Farewells

Some of my earliest memories are of walking with my grandmother, Christine, on the beach in New Jersey. One summer she bought me a butterfly net: small wooden handle, a fine white net. But I never chased butterflies. We walked on the flat, empty beach in the early morning, every morning. By the water's edge, I stared into tidepools, scooping up minnows and sand crabs with the net. Now I could see these elusive creatures up close. Hold them in my hand. Release them safely.

That butterfly net? Might well be one of my favorite things ever. It reminds me of many things: each day, in the same tidepools, new adventures await.

Sometimes I dream of my grandmother, and in the dreams, she is alive, and I am aware that the dream is a vivid gift: seeing her again.

When we say goodbye, who will remind my Wild Writers that they are their writing, that their words map and shape their lives? Who will give them permission to just be themselves? I promise you this: meaningful writing never comes from pleasing a teacher or fulfilling the criteria of an assignment.

So consider: If not for butterflies, how will you use your net? What elusive treasures and dreams will you pursue and capture?