FLICKERS CARING FOR THEIR YOUNG
Life has its seasons, each one asking us to loosen our grip on what we know and step into something we can’t yet see. Birth begins with shock; the first breath is like cold air rushing into a room that’s been sealed for centuries. Death, I imagine, will have its own shock, its own threshold. And in between? Every stage, from childhood, adulthood, to old age, requires the same surrender: the leaving behind of what once felt safe.
As a child, I lived under a sheltering roof, the air warm with my parents’ voices, accepting the decisions made for me. I believed the world was steady and that my footing was firm. Then came adulthood, and the ground tilted. Could I love, and would it last? Could the lessons of my youth carry me through a world that wasn’t always kind? I didn’t know. I feared work, having never tested myself in it, and longed for the security of home. Motherhood felt familiar, natural. When my children came, I filled my days and heart with them. I wore the title of “supermom” like a crown.
But crowns are heavy. Somewhere between school lunches and bedtime stories, a part of me slipped quietly away. Years later, I tried to reclaim “me” by returning to school, earning an advanced degree, and stepping into the workforce. It was thrilling, but also stung; each new accomplishment reminded me of moments I was missing with my children at home. Yet when they finally left for good, the silence was its own kind of grief.
After raising five children, my feet no longer fit the old shoes. I stepped into a new pair, sturdy ones built for long days in a demanding job. I poured myself into my career with the same devotion I’d once given my family. The years between forty and seventy flew past in a blur of deadlines and challenges. Work gave me purpose, identity, and a community I couldn’t imagine leaving.
When that season ended, I feared vanishing, becoming a ghost in my neighborhood, a name no one remembered. Who was I without the role that had defined me? Would my body hold out? Would my mind crumble?
I waded carefully into new waters, trying this, testing that, until finding my rhythm again. Now, in my eighties, my days are full of writing, exercising, volunteering, and the noisy, beautiful chaos of an extended family. I know my horizon is close, yet I don’t mind. There’s no unfinished list, and no lingering regret.
But there is one ache I cannot put down: my grief for the world my grandchildren will inherit. The forests, oceans, quiet places, healthcare, and civility that shaped my childhood are fading, undone by short-sighted greed. That loss is the stone I will carry in my pocket until my death.
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To enrich my children’s lives, I founded Imrpression 5 Science Museum in Lansing Michigan. From there I moved to Portland, where I directed the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry, and eventually had my own company that published the Museum Tour catalog, selling hands-on educational toys. Lives of Museum Junkies tells how the twelve hands-off science museums in existence when I started turned into thousands by the time I retired.
It provides a fascinating behind-the-scenes look at how a group of museum directors transformed the educational landscape. Available on Amazon in paperback and ebook formats. AMAZON
https://www.eichingerfineart.com/blog/202395/the-shoes-we-grow-into
The Shoes We Grow Into
Life asks us to keep walking.
Every step forward costs something.
The first breath burns.
The last will be silent.
In between, we shed one skin after another—sometimes willingly, sometimes torn away.
As a child, I lived under a roof that never leaked,
with hands that fed me,
voices that decided for me.
The world felt steady then.
I believed it would always be so.
Adulthood tipped the ground.
Could I love, and would it last?
Could I work, and would I fail?
I didn’t know.
I chose the familiar—motherhood.
I poured myself into it, crown and all.
But crowns grow heavy.
Somewhere, a part of me slipped away.
Years later I went looking for her—
through lectures and degrees,
through office doors and deadlines.
Each victory carried the weight of what I had missed.
When my children left,
the silence ached in my bones.
I found new shoes—sturdy ones—
and worked until the days blurred,
until my identity fit neatly on a business card.
And then even that chapter closed.
I feared disappearing—
becoming a shadow in my own neighborhood,
someone whose name was already fading.
So I tried the water, toe by toe.
A little here.
A little there.
Until one day I was swimming.
Now, in my eighties,
I write.
I volunteer.
I live inside a wide, warm family.
The horizon is close,
but I have no list to finish,
no regret to mend.
Only one ache remains—
for my grandchildren,
and the world they will inherit.
The one I knew—green, whole, breathing—
is slipping away,
undone by hands that could not imagine beyond their own lifetimes.
That is the stone I carry.
It will be in my pocket
when I go.
___________
The Stone in My Pocket
I carry a stone.
It’s small enough to hide in my hand,
heavy enough that I never forget it’s there.
Some days I barely feel the weight.
Other days it pulls at me,
slowing my step.
Life is a walk we’re never quite ready for.
The first breath burns.
The last will be silent.
In between, we shed one skin after another—sometimes willingly, sometimes torn away.
As a child, I lived under a roof that never leaked,
with hands that fed me,
voices that decided for me.
The world felt steady then.
I believed it would always be so.
Adulthood tipped the ground.
Could I love, and would it last?
Could I work, and would I fail?
I didn’t know.
I chose the familiar—motherhood.
I poured myself into it, crown and all.
But crowns grow heavy.
Somewhere, a part of me slipped away.
Years later I went looking for her—
through lectures and degrees,
through office doors and deadlines.
Each victory carried the weight of what I had missed.
When my children left,
the silence ached in my bones.
I found new shoes—sturdy ones—
and worked until the days blurred,
until my identity fit neatly on a business card.
And then even that chapter closed.
I feared disappearing—
becoming a shadow in my own neighborhood,
someone whose name was already fading.
So I tried the water, toe by toe.
A little here.
A little there.
Until one day I was swimming.
Now, in my eighties,
I write.
I volunteer.
I live inside a wide, warm family.
The horizon is close,
but I have no list to finish,
no regret to mend.
Only the stone remains—
for my grandchildren,
and the world they will inherit.
The one I knew—green, whole, breathing—
is slipping away,
undone by hands that could not imagine beyond their own lifetimes.
That is the stone in my pocket.
It will be there
when I go.
________
The Stone in My Pocket
I carry a stone.
Small enough to hide in my hand.
Heavy enough to feel every day.
Life keeps asking us to let go of what we know—
to step into shoes we didn’t expect to wear.
I’ve worn the shoes of a child,
a mother,
a professional,
and now, in my eighties,
those of a writer and volunteer.
I’ve put down most burdens.
No regrets.
No bucket list.
Only one weight remains—
my grief for the world my grandchildren will inherit.
The one I knew—green, whole, breathing—
is slipping away.
That is the stone in my pocket.
And it will be there
when I go.
_____________________-
The Stone in My Pocket
I carry a stone.
Small enough to hide in my hand.
Heavy enough to feel every day.
Life keeps asking us to let go of what we know—
to step into shoes we didn’t expect to wear.
I’ve worn the shoes of a child,
a mother,
a professional,
and now, in my eighties,
those of a writer and volunteer.
I’ve put down most burdens.
No regrets.
No bucket list.
Only one weight remains—
my grief for the world my grandchildren will inherit.
The one I knew—green, whole, breathing—
is slipping away.
That is the stone in my pocket.
And it will be there
when I go.
