musings

I ran early this morning in Chicago, and found myself passing the ferris wheel that Grace and I rode with her godmother Q and her son, T, many years ago.  It was a ride that inspired a post that I think about often, and an image that recurred in the introduction of On Being 40(ish).

I wrote about stepping into the afternoon of life.  I was 37.  I’m now staring at 45, and am far more aware than I was then of life’s fragility, of the speed with which things can change, of how quickly things I love and count on can vanish.  I also wrote about how sacred my friendship with Q was, and it still is, and if anything I’ve even more aware of and grateful for those dear native speakers I hold close.  Those friends have had their cages rattled over the last several years, with scares and losses both, and it’s not over.  Far from it.  But I am aware, and I am breathing, and I am thankful.  I think that’s all I can ask for.

And I wanted to share this photo from this morning and remember those posts I think of a lot.

My word of the year is now.

There was no question for me about what this year’s word would be after the fall we had.  Let me explain.  I think I’ve written pretty exhaustively about how eventful 2017 was.  I always insist on that word (vs. the “terrible” that others use) because the truth is a lot of really good things happened in 2017 too.  Grace and Whit both went to new schools that they love (and Grace moved out of the house to go to boarding school).  Matt and I both got new jobs (and mine was with a company that I helped found, which was stressful but more than anything, extremely, extremely joyful).  Both of our fathers (and both of Grace and Whit’s grandfathers) died 2 months and 3 days apart.  I described our fall as an earthquake.

Eventful.  My word for 2018 was simple, because I hoped to focus on what was right in front of me.  If 2017 taught me anything, it’s that that mattered more than anything else.

2018 started off quiet.  But beginning in September I began a three month odyssey of health tests, procedures, and uncertainty.

I am okay.

But there was a lot of waiting for results last fall, there were several procedures of varying discomfort and invasiveness, and there were a lot of questions, and it was really not at all fun.

I was in shock at first, not least because I didn’t feel I had yet formally integrated all the events and lessons of 2017.  Again?  More stuff? (and yes, I realize how entitled and bratty this sounds). The shock wore off and I was flat-out panicked.  My overwhelming anxiety, not helped at all by continued sorrow and mourning, made this fall particularly un-fun at my house, I’m sure of that (sorry, Whit and Matt).

The clouds parted mostly by the time Grace and Whit came home, and I’m certain that contributed to my sense of this year’s holiday season as particularly sweet. I spent the past three weeks letting the impact of last fall run over me, adjusting to what feels like newly fragile and shaky terrain under my feet.  I have never been so exhausted. In some ways I feel like I’ve been in fight or flight mode for 18 months.

I do believe in that Pema Chodron quote that “nothing ever goes away until it has taught you what you need to know,” or the general adage that the universe will keep giving you practice in what you need to learn.  By both counts, there’s a lesson I clearly need to keep learning.

I’m not in control here, and the only thing I know I have is now.

Now.  Be here now.  Now.  All I have for sure.  All any of us has for sure.  Today, these people around me, this blue sky, this wealth of emotion, these books, this difficulty, this joy.

Now.

These have been dark and difficult days.  Everything just feels fraught, frayed.  I have been reminding myself that this time of year has often felt like that for me.  I looked through the last month of photographs on my phone as I sat down to write this post, and noticed that an unusual number were of the sky, and of darkness and light, of the beginnings and endings of things, of sunrises and sunsets.  I always take pictures of skies, so that’s not new, but I definitely noticed more than normal.  That feels appropriate. Every single one of these photographs was taken in the month of October.  I’m hoping November brings smoother sailing, and perhaps more light than dark, though if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you can’t have one without the other.

Sunset from the rock overlooking Grace’s school during family weekend.

The pre-dawn sky in Chicago.

The sun setting over Chicago as I prepared to leave.

Chicago from the sky, which feels to me oddly like old biology class illustrations of the circulatory system.

A rainbow back in Boston, between rainstorms.

A pink sunset sky from my office in Cambridge.

Dawn from the sky en route to New York.

The sun setting in New York.

Sunset from my office window in Cambridge, Halloween evening.

Some of these photographs were already shared on my Instagram.

I’ve always loved Van Morrison’s Into the Mystic.  It was Matt’s and my last dance at our wedding, before we left.  I’ve written before about how I couldn’t have known how appropriate that imagery was, as we headed out from a party into our married lives.  We boarded the launch and left the dock, into the darkness, into the mystic.

Lately I’ve been thinking about how right now, we are deep in the mystic.

Separately and together.

On my own, this last annus mirabilis has been full of upheaval, loss, celebration, and change. I’m still finding my way through it, and I’ve written a lot about how it’s taking longer than I had anticipated to feel “normal” again.  I suspect the truth is that “normal” is different now so what’s taking longer than expected is adjusting to this new reality. I feel deep in the mystic, there’s no question about that.  Everything feels dark, but it’s also shot through with flashes of light and unexpected glittering. I feel sad, and anxious, and worried that I’m still so sad and anxious, but at the same time I feel more aware of all the beauty and good fortune that surrounds me than ever.

Together, we feel a bit in the mystic.  Or a lot, even.  Life is confusing and a little bit scary, and yet this person is standing next to me.  We are each other’s most obvious person to take things out on – and believe me, we do that – but there is also a rock-solid foundation of empathy and deep core of shared experience that binds us together in a new way.  That’s what feels mystical to me about this moment in marriage: it’s dark, and disorienting, but something’s holding me up, too.