My little girl starts her second year of pre-school tomorrow. I know I am not alone in the feelings I am experiencing tonight. I would imagine every mother the world over has been feeling more or less what I’ve been feeling.  A combination of elation, sadness, anxiety – – that oh, so special “back to school” pit in your stomach feeling that hits me every year even though I am no longer a student.

As I lay in her bed next to her talking her through what tomorrow will bring, listening to her fears I thought of my other family members who are students too. Tess starting her freshman year of college, sweet little Khali braving her first year of kindergarten, Parker battling the halls of high school, Brynn mustering all her courage to face another semester and Bette trying to look feminine on a film set (because a certain person has laid down a challenge) I also thought of my brother Ian who has also gone back to school this fall after being a professional for the past four years.

Ian and I spoke on the phone tonight. I listened as things just bubbled out of him; his strategies for dealing with all the darkness that film school entails – watching the R rated films, how to deal with his wacky directing teacher, which computer to buy, how to get into his studying rhythm and so forth. Ultimately what I sensed was him grappling with how to be himself, a conservative, Mormon film-maker in a liberal arts school.

I remember that feeling very well. Trying to remain pure in very muddy waters. Trying to be brave, to be a witness to the good that is within you. Trying to stand up for what you believe.

Millie only faces pre-school, but she too must find a way to be who she is – and to shine forth – as she gets bumped and buffeted by the big bad world.

We all face this: The challenge to be true, authentic, to let the world see who we are.

I was looking through the pictures I took of my girls today and was reminded of one of my favorite pieces of writing. It has a special place in my heart because I adapted it for my drama school audition. It is from Annie Dillard’s,  An American Childhood. (I have edited it down a bit for the sake of this post).

It is an account of Annie walking home from school as a little girl. (The little girl in the photos Millie – thought I ‘d let you know seeing as she is “in disguise”, wink, wink.)

I was running down the Penn Avenue sidewalk, revving up for an act of faith. I was conscious and self-conscious. I knew well that people could not fly–as well as anyone knows it–but I also knew the kicker: that, as the books put it, with faith all things are possible.

Just once I wanted a task that required all the joy I had.

There were boxy yellow thirties apartment buildings on those Penn Avenue blocks, and the Evergreen Café, and Miss Frick’s house set back behind a wrought-iron fence. There were some side yards of big houses, some side yards of little houses, some streetcar stops, and a drugstore…

I ran the sidewalk full tilt. I waved my arms ever higher and faster; blood balled in my fingertips. I knew I was foolish. I knew I was too old really to believe in this as a child would, out of ignorance; instead I was experimenting as a scientist would, testing both the thing itself and the limits of my own courage in trying it miserably self-conscious in full view of the whole world. You can’t test courage cautiously, so I ran hard and waved my arms hard, happy.

Up ahead I saw a business-suited pedestrian. He was coming stiffly toward me down the walk. Who could ever forget this first test, this stranger, this thin young man appalled? I banished the temptation to straighten up and walk right. He flattened himself against a brick wall as I passed flailing–although I had left him plenty of room. He had refused to meet my exultant eye. He looked away, evidently embarrassed. How surprisingly easy it was to ignore him! What I was letting rip, in fact, was my willingness to look foolish, in his eyes and in my own. Having chosen this foolishness, I was a free being. How could the world ever stop me, how could I betray myself, if I was not afraid?

I was flying. My shoulders loosened, my stride opened, my heart banged the base of my throat. I crossed Carnegie and ran up the block waving my arms. I crossed Lexington and ran up the block waving my arms.

What’s a heart for?

I crossed Homewood and ran up the block. The joy multiplied as I ran–I ran never actually quite leaving the ground–and multiplied still as I felt my stride begin to fumble and my knees begin to quiver and stall. The joy multiplied even as I slowed bumping to a walk. I was all but splitting, all but shooting sparks. Blood coursed free inside my lungs and bones, a light-shot stream like air. I couldn’t feel the pavement at all.

I was too aware to do this, and had done it anyway. What could touch me now? For what were the people on Penn Avenue to me, or what was I to myself, really, but a witness to any boldness I could muster, or any cowardice if it came to that,

I wasn’t going to give up on heaven for the sake of dignity on earth.

I had not seen a great deal accomplished in the name of dignity, ever.

GO FOR IT! SHINE ON! F L Y!

You can do it!