I went to New York City yesterday with Maria to meet Robin, my granddaughter, who is less than a week old.

Maria and I spent several hours with her and with my daughter Emma and her husband Jay in their apartment. They were spent and frayed. They’ve done a great job, I hope they feel good about themselves.

Robin is just a few days old, so it’s too soon to make any insightful observations about her or her character, or about our relationship.

We got along well, I introduced myself to her and made up a song or two.  I was a bit self-conscious about singing it, I thought Emma might throw me out of the apartment.

Holding her in my arms seemed the most comfortable and natural thing in the world. I rubbed her feet, as I often do with Maria. I made some gurgled noises which she observed with shock and credulity. Newborns don’t seem much, but are keenly aware of noise and light. Just like me.

I held Robin for a couple of hours, we took this re-constructed family out to lunch.

I continued to hold  her with one arm while I ate with the other. It’s funny, it all came back to me. I loved it then, I love it now.

I used to do that with Emma all the time. I remembered to hold the bottle upright so that the baby wouldn’t take in bubbles or air. I remember to put the cloth under her chin for the inevitable moments when she spit up. I remembered to give her time to swallow so that she wouldn’t gag.

I remembered to keep her head upright and to tap her back lightly so she could burp. I remembered to massage a baby’s small stomach, it calms them.  I even remembered that a new born baby’s smiles aren’t about affection but elimination.

My sense of Robin was one of alertness and calm,  also of considerable curiosity.  She has an especially intense look. I introduced myself, and said I was the strange grandfather who live on a farm with donkeys and sheep. I gave her one of my children’s books, “The Dogs Of Bedlam Farm.”

I smiled, thinking of her reading it one day, perhaps long after I am gone. These were your grandfather’s dogs, somebody might say, this was your grandfather’s farm. Not every kid in the world gets to do that.

We stared at each other back and forth for most of our time together. She slept and was peaceful, although I am told she can be plenty loud.

Robin has a great “who-the-hell-are-you?- and what-the-hell-do-you-want” look?

Maria said I looked very natural holding the baby, and natural is a good word, that’s what I felt. It all felt very peaceful. The earth did not move, I was not blown away, or  transformed by unimaginable love  – neither was she. It won’t be that easy, if it happens at all.

She is, after, all, just a few days old.

Relationships are not announced but created by hard work and commitment.

In the restaurant, some people smiled, most ignored us, including the hostess. I was amused to note that I was annoyed that she didn’t make a fuss over my granddaughter. How rude.

Calming is the word that keeps coming to mind about the visit, a kind of mind-blowing meditation and sense of belonging. And connection, for sure.

I think over time that I  have finally become calm in my interior self,  I am noticing this more and more, and I think Emma needed that, I think that is what was possible for me to contribute: the feeling that they have done well, their child is beautiful and healthy, they have done well together. There are things a father can sense.

I have never really thought of myself as calm, but as someone who lurched from one thing to another, almost continuously. I was definitely something of an outsider in that apartment, but I am understanding the power and beauty of being calm. I could not have been more comfortable, and I think it is true what they say about grandparenting – it’s really about nothing but love,  you are just free to love.

Emma has dear and close friends nearby, her mother is also close by and eager to help, in-laws are flying in from faraway places to visit and help out.

I was happy to be there, also ready to come home. They need time and space and privacy to adjust to their new reality. The goal is to not be needed.

Robin is already a rich addition to my life – everything you love is – but I have a rich life and it needs a lot of tending: – the blog, the animals, the farm, Maria, my photography, my friends and students. This Sunday, Maria and I have a year’s worth of farm chores to do, and we are going to hang my portrait show in the Round House Cafe. Next week the cafe is closed. (Portrait show reception on September 18, 2 to 4 p.m., public is welcome.)

My job as a parent now, I thought, was to be helpful and encouraging. Emma saw that I could be trusted and left me alone with her child. She could take a bit of care of herself.  I look forward to Robin coming to see the farm.

The only suggestion I made to Emma and Jay was to be sure at least once a day to pause and appreciate what they have done, how well they are doing together, and how special this time is, as difficult as it is.

They are so frantic dealing with feeding and caring for their daughter it is perhaps hard to find time for joy and gratitude. There are few peaceful moments. I know, of course, that they will look back on these days as being among the most special of their lives. How can they be expected to see that?

Today, reinforcements arrive, Jay’s parents are descending for a week to help out. Things will start to ease up.

Our visit was interrupted by a pediatric visit – they had to take Robin into Manhattan – and so we parted after a few hours. We expected to stay longer, but I sensed we were not needed on this visit.

Maria and I went to MOMA to look at the exhibits there, got caught in a wicked thunderstorm and got soaked, then walked the 20 or so blocks to the train station. I bought a book of Walker Evans photographs.

We bought some Sushi to take on the ride home. We were very happy to plop down in this soft seats, and surrender ourselves to Amtrak.

The train runs along the Hudson and is a beautiful ride, on the way home we both fell asleep, our heads on each other’s shoulder’s and barely moved for three hours. I thought of how tired Emma was going to be for awhile.

The train ride was a wonderful transition from the chotic world of New York back to Bedlam Farm, the clack-clack of the train weeks is a lyrical and hypnotic background, we shifted slightly side to side, the river, hills and trees flashing past us. We looked out at this gorgeous Hudson River sunset, the departing sun brushing the clouds a deep and beautiful red

The visit was important and meaningful. Robin will all add to my life, I think, not transform it.

It just felt comfortable holding Robin, i was completely at ease and felt a sense of peacefulness and well-being, as this was where the two of us were supposed to be. Maria held Robin also, and had the same feeling of comfort and ease. It was touching to me to see her holding the baby. She is not generally drawn to babies and says she has never really wanted to have children.

She is the most nurturing human I have known.

And then, there was this wicked sense of joy – I can leave, they can’t. It sounds evil, but perhaps just natural.

Does every grandparent think theirs is special in some way? From the messages I receive, I would say yes.

Emma and Jay are quite naturally frazzled in the way parents of newborns are, they are tired, anxious and a bit overwhelmed. They have close and supportive friends and family, they will not be alone.

I gave no advice of any kind – that always seems obnoxious to me – and they did not seek any.

I have no real interest in worrying about how Robin is being raised.  They know what they are doing and they take their responsibilities quite seriously. I am free just to be….

I have no interested in telling them how to raise their kid, and I do not expect to be training to New York regularly to babysit or hang out.

I did feel great affection for this child, if not yet great love.  She does seem connected to me in an emotional but also biological way. I am sorry my generation did not do as much as we hoped to make the earth a better place.

I felt great love and empathy for Emma as she makes this remarkable turn in her life. I feel Robin’s existence has drawn us closer to one another, the parents of children are a community all of their own, parenting is one of the great shared experiences in life to share. We all survive it, I told her, and then some.

On the ride home, I felt sold, good about the visit, happy to get to know Robin as she evolves, proud of my daughter as she steps into her own life. I feel outside of the circle in such times, as if I am different from all of the others, I have never been good at belonging. I am never sure what my place is.

I think some of my initial instincts hold up. Robin is a wonderful thing to have in my life, but my life will not be altered or unrecognizable.

And then there is the geography – she is hundreds of miles away, living a very different life. And I am 69 years older than she is, I am find with where I am in life, but I don’t delude myself about it either. We do not have all the time in the world. She and I will not be hiking in the Adirondacks. If we move quickly, we could make it to Disney World.

My life, for better or worse, is here at Bedlam Farm, where my barn is stuffed with hay, Red lying at my feet,  the shed filled with wood, the dogs tongues hanging after moving the sheep, the pretentious chickens pecking around, the pony waiting to kiss me on the nose, the trees whispering to me, the hills covered in morning mist, the hawks crying out way up in the sky.

Here is where I live with the woman I love, who, unaccountably, is eager to take my hand and hold it as I move into the next chapters of my life.

I am nothing but blessed, a person to love, a home I love, a book to write, pictures to take, a wonderful circle of loving animals around me, good friends and, at long last, something of a community. My life is here, and I accept and embrace it as it comes.