Life changes so fast. Just when I get used to things being a certain way, everything rearranges. I’d like to think this is always for the good. Always. For the good. It’s absolutely terrifying to live this way. To think that bands break apart and marriages break up and children break off into the big bad world–and it’s all for the greater good. To think that everyone is going to die and somehow, we need to accept this if we want to delve deeper.
I feel pain. Not just my own, but yours. You feel my pain, too, don’t you?
I hear horrible stories about children drowning and men taking their own life and I feel the residual pain on a very physical level. My heart moving upward. Grief squeezing the hope out of me. None of it is okay. The tragedy never disappears. It follows people everywhere. It follows their children. It stops them from living.
What if our pain is perfect as it is? What if there is a purpose behind it? I have a hard time finding purpose in a murder, for example, but maybe that’s part of it. We are mere mortals. We cannot begin to wrap our heads around good and evil, though maybe we can untangle the two if we never give up. Maybe that’s what pain is, at its core. An untangling of truth and lies. A separation. A deconstruction.
Who are we and what do we want and why do we always want more when we finally get what we want?
Of all my failures, it might be my hunger for more that hits the hardest, digs the deepest. Instead of focusing on being happy with everything I have, I tend to believe that I’ll be happier once I have this or I’ve done that. I know this is flawed, and I know why it is flawed and I have been working hard to release this belief. There will always be something else, some reason why now is less than perfect.
Instead of congratulating myself for writing for 20 minutes, I usually feel defeated. Only 20 minutes before I picked up my phone or the baby woke up or I had to pick my daughter up from school. 20 minutes doesn’t get you very far down a page.
But it gets you somewhere. And before you know it, you’ve written a book. And your baby is now a kid and your house with a sprawling yard is now a flat on an urban block and your exercise routine looks different. So do the trees. So does your hair.
You wonder how long it will be until you understand that now only happens now and it is absolutely perfect. Even the fat salty tears are perfectly formulated to smooth out the rough edges of pain.
I loved school as a kid. Especially September. New classmates, new classroom, new teacher, new routine. But by the time spring rolled around, I was over it. Bored, mostly. Ready for the next thing. Then, summer would come and go and finally it occurred to me that I missed the energy of my old class. Something so familiar and boring, gone forever. Last year when I intuited that we would not live in our Seattle house much longer, weeks before we actually had plans to move, I walked the perimeter of the yard. I tried to memorize it.
Soon this time in our lives will be reduced to a memory. We think we have the good stuff memorized, but eventually, we will forget most of it. I cope with the passage of time, the temporary nature of existence, with my words and my camera.
That bald little head. Her bouncing curly head. Tiny round teeth. Precocious eyebrows. Squeals. Squeaks. Giggles. Deep questions. Baby babbling. Kid-isms. Snuggles. The baby’s breath. A hungry little mouth. Those voices. The word “mama” and “mommy” and “daddy.” My hair and skin still relatively thick with youth. My twenties, my husband’s thirties, both of which are nearly over. My life as a fresh transplant in one of the most beautiful cities on the planet. The stories untold. The possibilities.
I cope with challenges by remembering they are temporary.
The sleepless nights. The query letters. The rejections. The exhaustion. The messes. The laundry. The temper tantrums. The screaming. The uncertainties. The travel. The loneliness. The tedium. The waiting.
My sister won’t always live on the other side of the planet (RIGHT?!). I won’t always be the new kid in my city. My children won’t always want me 24 hours per day. We won’t always have to prove ourselves.
But maybe the proving could be just as enjoyable as being proven.
Happiness, not in another place but this place…not for another hour, but this hour.
– Walt Whitman