You've always known how to hold the small things.

Little frogs in the rain, butterflies on your finger, the faintest of seeds - spinach, arugula, zinnias - they always seemed to fit differently in your hands, as if the creases and folds in your skin sent a message:

You're safe with me.

We'd buy those early flocks of pullets, those tiny chickens that seemed like whispers with feathers, and your hands just knew:

How to be tender.

How to hold the softness.

We first started raising hens because of you and your brother. Same's true with our garden. We wanted to build a family where you had dirt under your nails, vegetables you could name, grow and pick, a familiarity with blood and bones, eggs and flowers.

You were small, so we began small.

That first flock? The hatchery mailed them. The phone rang at zero dark thirty. Post office calling. We've got a package here for you. And it's chirping.

The birds were so tiny; postcards weighed more. We've repeated this over the years - a new flock each spring - and these creatures always seem drawn to you, as if they sense something not always seen by human eyes.

Think of all the animals you've loved.

And have loved you.

The guinea pig sisters, Lady Gaga and Queen Latifah. That black rabbit, Bunnicula.

That big white dog that just rando-wandered up out of the woods one day, tail wagging. He needed a home, and boy, he found one.

You named him Fang, from Harry Potter. I watched your five-year-old mind spinning, as if somehow your secret daydreams really could turn true. Animals just appear out of the woods? As pets?

Will a pony come tomorrow? An elephant? Puppies?

Years later, after months of campaigning - in the car, at dinner, your Christmas list - we finally said yes: baby goats. (Really, you had me at "please, Dad.")

We got Lulu and Rosie when they were babies; you woke up with the sun to bottle feed them.  

They were the luckiest goats on God's earth.

Because they had you.

I wish there was some spiritual gauge or meter that could register the atmospherics or energy emanating from you. You walk into the room - or barn, classroom, forest - and the air changes. It settles. It exhales. I can't see it ... but I can see it.

You are tuned to a different frequency, your heart drawn to rare and quiet places. Standing in the Friday night football bleachers, you crane your head up to watch the stars above rather than the game below. I've found you sitting out alone near the pines, listening to some wordless language few of us can access.

This is why you understand tenderness.

Because you know where the tender things are.

There is, of course, a price to pay. A ticket required for admission.

With tenderness comes vulnerability.

There are - as you know, as you've seen - wolves in the world who are rough, coarse and unfeeling, whose hands are neither tender nor safe.

So, not everything deserves a tender response. The most mature tenderness includes boundaries. Flex, my daughter, sometimes and often.

(And avoid ... nice. Nice is not tender; nice is code for a rubbery bonelessness, a push-over existence, often poison in the water of Southern culture, especially for girls and women.) 

Be tender and firm, not nice. Be intuitive, grounded and street-smart, not nice. Take up good space in the room.

Practice a middle-finger, closed-fist energy with your internal soundtrack dialed into, say, Joan Jett.

"Who is Joan Jett?" you said.

"Imagine Olivia Rodrigo's grandmother," I replied.

You've lived this, rising up - again (and again) - from the stings of the world with your feet planted in a chamber of your heart that is eternally tough.  

I know, I know, we've said this a thousand times. Forgive me for a thousand and one.

But, yesterday, we dropped you off at college for your freshman year.

We said goodbye, the rearview mirror hard to see through tears, one question growing with every mile we drove in the opposite direction:

Yes, you know how to hold the world.

But what will hold you?

You're too good for melodrama; we respect you too much to turn sentimental here. Plus, our heartstrings are already a tad twangy.

Yeah, you and I are tight. Pretty damn tight.

But holding too tightly is not love at all. Grasping and suffocation are among the worst injuries.

You are kickass, so, go kick ass. You're planning to study environmental science and writing which, to me, is about as lovely a plan as ever.

We are proud of you in ways you cannot even fathom.

Hands that once held you ...

... are now letting go.

And - listen closely - that's how it should be.

There may be tears, but only one eye is crying out of sadness. The other? It's all joy, kiddo. Joy and a heart-like-a-bass-drum that wants to shout from the highest rooftop: this is our daughter, and she is marvelous and magnificent in a million-billion ways.

So, since you're going to become a writer, why don't you step onto the stage here? Make your Food as a Verb debut, and tell us:

Where does your tenderness come from?

In the midst of a world thick with both wolves and tenderness, what holds ... you ... together?

Dad,

You know how I always crave wanting to know. How uncertainty is unsettling to me, how doubts can feel loud, how not knowing is so uncomfortable.

As I transition to college, I'm entering a period where I don't know much. I don't know my career, my friends, my professors, my new home: all unsettling.

You asked what holds me together?

It's a different type of knowing.

A knowing that only comes from my heart, a knowing that can't be seen or measured.

This knowing is found in the animals I've held, the people I love, the mountaintop views I've seen and the quiet faith I have.

You know how the world wants our schedules to be. How it wants us to go from one event, one item on our to-do list, one meeting to the next, all ignoring the compassionate senses of knowing.

You also know how difficult it can be for me to resist this world.

How I so often find myself with a to-do list in hand and tears down my cheek.

My heart is made for a different type of world.

For a world that spends more time outside than in math class, a world that craves knowledge that can help other living creatures, a world that prioritizes time spent just gently observing.

You described perfectly my love of the natural world and my longing to be in quiet connection with it. How I gravitate towards caring for others and am naturally included to love first.

But what I've only recently come to put words to?

How in holding other creatures, my heart is cared for, too.

Even without noticing it, every time I hold another creature, my soul is filled up.

Every time I sit quietly in nature, my internal well is filled.

Every time I just breathe in fresh air, I am replenished.

This peace grounds me in my deep ways of knowing, not from textbooks or a classroom, but from within.

When faced with change and challenges, I return to this self.

I feel most real when I connect with the natural world around me. My problems and worries don't necessarily feel insignificant, but, instead, feel less pressing. I allow myself to see rich and deep parts of life, and in turn, feed the rich and deep parts of myself.

What I've learned from the creatures and people I've loved is simple.

When you hold something else, it ends up holding you, too.

Story ideas, questions, feedback? Interested in partnering with us? Email: david@foodasaverb.com

This story is 100% human generated; no AI chatbot was used in the creation of this content. All iphone-Dad photos are David's; the beautiful ones come from Sarah.

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