When he was two my son napped in the wood canoe cradled within the cedar ribs and the slosh of lake to lake. Now he is 32 and takes up the stern as we paddle some Mississippi backwaters at twilight. There is the usual changing of the guard from swallows and herons to bats and fireflies. We ply our paddles through lotus lily pads holding water droplets cupping the last glimmer of the Western sky. A glimmer preserved offering a crystal ball to gaze into seeing where this son has taken me and where we might be going.
Under this spell I realized that instead of feeling the satisfaction of stretching this Summer day out from dawn to dusk with my son I was trying not to believe that I had taken a wrong turn in this labyrinth of backwaters. This was like when I learned that my son was on his way all those years ago and I felt the tightening chest of being lost. My voice stuck trying to argue, “This isn’t the way this was supposed to be.”
Not being the way it was supposed to be is indeed the origins of this father-son: Unplanned. Unexpected. Not to be denied. This is the swelling tide that launched our tandem canoe into this labyrinth. In that moment of feeling turned around, needing to admit to being lost, uncertain, I still feel the regret whimpering, “Why me?” “How could I have made a wrong turn?” “We already paddled this way once now we have to cover these same miles again...in the dark!” “I’m tired I worked all day. I should be home by now.”
It was in this rerun of our story that the Mayflies began hatching! Out of Mississippi muddy bottoms they hatch by the guzzillions all within 24 hours to fly with such urgency, such appreciation for the moment, lay more eggs then die. We paddled through a blizzard of frantic wing beat grazing, tickling, thunking against our faces. The shear thickness of these hatch halos pummeled our regret into giddy jubilation. And so the reminders keep coming: Out of frustration that this isn’t the way we planned our lives to be, we find ourselves once again in the thick of it: lost, bewildered and amazed. Out of mud we swell from the hatch into the sultry night, fish jumping, fireflies flitting; Born!