Impermanence

If a blog is abandoned for four months, does it cease to have relevance? Probably. But my heart does not need the words any less - it's likely a sign of chaos and tumult and an absence of balance. I have needed to write here so many times but the water rose too high and treading was the only way to keep my head above.

I turn forty in just a few short months and I find myself oddly at home in the number. Hopeful, even. I think it has the potential to be a decade of growth, risk, change, and beauty. I hope to learn more about who I am and return to the things I already knew when I was younger. I hope to be more genuine and firmly rooted in my thoughts and heart. I hope to speak up more courageously when the situation requires and to dig deeper into who I am, who I want to be, and what I want to do with this galloping time I am allotted.

My mind and my body don't feel diminished with the passage of time, if anything they feel more expansive. I don't find lived experience has made me less valuable and I don't struggle with any kind of panic at the slow ticking away of days. I find comfort in the routine, in knowing the maintenance of this body, and in loving those around me as deeply as possible.

The other day, Anya grabbed my face in her hands and squeezed my cheeks tightly. Looking into my eyes, she said, "Mommy, when you die, will you remember me?" I said, "Of course I'll remember you! Why are you thinking about that?" With a sad expression, she responded, "It will be such a long time before I see you again. I don't want you to forget me." It was astonishing that this little person had this depth of feeling and these big, sorrowful thoughts.

One gift of the passage of time is a recognition that all things have beginnings and all things have endings. When we adopted the new dogs, I recognized immediately that our shared time would be brief. I look at them in their puppyhood and acknowledge our temporary occupation of the same time and space. I feel joy and a depth of love I did with our first animals, but it is tempered by an understanding that grief is the only possible escape from the entanglement.

And yet, I don't fear loving them. When I love them, it is simply painted in a slight hue of grief. And unlike when I was younger, I am aware that each day has meaning and that forever is not guaranteed. It is a gift to recognize that all things end; it makes you savor the moments you do have and it does change the experience of loving. It is difficult to love as innocently, but easy to love as deeply. And, perhaps, because of the knowledge it is temporary, it is even more of a commitment.

To love without the knowledge that it could end is easy. To love knowing that everything deteriorates is a true act of courage and requires depth, commitment, and vulnerability. Loving becomes a bit more work as you age. And perhaps, because of this, its value also increases. I hope, despite the passage of time, it is a thing I will always choose. I hope I work to stay hopeful, passionate, kind, and adventurous.

It will be worth it, I think, to do this all boldly. I can't risk missing out on a single sweet and fleeting moment of beauty with so many humans I love so, so much.