Embrace

I recently returned from a trip to Seattle to see my dearest aunt and family. It was an interesting reflection on my journey over the last several years. The last time I visited was 3 years ago and I was absolutely drowning in the aftermath of Covid, King Soopers, and the Marshall Fire. I was drinking alcohol to cope and sleeping absolutely horrifically as a result. I was in the middle of the little kid years and feeling absolutely abandoned by everyone except Tim and my aunt. I was desperate, fragile, and breaking (though I don't think I realized it in the moment). While the 2021 trip was a necessary break, I was reeling in anxiety and mentally unwell. 

This trip was filled with long walks, views of the water, and quality time spent with people I love. I drank moderately and in celebration with others (never to numb myself). There were distinct moments where I had flashes of who Tim and I were before we began this parenthood journey. I am creative, curious, and present in the world. I am kind and love being around others. I love being a mother (the most), but there is also still an individual beneath this decade of parenting and she is someone I think I really, really like.

It cannot be understated how much my aunt has carried me through these years and I hate to think who I might be, how dark I might have become, if not for her reassurance, her gentle wisdom, and her stalwart support. I felt so loved sitting in their living room, my uncle nonchalantly warming my cup before pouring my coffee while my aunt and I waxed poetic about any and everything. There is both deep, cutting humor in our relationship and an innate understanding of our souls on the molecular level. It is one of the safest, most loving relationships I have had the privilege of knowing in my life and with this depth of love comes the crippling knowledge that, should I ever be here without her, it will absolutely fracture me (but I know--thanks to her--that even the worst fractures heal and that grief is but an inevitable consequence of life and love and beauty).

I look at the other parents (and mothers, specifically) around me and realize how ungodly lucky I am. Middle age is wrought with missteps, uncertainties, anxieties, and infinite unknowing. It is a crippling time of life where one is both reckoning with their family of origin and the difficulties of raising children in a complex and isolating society. Though my generation is thought to be grown up and adult, it strikes me that most of us are just frightened, large children. We are struggling. And, for most, I don't think there is a safe place to land.

My aunt has created a world in which all of my landings are soft. She connects me to the matriarchs who have come before and, especially, my grandmother. She reminds me that my life is inextricably linked to all the brave, courageous, and incredible humans who have come before. She holds an inextinguishable light, a soft gentle flame that welcomes me to her doorway, regardless of the condition in which I arrive. 

Disconnect

Are you okay? 

I am intermittently laid out by the intensity of being a human being in these days.

I have a high suspicion we will find that cell phones slowly dismantled community, decency, and an individual sense of self worth. I suspect we will find this version of technology has taken more from us than it gave. I think, already, we find ourselves lonelier and more isolated than any generation before us. As I type now, I sit in a room of adults, each at their own table with their own device, utterly ignoring one another and scrolling from one thing to the next with eyes crossed. It is not the way we were meant to live. It is disorienting. It is isolating. It is addictive. And I think it robs us of precious moments of connection with strangers who would have been friends, with our children, and with our spouses.

It is so easy to stare at a screen; it is much more difficult to truly connect, express curiosity, and show up for the people we most love. Living is brutal. It is full of risk and grief and failure and disappointment and gut-wrenching tragedy. Engaging with other humans is tiresome work; we are often a naughty and ridiculous and selfish species.

And yet, to bemoan these sorry characteristics is to miss the beauty of being a human being on the planet Earth. But to witness that beauty, we must put down the device, notice the gleeful smile of a child flying down a slide, and notice the small glimpse of sadness that crosses a friend's face when we ask how their day has gone. We must take time to pause, to listen, and to witness the last petals of a flower as summer heat turns toward snow and darkness.

When I am here, writing in this space, my heart and my mind are calm. When I lay my fingers on the keys of our piano, I am ethereal. When my aunt Judy and I finally connect after months of distance, I am witnessed. When my child comes running into the room and soars into my arms, we are simply atoms returning home. These are true and authentic human experiences. These are the marrow of our precious, fleeting moments here. This is the elation and exuberance we will remember as our cells wind down and march us slowly toward the precipice. These are the moments that will define the very quality of our seconds in this moment and in this place.

And yet, we wile time away in an abstract electronic space where long-term connection feels fairly impossible. We spend hours chasing away pain only to find it exacerbated upon leaving an online space. Living life is uncomfortable. Recognizing change as the only constant is painful. Being hopeful, being engaged, and witnessing the pain of our fellow humans is exhausting.

And yet, in the silence of our grief and the grief of others, we see ourselves reflected. In moments of calm, we hear the whispers of our drowned-out soul. In solitude, a voice tells us we are worthy. In boredom, our creativity is born. I don't want to live a life of distraction, in pursuit of instantaneous pleasure. I don't want to live this thing halfway.

My molecules were born in a gigantic blast at the dawn of time; I want to spend these precious, fleeting moments with the same intensity, vitality, exuberance, and commitment to feel it all in every breath I am fortunate enough to exhale.

Mordor

 J.R.R. Tolkien was a solider in World War I. He was one of the lucky ones who lived while watching 20 million men die around him. I have thought frequently about the end of his novels, about how Frodo can never fully return to the Shire because the experience of traveling to Mordor and seeing so much suffering changed him permanently. Despite bearing witness to the atrocities of the first world war and the global chaos which happened afterward, Tolkien's crowning artistic masterpiece is a story which embraces the beauty of human potential, connection, kindness, empathy, mercy, and faith. He is austere and realistic in his storytelling and there are moments where the future of humankind seems to rest on the edge of a dime and on the backs of a few truly courageous individuals.

History is a balm to me in times like these when the goodness of humanity seems largely in question. But I remember in Tolkien's stories, not everyone fights to defeat Sauron - some are praying for his success. But many good and kind people do band together and it is just enough to get the ring to Mordor. For some people, the journey ends in death. For others, there are inalterable scars. And yet, Tolkien reminds us over and over again that we still get to choose, that there is always the option to be courageous and kind, even if victory is not guaranteed. The goodness of our neighbors, the richness of the earth, and the hope for a better future are reason enough to sacrifice. They are reason enough to hope.

I have been devouring Nick Cave's Red Hand Files and I am enamored with the idea that fear, pessimism, and nihilism are a coward's path. They are the easy choice because they require nothing from us. So long as we believe there is no way forward and no potential for beauty, then we cannot be injured by setbacks. Optimism requires work. Faith requires courage. The more difficult path is almost certainly the one that requires our vulnerability.

I do not want to live in a cave. I do not want to die with my head buried underground. I think, in the short time available to me, I want to feel the blood coursing through my veins and the heavy burden of failure and the ecstasy of love. I want to be destroyed by loss and re-created in adversity. In the time I have here, I want to be present for each beautiful and challenging moment, bathing in the light and the dark of existence.

And of course, I only want to do so if you'll be along for the ride. I can muster the courage beside you. Because 90% of my bravery and strength and hope is rooted in the knowledge that, despite your imperfections, every molecule in your body is sacred and unique and beautiful. With you by my side, I will walk into Mordor and every grueling step will be one rooted in love and devotion, a silent prayer to the universe that, in the cosmic scheme of things, perhaps hope, optimism, faith, and loyalty do have the potential to tip the scale ever closer toward benevolence.