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Run Away Bunny! Parenting Teens as a Spiritual Path
By Elizabeth Lesser and Daniel Rechtschaffen
Web Exclusive

Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away.
So he said to his mother, "I am running away."
"If you run away," said his mother, "I will run after you.
For you are my little bunny."

So begins Margaret Wise Brown's The Runaway Bunny, one of America's most beloved picture books. Since it was first published in 1942, millions of children have identified with the plucky little bunny with big dreams. The bunny and his mother have a firm place in American folktales; they represent the child as the trapeze artist and the mother as the safety net; the child as the flighty bird, the mother as the sheltering tree, keeping him safe from harm.

I read The Runaway Bunny to my sons, who gave it mixed reviews. My older son, who appreciated order from an early age, was relieved to know that the mother would always catch her little bunny, no matter how hard he tried to run away. She would become a fisherman if he became a fish, the wind if he became a sailboat. She would blow him back to port over and over again, no matter how far he ventured from home. Such consistent, dependable love appealed to my firstborn.

My second son marched to a different beat even before he could walk. He didn't like The Runaway Bunny. "Why doesn't the mommy let the bunny do what he wants to do?" He hatched crafty plans to assist the bunny in his dreams of freedom. As I lay in bed next to my son, helping him devise escape routes for the bunny, I knew this kid would be taking me for a ride. But I didn't know what kind of ride the teen years would be; I didn't know what happens to children and parents when the bunnies grow older and actually do run, swim, climb, fly into their own destinies. Parenting, in all of its stages, is a path with mythic twists and turns--a spiritual adventure of the highest order.

I have been on quite a few such adventures in my life: I have been a meditator, a yogi, and a serious student of more religious and psychological systems than should be allowed. At the age of 19, I became a disciple of a meditation teacher; I lived in a spiritual community for ten years; I co-founded the largest holistic health and retreat center in the US; and I wrote a comprehensive book about the spiritual path. My entire adult life, both personal and professional, has been devoted to the spiritual quest. So when I say that parenting has been my greatest teacher, I am comparing that humbling task to my work with world-famous gurus, therapists, and religious clergy.

What's so "spiritual" about being a parent? From being a mother I have learned more about letting go, being in the moment, unconditional love, grace, wisdom, joy, patience, and sacrifice than I ever did from yoga, Buddhist meditation, Sufi dancing, Christian prayer, and psychotherapy combined. Those techniques helped me immeasurably in all aspects of my life, and showed me how to use parenting as spiritual practice. But if I had to choose only one road to enlightenment, it would be parenting.

At each stage of our children's growth, we are given ample opportunities to use parenthood as a mirror that reflects back to us our strengths and weaknesses. We get to see, in the most graphic ways, exactly where we fall short of our highest human potential. Is our particular failing our self-absorption--do we resist putting the needs of others first? Or do we err in the other direction--are we martyrs, guilt-trippers, codependent smotherers? Do we fear change? Are we impatient? Jealous? Comparative? Whatever it is that wants to be transformed within our psyches will reveal itself to us as we parent. If we pay attention, we'll be shown how to grow up even as we help our children grow up. By the time our children reach their teen years, we'll be glad to have practiced the art of spiritual parenting, because that's when the lessons come fast and furious--as if the first 12 years or so of parenting had been mere practice.

When they turned into teenagers, my two birth sons and my stepson began to rewrite the script of The Runaway Bunny in ways unique to their personalities. The way each of them pulled away from home and family may have been different, but what was required of me was the same. After years of perfecting the role of safety net, it was time for me to let them go; to let them fly freely into their own victories and defeats.

My teenagers tested me vigorously. They were wild customers--less experimental and rebellious than some, but more so than many others. They stayed out late, broke rules, lied about their whereabouts, hung out with people who scared me, got into trouble. In their quests to "individuate" (as Carl Jung called the process of liberating one's essential self from the self conditioned by family and culture), my sons went through several classic initiations into adolescent behavior--in other words, sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Only in retrospect can I see with clarity that their experimentation was necessary for them, and that my fumblings with control and leniency, fear and trust, holding on and letting go were all part of the process of being a parent. Now that it's over, I'm beginning to make sense of the spiritual dimension of those years. Of course, the good news and the bad news is that it's never over.

At the beginning of a year off from college, my youngest son--the one who didn't like The Runaway Bunny--came home to live and work and to save money for a six-month adventure in India. During his time at home, Daniel and I had several discussions about our changing relationship. What began as a way for me to come to terms with the fact that my youngest bunny was 21 turned into a fascinating examination of what kids and their parents go through during the long, bumpy transition we call the teen years. As we spoke--and laughed, and shuddered, and sometimes cried (that would be me)--I suggested to Daniel that maybe our conversations would be of interest to other parents and children who were just beginning the difficult process of separation. He was as excited as I was to turn what we had experienced into a document for others. So, as we talked, I began to take notes:

Elizabeth Lesser: Remember The Runaway Bunny? The little bunny wants to climb or sail or run away from home, and the mother's reaction is to always be a few steps ahead of her bunny, saving him with her love. Your reaction to that book was to help the little bunny get away from his mother.

Daniel Rechtschaffen: I used to think the title of that book was Run Away, Bunny! I thought the mother bunny was way too overprotective; that the little bunny was trying to grow up and the mother wouldn't let him. Now that I've sailed away, I understand that book a little differently. It's so hard for both the mother and the kid to make that separation. I understand better now that the mother was just doing what came naturally to her. So was the bunny.

EL: It's so amazing to me to be sitting here in the kitchen, in our usual spots, having a conversation that just a few years ago would have been impossible. In your senior year in high school, you refused to eat dinner at the table. You sat in the same easy chair you're in now; you called it "informal dining," as opposed to "family meals," since the other boys had already gone off to college. You had one foot out the door that year.

DR: That was not a good year for me. I had classic pubescent angst!

EL: What did it feel like to be making that transition? What does "pubescent angst" feel like?

DR: It started when I was about 14, and it felt like I was overcome by a wave of longing and frustration--but I didn't have a mature sense of what I was longing for, so I wanted everything. I didn't know what was frustrating me, so I was angry at everything and everyone, including you. I didn't trust anyone. I didn't have a clue as to what I should do, who I should be friends with, who I was. I wanted to get my own life but I didn't know how to go about doing that. At the same time there was a rush of excitement--like I woke up one day thinking, "Hey! This is my life! I'm in control now." It's a very empowering feeling. But since you haven't yet learned the repercussions of your actions in the world, there is a lot of room for doing really stupid things.

EL: I used to try to talk to you about that very thing--how your freedom was something I wanted to respect, but that it was a dangerous world out there. Talking to you wasn't easy, though. I never knew what was going on in your mind.

DR: Trying to analyze the teenage mind is like trying to understand chaos theory. I remember sitting here in this chair when I was 16 or 17, and you trying to talk to me. I was a swirl of confusion. When you would try to reach out to me, it was filtered through my own interior chaos. I felt so disconnected. I didn't care at all. It's not that I was angry at you personally. In fact, I wasn't even thinking about you. That's an important thing for parents to understand when they're trying to communicate with teenagers: Don't take it all so personally. It's not about you. Teenagers do not spend the same amount of time thinking about their parents as the parents spend thinking about their kids.

EL: That's so true. When I think back to my own years as a teenager, I realize that my concerns were about friends, boys, school, my future. I had all sorts of fears and dreams, but they were no longer connected to my parents. But, lo and behold, when you guys started to separate your lives from mine, it was hard for me not to take it personally. Intellectually I understood what was going on, but it still felt like I was doing something wrong; or maybe something was wrong with you. I felt helpless that we couldn't find common ground anymore, that I couldn't "fix" what ailed you.

DR: If a teenager doesn't want to talk with you, it's not necessarily because there is anything wrong with you as a parent, or him as a person. It's just that in order to become your own person, you have to start solving your own problems, making your own mistakes, cleaning up your own messes. You need some space from your parents in order to do that. It seems that some parents want their teenagers to remain the little kids they used to be. They want to be able to give them a cup of juice and make everything better. There is almost nothing a parent can do to "fix" what ails teenagers. That's the whole point: Your job is no longer about fixing anything. The option for taking the kid back into the womb does not exist. I think parents try to manipulate the kid into wanting to come back into the nest, because then they'd be able to make everything better, or keep controlling things, or remain in power. That's a dangerous thing to do, because there's a big part of the kid that wants to come back in, all the way to the womb. But that would be wrong for everyone. Why can't parents just loosen up and give kids the space they need?

EL: I think two things are going on here. One, the parent is going through her own stuff about her babies growing up, which, in a way, has nothing to do with the situation at hand. And two, it's hard to constantly be walking that fine line between giving a teenager legitimate freedom and letting a teenager do really stupid and unsafe things. Drawing that fine line is the hardest thing for a parent to do. Even though a teenager deserves respect and freedom, don't you think a parent still should guide and protect her teenager? Would you have wanted me to just disappear from the scene, as some of your friends' parents did? It seems to me that those kids whose parents just gave up during the teen years really suffered.

DR: Yeah, I guess it's a difficult call. I do think parents still need to be there for their teenagers, just as they were when the baby was taking his first steps. It seems to me that the parent has been learning about this dilemma all along. You watch your baby take his first steps, you help him with the walking, you let him fall down so he learns--but you stop him from going over the edge of the stairs. I guess this still applies to teenagers, except that the teenager is old enough now to learn from bigger mistakes. I think most kids are more responsible and wise than the parents think. A parent's fear or control can cripple the kid just as much as a parent's bailing out can.

EL: So what would you tell a parent to do if her teenager wants to go to a party where you think there is going to be drinking and drugs? This teenager is 15, he's just beginning to go to parties, it's the end of the school year, and there's a wildness in the air that really scares parents. You've had talks with him before about drinking, driving, drugs. You're aware that he's already experimented, but you're not sure with what. You think you trust that he'll be smart, but you also know that even the smartest kids have died in car crashes on nights like this. Do you set a strict curfew, even if the other kids don't have one? Do you call the home where the party is to be, to make sure a parent will be around? Do you forbid him to get in a car at the end of the party? Do you make him promise to call home a few times during the night? What's too much freedom? What's too little?

DR: I think the only thing to do is to go through the very process you just described. And do it with your kid. Let your kid know you're concerned, but don't freak out. Don't assume the worst all the time. Let him know that you trust him, but don't disappear on the kid as if there's no risk out there. In a strange way, it feels good for a teenager to know that their parents are still there. It's like the kid is leaving the orbit of the home planet, but that doesn't mean the planet should lose its gravitational pull. I didn't want you in my face all the time, but it was good to know that there were people at home who cared. I guess a parent has got to trust herself and her kid and find a balance. Maybe she should call the place where the party is going to be; maybe she shouldn't. Maybe she will and she'll discover the kid shouldn't go to the party and she'll have to deal then with telling her kid he can't go. Maybe that will be a mistake; maybe it will be wise. She has to trust herself but also continue to check in with the kid.

EL: How does a parent "check in" with a kid who doesn't want to talk?

DR: It's a cliche, but I think the best thing to do is to keep the space for communication open, even if that space gets filled with arguments and negativity sometimes. You have to create a space where the kid can say, "You don't ever trust me" or "I feel distant from you, misunderstood" or even "Just leave me alone right now. I need to figure this out myself." If he can just say what's really going on, without being challenged or judged, that will lead to a better relationship. Isn't that what works in all relationships? If you start from the truth, it opens everything up. I remember I once got it together to say what I was really feeling. I said to you, "I feel disconnected from you. I'm sorry, but I just don't want to talk with you." And you said, "Don't worry, I'll wait. We'll feel connected again. It's normal to feel that way." That helped. You weren't telling me that my feelings were wrong, and you weren't trying to fix me or control me. That was much more helpful than when you would be all worried and controlling.

EL: That's a hard thing to do when you're afraid of the mistakes a child might make.

DR: Well, you can be forward about what you think is right and wrong, but don't try to keep kids from making mistakes. They will make mistakes. The parent who never lets a kid make mistakes imprisons him, because without mistakes, we can't grow. You gotta let a kid do things his own way sometimes, even if you know he'll fail.

EL: That reminds me of a story a friend told me. She was trying to get her kids to help her around the house, but she wanted things done her own way. She'd leave these long lists of what to do and exactly how to do them, and then call them from work to make sure the kids were following the instructions. She and her daughter were spending so much time locked in battle about the instructions that the work would never get done. So my friend decided to just start saying things like, "Please make dinner tonight," instead of, "Take the chicken out of the freezer, set the oven at blah blah blah." One night my friend came home from work and there was a terrible smell in the house. Her daughter had taken the chicken out of the freezer and put it in the oven with the plastic wrap still on. Well, no one got hurt, the house didn't burn down, and her daughter learned something in a visceral way--not just about cooking, but also about paying attention, asking for help, using common sense. These are important things to learn, certainly worth one inedible chicken and the lingering smell of burnt plastic.

DR: Yeah, let the child make small bad decisions. How to know which is small and which is big . . . well, I guess that's the parent's problem to figure out! But as hard as it is for the parent, the child has to push the edges. If you let him go out on a limb and you stay connected to him while he's out there, the child won't end up hating you. But if you get all tight and fearful and controlling, then he doesn't learn and he resents you.

EL: That's why a parent has to put her faith in something larger than her own ability to control life. She has to learn to trust the child, but even more than that, she has to learn to trust God, or the universe, or whatever you want to call the greater embrace in which we all rest.

DR: That kind of trust really helps the kid. As a child is leaving home, I think that the stronger the mother can be in herself, the better it is for the kid. The child is wanting to leave, but he needs a strong mother to emotionally support him as he pushes off. This is where it's a spiritual challenge; it's the challenge of everything in life. There is no way to get around the fear of things changing, or the pain of loss. And, in a way, the mother is losing the child. He's not that little child anymore. You don't have the same power and control over him anymore. If the mother is angry or morose, then the child has an extra burden. He'll fall apart if the mother is falling apart over him leaving. There's all this feeling of guilt when you're a teenager. If a parent could actually be happy to see her child growing up, even when it's scary, then the kid would get the message that he's OK.

EL: How do you give this message?

DR: It's not about the mother saying anything. It's about the mother actually respecting that the teenager is no longer a child. Therefore, her role has to change; she has to be OK about letting the old way die, and excited about a new way for both herself and her child. I think it's really important for the mother to be steady in herself. That makes the kid feel much safer as he wobbles away. Then, the unspoken message from the mother will be, "Go ahead, bunny, go out and enjoy the world." It's like replacing tightly held maternal love with a new kind of eternal love. That's what sets the child free.

EL: That's a beautiful way of saying it: moving from maternal to eternal love. This had to be one of the most difficult transitions I ever went through.

DR: The kid is not really aware of the transition the parent is going through. It helped me when you would share with me what you were feeling, instead of laying a guilt or fear trip on me. I remember that it was your real feelings that would stop me in my tracks sometimes.

So, what was it like to have parental angst?

EL: It's not easy to be a good parent; I think being a saint is the next closest job description. And if you start young, as I did, qualities like self-sacrifice and vigilance have to be ground into you. After years of day in, day out, 24/7 on-the-job training, you slowly learn how to do it. And love it. The payback is huge--it feels so good to love selflessly, to be needed, to be able to bring joy and solace to another being.

Unconsciously, I think I counted on being a mommy forever. It came as a blow when I realized that, just like everything else in life, this sweet experience would end too. Suddenly, I was no longer needed to arrange your play-dates, to help you in school, to fix your boo-boos. You used to cry when I left the house; now it seemed you barely noticed if I was around. I still raced home from work to make sure someone was there when "the kids" got home, only to find you sequestered in your rooms, listening to music or talking on the phone. It felt oddly lonely to be the parent of teenagers; I say "oddly" lonely, because there were always people around--noisy, dirty, hungry, funny, wild people. I needed on-the-job training for this new role, but it felt as though things were moving too fast for me to unlearn old habits and learn new skills all at the same time. I turned to you guys for some input, but you were going through changes of your own.

DR: It sounds as if the parents are as confused and emotional as the kids. That would be a great thing to say to a kid. It would create a level playing field, instead of the parent acting as if she knows what is best all the time. If a kid sees a parent admitting that she may have made a wrong decision, and if she even asks the kid what his suggestion might be, that would be a gesture of trust. One of the reasons a teenager strikes out against the parent's assumption of what's right or wrong is because he's just beginning to realize that the parent is flawed; she's not all-knowing. If she doesn't admit this, it just makes the kid lose trust.

EL: That's a good suggestion, but I think it has to be balanced with a parent's willingness to also be the authority figure when that's appropriate. There are still some things that the parent does know better about right and wrong. A lot of parents these days seem to abdicate their authority roles--it's just too demanding of their time and effort to set limits. They want their kids to like them, and they don't want to have to deal with the consequences if their kids break the rules. Sometimes being a good parent is the willingness to be the "bad guy." But our generation of parents is famously self-centered. This is a big problem.

I remember becoming aware of some very selfish feelings within myself when you guys were in the height of your teen years. It was one thing to sacrifice my own freedom and youth for cute little kids who loved me, but now I found myself thinking things like, "Hey, why should I keep this up for someone who doesn't even like me?" And then I'd feel sorry for myself: "I stayed up for nights and nights with teething babies, stood at the bottom of the stairs for hours on end while you learned to climb, sat through interminable Little League games, helped write Social Studies reports, endured sleepover parties, and learned to like rap music, and now you don't even talk to me? That's not fair!" Sometimes I would even feel waves of jealousy. I felt left out of the fun. I wanted to party. Instead, I'd stay home Saturday nights, not because I had nothing to do or because you were around, but because I knew that you might need to be picked up. I began to resent being the parent of a teenager. Sometimes it would have suited me just fine to throw in the towel.

That's where the commitment to spiritual growth really helped. When I quieted myself down, looked at myself honestly, and prayed for guidance, I'd discover surprising things. Like the fact that my jealousy was really grief. I was mourning the end of an era. Then, if I would let myself feel the grief--if I'd cry, or talk it out with a friend--then my emotional sky would clear again, and there would be no question and no complaint about staying home on a Saturday night. I'd realize once again what an excellent path parenting is. The Buddha talked about the "middle way," where you try to walk a balanced path between opposites. So, could I find the middle way between authority and friendship, limits and freedom, being there and letting go? Looking back now on the whole wild experience of being the mother of teenagers, I know that the "middle way" is another term for love. Love is the middle way between everything--unconditional love for whatever experience you are going through.

DR: Maybe the end of the motherhood experience is the birth of love for the world. If you could love one person so well, you can also love yourself and the whole world like that. So a parent shouldn't attach all of what she felt onto that one child, who, ultimately, will leave. She can see it as a gift. She learned how to love in the image of God--the way God loves all of creation. All of the religious books that I've read agree that God gives us the freedom to be who we are, even though He never leaves us. In the biggest sense, we are always protected, always safe. Maybe that's what The Runaway Bunny was really about. Maybe the mother was telling the little bunny that she'd always be there for him, loving him, seeing the best in him, even as he tried and failed and tried again. That even when he left home, he would be connected forever to love.

For more information about children maturing, see the following articles in past issues of Mothering: "Climbing Fairview: The Transformation of Mother and Son in the Wilderness," no. 110; "Seen and Heard: Treating Teens with Respect," no.104; "The Romance of Risk," no. 90; and "Initiating Our Teenage Sons," no. 67.

Elizabeth Lesser is the co-founder of Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, New York, this country's largest holistic education center. She is the author of The Seeker's Guide: Making Your Life a Spiritual Adventure and the forthcoming Broken Open: Stories of Change and Transformation, both from Random House.

Daniel Rechtschaffen will graduate from St. John's College in Santa Fe, New Mexico, in May 2003. He is a writer and a poet who is writing his senior thesis on the work of the psychologist C. G. Jung.