To the parent of a child entering college: The most beautiful words ever written just for you

My daughter, my eldest child, is leaving the nest. Boxes of her clothes, dorm supplies and toiletries line the hallway to the front door that she had first entered a little over 18 years ago; eight pounds and eight ounces of baby wrapped in a lamb-speckled blanket, topped off with a hospital-issue knit cap. My girl.

Except my girl is a young woman, and the young woman is leaving home as everything I could ever want her to be:  Intelligent, funny, motivated, resourceful. When it comes to the business of life she's got laser focus (she earned 27 college credits through her AP high school courses - and the University she's attending has accepted all of them). When it comes to the lighter side of life she lives it heartily, zestfully, with the joyous abandon that creates life-enhancing experiences.

So I'm really not worried about her adjusting to college life, problem-solving during tough times, or being accountable for the mistakes she will undoubtedly make. I feel as confident as a parent possibly can that she is going to be ok.

What's tough right now is dealing with how much I'm going to miss my daughter. Sure, there were a few months this year - especially while we were waiting for responses from the schools to which she had applied - that her stress levels caused me to make all kinds of declarations about how she was definitely ready for college - in fact she needed to get out, get some perspective, develop some respect for me and my husband.

But the fact is, I'm going to miss speaking to her in person every day. I'm going to miss her stories, our jokes, our shared observations about people and life. I'm going to miss her whirling dervish entrances and exits - even the fact that she's always leaving mounds of clothing, splashes of water, wispy piles of make-up caked tissues, half-filled coffee cups, and all kinds of wrappers in her wake.

So I mentioned very briefly, on facebook, how separating is "tough stuff," and I added a "sniffle" for  emphasis. And what I received in return were some of the most beautiful words I have ever read on the topic of a child leaving the nest from my friend Stephan Anstey, who has two kids in college. He wrote:

"Oh yes. It most surely is [tough]. But .. it is life. It is love. It is hope. And hope full. it is a thing without measure in the beauty of it. It is a moment to treasure as this creature you created becomes this being they choose to be. Cry my friend, cry but do not weep, but for the joy of seeing such a great good miracle unfold before your eyes. Remember the moment you heard the heartbeat and wondered who this might be? THIS is who. This is the why and how and the awe of it. For years, you have been the mother of a child, and now you can see that you are the mother of something so much more than you imagined that could mean. It is so hard, but it isn't hard at all. It is all of your greatest hopes realized. This is all of the best of you exploding into the world like magic fire blazing across your sky. 

"So ... cry, because you should, but let the tears be joyful and your heart be light. That dream you dreamed so long ago, the best dream of your whole life, it was no dream at all, but this moment, this beautiful moment foretold in your heart." 

I have read and reread these words, and have wept (with joy and hope and gratitude) and wept. For though I have on some level understood that everything that's happening right now is unfolding exactly as I had hoped it would it in the proverbial circle of life, I had not understood any of the nuances of my feelings. Stephan had teased out the emotions in all of their brilliance.

I can't thank him enough except to share his words with others, and to say go check out his website www.Anstey.org and get to know him and his excellent writing better. Plus he's on facebook and he tweets and all that good stuff.

Thank you, Stephan!