Opinion editor's note: Star Tribune Opinion publishes a mix of national and local commentaries online and in print each day. To contribute, click here.

•••

Planned Parenthood used to offer weekend retreats for mothers and daughters. I attended twice, when my girls were 10 and 11 years old. Skilled facilitators guided us through awkward introductions. We were a wonderful, disparate group creating space together.

Some pairs had arrived by bus, and others by Prius. One mother wore Lululemon, another a hijab. The full day involved discussions, a healthy meal and activities. A nurse spoke to the girls about menstruation and encouraged questions. They were introduced to tampons — watching with wide eyes how they expand in a glass of water. There were exercises that elicited giggles and eye-rolling behind cupped hands — like during the talk on reproductive systems when girls were given tin foil, pipe cleaners and pingpong balls then instructed to make the male (and female) anatomy.

Focus shifted to the adults in an exercise that proved emotional and changed the tenor of the room. We gathered in a center circle on chairs facing each other. Our daughters stood witness in an outer circle. Each watched intently as their mom responded to moderated questions about our upbringing.

Most women admitted that there was little or no talk with their own mothers on the topic of sex. Some of the women shed tears as they shared painful situations when they were young and had no experience. A few did not know about having periods until they started menses. Most felt unprepared when they began dating. All of the women, every one, wished they had said "no" in intimate settings at least once.

These retreats, that started out with shy or moody kids and hopeful moms, evolved into a deeply meaningful day. After a late-afternoon hike that required a blindfold and trust, we returned to the common space refreshed and grateful for each other. A large ball of yarn was tossed into the air. The person who caught it was to wrap it about herself and then toss the ball to another. This went on with smiles and laughter until we had made an intergenerational web. The facilitator made some succinct comments that I no longer remember.

The last act involved each pair cutting a length of the yarn and winding it around our partner's wrist. My younger daughter leaned in, concentrating on this final activity. The maroon piece of rich yarn was circled and knotted as I extended my left arm. She tucked the ends tightly into this mother-daughter bracelet. The date was May 10, 2014. The yarn bracelet became a part of me as our children tend to become a part of us.

At a festive party last year, I met a couple and noticed the man wore a braided bracelet with colorful knots. When I inquired about it, he told me that his son had recently married an Indian woman. Receiving the bracelet from his new daughter-in-law was part of a ritual. His wife teased him about it at the party indicating, "It must come off!"

I started sharing my Planned Parenthood experience, but my yarn had long lost its radiance. I reached for and subconsciously stroked my wrist, not unlike a mother caresses her pregnant belly.

Occasionally I think of this couple and secretly hope the husband kept his on and wears it still.

As for my bracelet — after nine years, eight months and four days the thin gray string dropped off. I thought I might feel an incredible loss, but rather I smile at the memory of my pre-adolescent girls, and the ties that bind.

Jill J. Griffiths, a mother of two and businesswoman from Minneapolis, is currently on contract with the Ordway Center for the Performing Arts.