is the publisher of The Advocate. An award-winning author and journalist who grew up in Lindsay, he has written several books including Basic Income: How a Canadian Movement Could Change the World.

Publisher Roderick Benns reflects on life as a newly-minted empty-nester.

It was a late August day that was weather-perfect. This was an outer lie that mocked the more complex weather pattern moving in on my psyche.

When my second (and last) born headed off to post secondary school, it wasn’t easy to sort through the fact that I was both incredibly happy and suspiciously melancholy. (That two states can coexist so easily inside us is surely one of the perversities of being human.)

Durham Region isn’t that far away and that helped with the transition. After all, friends of mine were saying goodbye to their own kids who were leaving for destinations hours away, some out of province.

His older brother and I helped move stuff into dorm life, as the new roommate respectfully huddled away in his bedroom so we could have family time. (I guess it felt like something of a balm to know he has a sibling and a cadre of friends in the region, too.)

We unpack microwavable Kraft Dinner and cans of tuna, while a box of chai tea fights for limited counter space. Clean cutlery starts a new, vertical life in an old mug.

There’s just one thing on his dorm bedroom wall – walls which admittedly are supposed to be picture free. It’s a small square of beige paper with a handwritten message.

“A river cuts through rock not because of its power but because of its persistence.”

This kid’s going to be okay.

I arrive home and visit his room, still half set up, now a liminal, ghostly space where a father must visit to feed the fish that got left behind. As the finned creature dubbed Sigma chases its miniscule shards of food, I consider how there can be quiet, but also a deeper quiet.

Knowing that your kid’s bright future and conspicuous absence is a direct result of doing something right is somehow only mildly comforting, but I know this emotion will change. As Leonard Cohen sings, “I don’t trust my inner feelings; inner feelings come and go.”

In the Before days, I would open the fridge and see all manner of things that were disagreeable. An apple with a massive bite out of it, apparently there to be consumed later; crisper drawers not shut properly; condiments on shelves when everyone knows they belong in the door. Now, I just see order. Perfect, stupid order.

It’s strange to live alone now. This old, two-storey home has a pool out back, which might be satisfying to me if I swam. (I don’t, but my son does.) Yet I tend to it as if it’s about to matter, skimming errant leaves, keeping the Kreepy Krauly working, and watching a glitzy floating ball ride the waves like memories. Until early October, this is the pact between man and pool, in case a visit should occur.

In the meantime, I ply my trade in words and am grateful to stay busy in the community I love.

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