Everything is right in the world
Starting with beauty and gratitude
“The sun is perfect and you woke this morning. You have enough language in your mouth to be understood. You have a name, and someone wants to call it. Five fingers on your hand and someone wants to hold it. If we just start there, every beautiful thing that has and will exist is possible. If we start there, everything, for a moment, is right in the world.”
~Warsan Shire
I called Z this weekend. He is planning to have his high school friends over during Thanksgiving break to have their own Friendsgiving. I had asked him to get me a list of what he needed for cooking by this weekend so I could cut down on the amount of shopping I had to do with the rest of the North Shore, but in true Z fashion, he had not followed up with his friends about their meal planning. I get it—asking 19 and 20 year olds to think about something ten days ahead of time while they are in the midst of calculus and bio and physics and chemistry studying is a little much. When I called, he was in the midst of his own homework and rather short with me. He told me he needed to get back to his studying and that he would be in touch soon with his list.
His abruptness, though very characteristic of Z, stung a little more than usual. I have been finding myself more sensitive, more irritable in the past week. The dog pulling more than usual on the leash had me more impatient, more frustrated than I would normally be. The slowness of the man behind the deli counter, taking his time and stopping to chat with his coworker as he replaced the maple honey turkey and grabbed the Muenster cheese had me asking myself why I had thought to get deli meat in the first place.. Even when I was walking in the woods, generally my calm and recentering place, I have felt on edge, as if I had too much caffeine or had something I was dreading coming up.
Of course, when I stop and think about it, I realize it is not these small things that are bothering me, but the uncertainty that is now the context of our lives.
Anticipatory anxiety is almost always worse than the event or experience you are anticipating. We worry that we will fail or things will go poorly—our overactive imaginations go into overdrive and we begin to catastrophize, coming up with all the worst-case scenarios. The less control we have over the situation, the more dire the imagined future. In the early days of the pandemic, I indulged in so much anticipatory anxiety—what if my parents got COVID? How would I get to them? How would I visit when hospitals weren’t allowing anyone in? Where would I stay? What if my kids got COVID? We had so little information, my worry brain just went wild imagining all the most terrible things that could happen. It took me a while to reign myself back in, to not be afraid of the many things I had imagined. But eventually, I dug in and through practice and many, many hours in the woods, I remembered what it feels like to not be anxious. And I am not really interested in returning to a baseline of anxiety.
But here we are, in another situation with little control and an unclear future ahead. The lack of certainty that things will proceed much as they always have is there in the background, causing low-level anxiety that can get kicked up into irritability or sadness quite easily. For the first time since becoming a parent, I find myself worried that my children are facing a future that is far less promising than mine was thirty or so years ago. I am relieved and grateful that Z is just a 30-minute drive away. I am saddened that L has already stated he will limit his own college search to our part of the country, though I think it is the right choice. I wonder what it is like for M, who doesn’t really remember a time before a criminal could run and hold the highest office in our country, before people were offered leadership positions in our government not based on their skill or qualifications, but the likelihood that they will be loyal to someone whose primary interest is building and maintaining power.
This is what is saddest to me about the decision this country just made: What it means for our children, many of whom don’t know or remember a time before 2016.
And yet, I also know this: A few days ago, I climbed 1200 feet up a small mountain with a dear friend. We had so much more to talk about than politics. And we made it up that mountain! We saw snow and even though it was machine-made, we both delighted in the sight. We shared our parenting struggles and triumphs, the ups and downs of our professional pursuits. And we navigated gnarled roots, russett-colored, crackling leaves that could be slick underfoot, rocky scrambling, and quiet wooded trails. At the top, we took in each direction—north, west, south, and east. We spotted the skyline of our beloved city, we found beloved mountains to the north and west. We saw other hikers along the way, every one of them kind and pleasant—one sharing that we should turn back and take another trail to avoid the icy snow ahead. We took our time, stopped for water breaks, sat on wooden benches, and took in the view. We enjoyed our hike, each other’s company, our time together as we made our way up the mountain.
I took walks in the woods near my house with other friends. We shared some of our disgust and worry about what lies ahead, and then turned to other topics: A live music concert that my friends enjoyed from just feet away from the performers. Stories of growing up and what things stayed with us decades later, some were painful and others, treasured. I got to hear about a friend’s daughter who is off at college in another country, how she and her friends spent a night dancing to traditional live music. M and D spent all day Saturday helping with the final tech rehearsal for an upcoming middle school show. Though M has moved on to high school, he so loves the director and theater, he is back working on crew to help behind the scenes. L shared that in his US History class, they are learning about government decisions that lead to the Great Depression. Many of these decisions are being floated as possibilities by this next administration and L has spoken animatedly about the lack of perspective and learning from the past. His teacher has inspired him to apply what happened almost 100 years ago to today. My sister has helped mamas bring babies into the world after spending years preparing for this work. M turned 15 and we celebrated him. I spent time remembering his birth, the arrival of my last baby.
Life continues to happen. Music is played. Theater is performed. Homework gets done. Soccer tournaments are played. Teachers continue to teach, inspire, and nurture critical thinking. Parents continue to face hard decisions, hold on to moments of joy. Friends share conversation and kindness and support and love. Babies are born, parents understand a whole new kind of love.
As I have shared many times, autumn into winter is my favorite time of the year. The smells, sounds, sights of this time of year make me feel cozy, bundled up, and warm. The world in winter becomes smaller. Ventures outside require lots of clothing, covering up hands and heads, necks and sometimes noses if it’s cold enough. The air is invigorating and wakes you up, sometimes stinging with its bitterness. I would take a warm cup of tea over a cold lemonade any day, the soft blanket of snow over a sweltering summer heat wave, a day spent reading or puzzling, slippers and a fuzzy blanket keeping me warm over a bathing suit and sandy towel on the beach.
In ten days, my house will be full with D, my boys, and our cherished friends. We will spend the day before cooking and preparing favorite foods and some new additions. The morning of, we will set the table with dishes that get used only on holidays, hopefully I will convince one of the boys to make name tags like they did when they were younger. I will run around with a broom sweeping up dog hair and clean the bathroom, ensuring it is free of the spit toothpaste and facial hair that come with three teenage boys. And then our friends will arrive and conversation will fill the house. We will catch up with the young adults home from college, hear about the lives they are forging on their own. Perhaps a FaceTime call with the one who is off in another country. I will watch the interaction between my friends and my boys, feel gratitude for these adults who have been like family to my boys, shared holidays with us for as far back as we can remember. I will feel delight and pride in my friends’ daughter and just relish getting to hear about the life she is creating for herself. We will eat more than our stomachs can hold. And then, we will pull back the tablecloth, soiled by some spilled gravy or mashed potatoes, and get out a board game. Not everyone will join in, but those of us that do, will enjoy the back and forth, the contest and competition of it all, but mostly, the connection. These connections, built over years and years of shared experiences, shared lives, are truly without measure. I can look across the board and see not the 19 and 20 year old of today, but the 10 and 11 year olds they once were. In those younger faces and endless chatter were the young adults they are today.
Everything is on fire,
but everyone I love is doing beautiful things
and trying to make life worth living,
and I know I don’t have to believe in everything,
but I believe in that.
- Nikita Gill
I will work to center gratitude for what life holds for me in my day to day and not get caught in the latest addition to the clown car. I will notice the beauty that is all around me—in M’s morning hug when he comes downstairs, in L’s gentle (and sometimes not so gentle) ribbing of me. In the text from a friend I haven’t seen since last spring. In the phone call from a friend who just celebrated a birthday. In the starkness of the river birch who has let all of her leaves go, creating mounds and mounds of leaves to bag and take to the city yard.
The beauty of friendship. Connection. Being there to share each other’s worries and wonderings, joys and loves.
Whatever is happening around us, in a world on fire, we must continue to find each other, to notice the sparkling moments of joy, to see the beauty right in front of us. To use that language to say what we need to say, to remember each other’s names and hopes and dreams, fears and worries. To use those five fingers to create music and art, theater and expression. To hold each other’s hands through the hard parts, squeezing tighter when the tears come. To embrace each other and acknowledge that we, too, know the uncertainty that lies ahead.
To continue to live a life worth living.
All photos were taken by the exceptional Dana Giuliana, unless otherwise noted.
Thanks for spending some of your day reading this post. I hope it resonated. Periplum of motherhood and other wonderings is free. If you enjoy reading, please share it with friends!