“Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly flow the days
Seedlings turn overnight to sunflowers
Blossoming even as we gaze.”— from the song Sunrise, Sunset from Fiddler on the Roof
In the literary world, people talk about POV—point of view. Who is telling the story? Through whose eyes are we seeing the events unfold? I don’t think the idea of POV is limited to books and movies, though. After all, each of our lives is one (hopefully) long story, and we don’t always have the same POV from beginning to end.
As a child, I saw the world through my own eyes. I thought mostly about myself, what I was feeling. I worried about how people saw me, what they thought of me, whether they liked me, whether I fit in. When I left home at eighteen to go to college, I was wrapped up in myself and what I was doing. Studying, making friends, navigating being a pseudo-adult. In fact, I have very few memories of what was going on during those years at home with my brother and parents or how their lives changed with me being gone. I mean, I knew they missed me. I missed them too. But I didn’t really know what that felt like for them. I didn’t understand. I couldn’t. Not yet.
The years passed. I got older, graduated college, started working, and lived in an apartment, by myself. I learned to be an adult, a functioning member of society. I met a wonderful man, and we got married. We quit our jobs and went to law school together. We graduated, bought a house, and started working as lawyers. A short time later, we had our first child. And that’s when it happened. My POV shifted.
My life wasn’t about me anymore. It was about her. Our little girl (and, eventually, her two younger sisters). It was about figuring out why she was crying and calming her down. It was about feeding her and making sure she was healthy and growing. It was about teaching her to pee in the potty and read and look both ways before she crossed the street. It was about helping her realize that she is beautiful and strong and worthy and capable of accomplishing anything. It was about teaching her how to make good decisions so she can have a full, joyful life.
This summer, as we prepared for the big day when we would move her out of our house and into her dorm room, I felt things shift again. I found myself thinking about my parents more, about how they must have felt saying goodbye to their daughter thirty-one years ago. The nostalgia, the fear, the excitement. The pride. The joy. The love. Now, perhaps for the first time, I could understand, because I felt it. I was experiencing it from their point of view. Now I knew.
Maybe that’s what growing older is about—experiencing the same things, but from a different perspective. Maybe that’s how we learn and grow, how we gain wisdom. And maybe that’s what’s giving me comfort now, the fact that I know I didn’t outgrow my parents when I went to college. Yes, I may have been focused on myself and what I had to do, and I may not have talked to them every day anymore, but I never stopped thinking about them or needing them. And I never forgot the numerous lessons they taught me. I used those lessons to make my own decisions, and eventually I passed them on to all three of my daughters. I carry them with me still, which tells me maybe my girls will, too.
Sunrise, sunset
Sunrise, sunset
Swiftly fly the years
One season following another
Laden with happiness and tears
I don’t know how I got here so quickly, how I’m now standing in my parents’ shoes, watching my baby girl go off into the world. But it fills me with a bittersweet joy because I know it’s where I’m supposed to be, and she is doing exactly what she is supposed to do—growing up.
- Kathryn Amurra