Three by Seven

It’s hard to know the right thing to do when it comes to parenting.

There’s no manual.

There are lots and lots of books filled with advice, but no actual operational guide.

And that, of course, makes it pretty much the same as everything else in life.

Rio turned seven in January. It seems like so long ago now; we’re halfway to eight. But at the time it felt momentous. He seemed to go from being a little boy to a little man almost overnight.

In the yogic tradition our lives are segmented into seven year periods of development that follow the progression of the seven chakras. The first, or base charka is about connecting to the earth and the material world; it’s about stability. About getting our footing in life.

The second, or sacral chakra is about sensuality, creativity, enthusiasm and exploration.

According to the Yogic tradition the seventh year is a period of transition and contemplation.

Rio is moving through such a transition now. Its beautiful, and challenging, to be a part of it. In the end the best I can do is watch, hold his hand, and love him as he deepens his experience of this extraordinary life.

Earlier in the spring Rio and Silas, who is now almost four, and still very much connecting with the earth and seeking stability, spent an afternoon at Clover Point, looking out at the Juan de Fuca Straight. I was frustrated because the afternoon wasn’t going as I had envisioned. It was cold, and when we traipsed down to Mount Doug beach half an hour earlier it was in the shade and felt like winter. I complained bitterly. I turned the two children around and, still complaining, traipsed them back up to the car and made for the more dependable Clover Point. The sun was out but so was the wind, and my mood which was sour from a day of too much city and too many responsibilities was as biting as the breeze.

We settled onto the beach and after a few minutes of sun and stones and waves I was able to relax. Silas bouldered while Rio contemplated me as we draped ourselves over a driftwood log.

“Dad,” he said, and the rarity of his using my title rather than the more familiar “Stephie” surprised me. “Dad, is it hard being an adult?”

“Sometimes it is,” I said without hesitation, and then exhaled loudly into the chilly air. “But most often we just make it hard.”

I turned and looked at him, at his beautiful face. “We have expectations about how things are supposed to be, and when they aren’t, we get frustrated or angry and make ourselves unhappy.”

Attachment leads to suffering.

“Do you know what expectations are?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Things that we hope for,” he said.

“That’s right, things we want to happen. We have stories playing in our head all the time about how our lives are supposed to be. When the stories don’t come true we are unhappy. Adults have a lot of expectations and life often doesn’t turn out the way we want. It’s not that it’s always bad. It’s often very good. It’s just that we can never really know what’s going to happen, so we have to let go of our stories. Does that make sense?”

He smiled and nodded. “Why do you ask?” I said.

“You once asked me if it’s hard to be a boy,” he said.

“And is it?”

“No. Not really.”

I pulled him over the log and held him in my arms and we looked for beach glass and he told me all the things that he wanted to be when he grows up. It was agreed that he could be all of them and many, many more. We agreed that I could be all the things I wanted to be too, and many more that I hadn’t thought about yet.

Early summer now, and Rio and I are lying on his bed, reading books. The boys spend about forty percent of their time with Jenn and I; the rest of the time they are with their mom and step-dad Andy. Both boys spend a lot of time talking about their lives at their other home when they are with their respective parents. I hear about Kat and Andy a lot, as I think they hear about Jenn and me a great deal too. Sometimes, however, I grow weary of the list of cool things that Kat, but mostly Andy, do with the boys.

I don’t have anything against Andy. In fact, I really like him. If I could hand pick a step-father for the boys, I’d pick Andy. He's smart, funny, loving, adventurous and practical. He teaches them a lot, and loves them deeply. But I get pretty jealous of the fact that he gets to see them more than I do, and sometimes when I get my four nights with the boys, I don’t feel I need him coming along for the ride, even if its only in the endless parade of stories the boys trot out about how they spend their time.

So I said to Rio, “You know, you told me you like to have adult conversations, so I’m going to tell you sometime in an adult way. When you talk about Andy so much all the time, it makes me a little jealous. I wish that when you and I were together that we could just focus on us, and maybe not talk about Andy all the time.”

Rio looked at me and said, “Well Steph, it’s just that I like Andy better. He’s funny, and he wrestles with me more.”

It wasn’t said to be mean; it was said matter-of-factly.

It felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. I lay back on the bed next to my son and looked at the ceiling. He read his books. People have said some pretty awful things to me, and about me, in my life, but nothing compared to this. Nothing. I felt sick. I felt like I wanted to run away. I felt like weeping.

Suffering is caused by attachment. I am attached to my love for my son. For my children, and for my wife. You never expect to hear that one of them loves someone else more. Especially not your seven year old little man.

I fully expect to hear both my children tell me they hate me. I just through I had until they were teenagers before that happened, and it would be because I had stopped them from drinking all of my beer.

But hearing Rio tell me he liked Andy more brought all my fear to the surface. Since leaving two-and-a-half years ago, I’ve been afraid of loosing my children. I’m not afraid that I won’t ever see them again: I’m afraid that I will slowly be replaced. Rio’s casual statement cut me to the quick.

So I lay there and looked at the ceiling and wondered what to do? Get angry? Yell? Run away? Cry?

I had to take all of that emotion and turn it; I had to take that frustration and anger and most of all, my fear -- that black, oppressive fear -- and turn it into love.

Fear casts a shadow over love, but love can overcome fear.

So I rolled over and grappled with the lanky kid and said, “Andy wrestles more, does he? We’ll see about that!” and I put the little bugger in a half-nelson and pinned him. Well, not really. But we did wrestle.

It was a momentary victory: conquering fear; conquering my habitual angry response to fear.

But my dread didn’t abate. For the next two days I felt angry and upset. Finally, when she was sick of me over reacting to everything, being cantankerous and mean Jenn said to me: “Why don’t we just talk about what this is really all about. It’s about you and Rio.”

We talked it out. A seven year old can’t know how much a simple statement can hurt. He may not even mean it. As Jenn told me, “one day the monster loves broccoli and the next he hates it….” And Jenn reminded me, for the thousandth time, that I am his father, the only one he will ever have.

And then a couple of days later, when I was dropping the boys off with Kat, I mentioned the story and she laughed and said, “Yeah, I think they like Andy better than me most of the time too….”

Its best not to take things too seriously.

Now I think back to a time late last fall when Rio, Silas and I were engaged in a familiar tradition: we visited Ross Bay Cemetery. The leaves at Ross Bay Cemetery are great for jumping in, and the boys love to create huge piles and leap into them. Who doesn’t? The cemetery was little more than an interesting setting for our activities until Rio asked about all the headstones and who was buried beneath them.

“Some people get burnt up!” Silas added to our conversation on burial.

Rio shot him an angry look and then cast his eyes down. Then he started to cry.

“What’s the matter?”

He hooked his arms around me and cried into my chest.

“I don’t want you to leave me,” he said, sobbing.

“I’m not going to leave you,” I said.

“I don’t want you to get burned up. I don’t want you to leave.”

It’s hard to know what to say.

“I love you,” I finally said. “I love you more than all the leaves in the world; I love you more than all the stars in the sky” I said, repeating our familiar refrain. I held him while his tears dried. “Everybody dies someday. We just have to love each other as much as we can while we’re here together.”

I suppose that was enough said, because we built another pile of leaves and jumped up and down in it.

The message of that moment isn’t lost on me now, six months later: love them while they are here. They love you, you fool. Love them and then let them go. You don’t ever forget about them; there isn’t a moment you don’t love them more. You just have to let go.

When Rio was born I dubbed him my little Taoist master. At first he didn’t know it, but slowly he’s coming to understand his role as my teacher, just as I have a role in teaching him. It’s an awesome responsibility, just as it’s an amazing opportunity.

It’s worth considering just exactly where, in terms of seven year cycles the father in this equation is at: at thirty eight, I’ve just entered the sixth stage, or chakra. It’s also known in some circles as “the third eye.” According to most resources I consulted for this entry, this seven-year phase of life is when we might shed off our illusions in time to integrate all of the qualities of each chakra and experience true reality. One online entry reads: "The sixth chakra is the chakra of forgiveness and compassion. Forgiveness is the power to let go of anger, hatred and resentment and to discover, in humility, the nobility and generosity of the Spirit. It is the one that dissolves all our conditionings, ego, habits, false ideas of racialism, and all our misidentifications. It is the narrow gate which opens the way for our consciousness to ascend to its final destination, which is the seventh center.”

It’s not easy. There is no instruction manual. The lessons come hard sometimes, if they come at all. It would be far simpler to just ignore them and watch summer reruns on TV.

Three lessons by a seven-year old. A boy, so early in life, grounding himself, finding his feet and exploring his world. A man, approaching the middle of the journey, but also exploring the true nature of the experience of being human.