I’m writing this epistle from the inside of a ranger cabin somewhere in Wyoming.
I don’t know exactly where we are, but it’s in the kind of terrain that has no cellphone service, mountains in the distance and lots of lodgepole pines — hence the name Big Piney district.
I made the plans to come here months ago, as I was anticipating the pain I would feel watching my children go back to school again. Surprisingly, the pain didn’t come, yet here we are, sleeping in a one-room cabin that could easily have served as the inspiration for an escape room called “Wyoming terror hostel” or some horror movie that takes place on a dark and stormy night.
We all feel a little skittish. Who was in here before us? Can we trust the water? Are the mice going to jump on us in the night? Everyone is facing different fears: my son fears a potential ax murderer finding us, my daughter fears the dirt and dust on every single surface, my other son is worried about the bathroom situation, and I encompass them all. It’s funny, in a way, it was my fears that brought us here in the first place.
My youngest son turned 6 at the beginning of the summer, which means he has now entered first grade. I’ve been watching him grow up, getting taller and leaner, losing teeth and gaining inches, and each time I see him pass a new milestone, I feel a degree of sadness in my heart.
He has always been my gift. The sunshine of my day. He beams with a smile so pure and powerful it casts away darkness and doubt. And he lives his life with such an ebullient gusto that fills his imagination with the most wonderful adventures. He high-fives strangers on the hiking trail. He greets dogs and pets them behind the ears when their owners say it’s OK. He comes and scratches my back and gives me hugs and tells me I am the best mom ever.
“I am so lucky to have you,” he says to me.
But all along, I have felt lucky to have him.
And with his carefree nature has come a bit of a resistance to conformity. He doesn’t especially like to stay in his chair at the dinner table. He doesn’t always stop what he’s doing if I ask him to come help me. And he does like to carry a handful of Legos with him at all times. These things worried me that being in school all day might be hard for him. I worried it might dim a little bit of his sparkle. And I worried his teacher might not understand the beauty of a boy who has an imagination and a wonderfully big heart and an even bigger smile, even if he did not stay in his chair when he should.
And so, months ago, I looked for a place to bring my family near Jackson Hole, a place we’ve gone for years to renew our souls. It was fairly last minute, considering how far in advance most places around here are filled, but, there was a three-night opening at this little guard station near Bondurant. Someone must have canceled, so I took their reservation. I figured we could come here and regroup after the first couple of days of school. We could reassure ourselves that we are brave and the world is beautiful, and we can do hard things.
I noticed as we drove here, through a forest thick with pine trees, that some were obviously burned in a fire, and they remained charred and lonely, sticking up sparsely like broken sticks against the horizon. And in some areas, it was obvious that once, the area had burned, but it was now in the renewal stage. The fire burns out overgrowth, purges old branches, and clears the way for new life.
The areas that had been previously burned were lush and green at the bottom, with shades of red and orange in little patches that show how fast fall is approaching. It’s beautiful to see that change happen. This made me think of my little son. As much as I had worried about him, he came home from the first day of school and said, “That was even greater than I thought it would be!”
He loves school lunch, he loves recess, he’s made friends, and he says he loves to learn — all things I doubted he would experience. I worried the flames of change could burn his spirit, but today, he is flourishing with vibrant new growth.
It’s kind of like this cabin. We’re uncomfortable and uncertain, here — out of our element for sure. But I just stepped outside and saw the most brilliant display of the Milky Way I’ve seen in years, and I think we will survive — and for the better.
That is, unless that ax murderer comes.
Amy Choate-Nielsen writes a bi-monthly column on her family experiences and lessons learned from her grandmother, Fleeta, who died before she was born.