Often times, I don’t realize I’m on a writing break until about two weeks in. Then, with a start, I’ll think back to the last time I wrote. That time seems fuzzy, distant, faint. Then, I’ll try think of something new to write.
And then, I’ll realize I’m on hiatus.
I’ll be back. For now, I’ll leave you with this excerpt from Jena Strong ‘s luminous memoir, don’t miss this. These words soothe like my mother’s cool hand on my furrowed brow. I’ve read them over and over and over again:
What if you knew
that everything was going to be okay,
that something was in motion
beyond your field of vision,
beyond even the periphery
of your knowing?
Last weekend we went to Six Flags. Abby and Hubby are thrill-seekers and rode many terrifying rides. Henry wasn’t tall enough to go on the biggest, scariest attractions. (I believe he was secretly overjoyed that he didn’t have those extra inches that would’ve allowed him to panic –I mean ride.)
When Abby and Hubby rode the first of their stomach-in-your-throat rides, Henry tugged my hand and asked to go on the ferris wheel.
I have a new-found fascination with ferris wheels. While I always enjoyed them before, I don’t think I truly appreciated them until recently. Several summers ago we went to a carnival; I was so taken with the beauty of the ferris wheel, both statuesque and soft, graceful and steely. I took many photos, trying to capture both its essence and dichotomy.
My interest deepened when I read my friend Lindsey’s gorgeous musings on ferris wheels; she reflects about their distinct, metaphoric portrayal of life. Climbing and then, descending. Again and again.
Henry and I climbed into our ferris wheel car. The metal bars clanked, locking us into our own compact space. The spring day was crisp with warm sun. Henry’s solid body nestled into mine and the sunlight illuminated his face. As I watched the freckles dancing across the bridge of his nose, he suddenly turned to me with his signature furrowed brow and asked,
“Mommy, are you surwe that this one won’t go upside down?”
The wind whipped his blond hair about.
“Yes, Henry, I’m sure.”
Our ride began.
On Tuesday of this week, I learned, like you, of the bombings at the Boston Marathon. The news sliced through to my soft, unprotected underbelly, leaving in its wake a wobbly understanding of the world in which we live, in which I raise my children. I watch the news coverage over and over again–I guess hoping that if I keep watching, I’ll discover some piece of news that somehow makes sense of the unimaginable, the non-sensical, the horrific, the unbelievable:
Innocent people were injured and killed while they watched the world-famous Boston Marathon.
An eight-year-old is dead.
A graduate student is dead.
A young woman is dead.
176 victims will endure life-altering injuries.
I try to imagine the grief of these families and something crumbles at my core.
Wednesday morning, I ran on the treadmill at the gym and watched still more coverage. Just like I did after September 11, after the Sandy Hook massacre, and after one particular bomb threat in Times Square, when I was just blocks away from a car bomb that was, thankfully, discovered just before its pending explosion.
My mind jumps about and lands on each of these crimes against our safety; each one detonating our collective ability to live and function as we’ve always done in the past.
As I stretch after my morning run, I’m transported to my weekend ferris wheel ride with Henry.
We’d just reached the pinnacle and were stopped at the top, spring trees blanketing the ground beneath us. Before we descended for the first time, Henry leaned into me and said,
“I’m scared, Mommy.”
His small hand rested on my leg, seeking comfort and assurance.
Our brief conversation seems more poignant, now, with yet another filter of pain, suffering and terror altering my world view. I move into Pigeon pose and as I continue my stretching, my mind’s racing also continues. I mentally answer him now, as we descend into this altered reality,
“Me too, Henry. Me too.”
I guess that’s what we do. Every day, with undercurrents of uncertainty and fear clanking about our minds, we climb in.
We climb into our days, gearing up for our ascent and hope for our safe descent. We get up and go into our day with no knowledge of the outcome. We brush teeth, get dressed, go to work, drive our cars, argue, make-up, empty homework folders, ride the subway, smile, buy groceries. We take out the recycling. We experience piercing joys. We see exceptional and mighty outpourings of good. We turn our faces to the heat of the spring sun. We hug our children. We hope that as the sun descends on our days, those we love will come back into our arms. We have days when they don’t. We ache, grieve and fall apart.
Although we revel in exhilaration as the car stops at the top and wonder washes through us like a wave of tiny carbonated bubbles, we acknowledge, too, that someday the wheel must stop.
Each day, we go on. Despite the fear, despite the horror, despite the inevitable, we go on. It takes courage to put our feet on the ground each morning. Within that courage lies the superb responsibility and privilege of the living–we get to take that leap, take that hand, cook that dinner, lose, mourn and, if we’re looking, note the small, quiet miracles of each day. We live.
Around and around.
We go on.
This is our spring break week. One day, the kids and I headed into the city. We’ve usually driven in the past but this time we took the train. And, much to Henry’s delight we got a double-decker train. With a STAIRCASE. After departing the train (and surviving the human stampede through a very narrow escalator), we broke through, into the city.
Both Abby and Henry paused when we hit street level, readjusting to the sunlight. Their eyes took in New York City and the barrage of noises, people, smells and sights. I had to prod them a bit to get them to start moving. Then, we hoofed it. For many of the 50 blocks, I had one if not two hands, in mine.
From 32nd all the way up to 79th, and half-way down again (I finally put us on the subway at 59th–we were wiped), we walked. We walked through Times Square. We walked to Carnegie Deli where we ate incredibly huge sandwiches and gazed the star-covered walls. We walked to the Museum of Natural History and greeted the dinosaurs.
When we left the museum (our planned destination), we walked to Central Park. This was, of course, the highlight of their day.
The early April day was warm–almost hot. Cobalt blue skies soared overhead and the hot sun shone. It looked like every New Yorker was in the Park–it hummed with sun-deprived Northerners after a very, very long winter. Daffodils bobbed their heads in the soft breeze. Birds celebrated, dipping and swooping about. Runners ran, bikers whizzed by; one runner and one biker had a near-accident and had some New York-flavored words, to, uh, work it out. My mild-mannered, suburban children watched their interaction with awe.
We strolled and dallied while eating ice cream from a street vendor. Shouts from a softball game punctuated the soft air. We spent a lot of time exploring the rocks.
As beautiful as this day was, of course not everything was picturesque. It was a day with two children and their mother–we all took our turns with frustration. In addition, Henry touched everything possible–the cement walls, the ground (that’s when I yelled, “Every dog in New York has urinated there, Henry!”), the sticks, the trashcans. When he rested on one park bench that smelled just like a urinal, I asked him if that smell was familiar. He looked at me quizzically and said,
“People go to the bathwoom on the benches?!”
If I could’ve bathed him right then, I would’ve.
But, despite these regular blips, contentedness prevailed. We made it back to the train station (first time I navigated from the subway to the train station without the aid of a seasoned New Yorker!). Henry sat on my lap for a bit and his heavy head rested in the curve of my neck. The kids watched as the outskirts of the city gave way to the suburbs. As the terrain switched from urban to forest, the trees indicated that we were getting closer to home.
As we drove home from the train station, I asked both Abby and Henry what they liked most about our adventure. Henry cited the rock climbing in Central Park. Abby agreed–with a close second being the street-vendor soft-pretzel. I, however, had a different take. For all of those 55 block we traversed, both of my children held my hands. (I wondered, prior to this day, if I’d ever hold Abby‘s hand in public again.)
A day with both of them within arms reach and the solid weight of both of their hands in mine will forever be the highlight of this day.
Now, I am the mother of a nine-year-old and a six-year-old. After our next round of summer birthdays, I will be the mother of a 10-year-old and a seven-year-old.
10 and seven. These words amaze me.
Today marks the last week of our This Is Childhood series. Lindsey of A Design So Vast shares her luminous, poignant words about the age of 10. Please read her tribute (maybe grab the tissues) and enjoy the last essay commemorating childhood.
The This Is Childhood Line Up:
ONE – Aidan Donnelley Rowley
TWO – Kristen Levithan
THREE – Nina Badzin
FOUR – Galit Breen
FIVE — Allison Slater Tate
SIX – Bethany Meyer
SEVEN – Tracy Morrison
EIGHT – Amanda Magee
NINE – Moi
TEN – Lindsey Mead
Today, my This Is Childhood essay is running on The Huffington Post. (I’m just a wee bit honored and the tiniest bit excited.)
The This Is Childhood Series is the brainchild of two of my favorite writers, Lindsey Mead and Allison Slater Tate. Each week, a writer reflects upon one of the ages of childhood, from One to Ten. I am so grateful (and humbled) that Allison and Lindsey included me in this group. Not only have I loved reading everyone’s unique commemoration of their child, but I’ve come to treasure the special writing community that developed as a result.
To top it all off, today, I find my words on The Huffington Post. Happy Friday to you and please pass the wine and dark chocolate.
I’ve suffered from depression for more than two decades. When I was first diagnosed, after struggling for five years without therapy and medication, I experienced a sense of failure that rivaled the symptoms of the depression itself.
At first, I told one person: my mother. Period.
Slowly, I began sharing. And by sharing I mean that I told one other person: my best friend. As the years progressed and my experience with the disease deepened, so did my relationship to it. I began talking about my depression whenever I felt it was relevant or helpful. However, that freedom of voice did not make it into my writing. I never, ever wrote about the darkness of my mental illness.
That changed years ago when I decided to write about my experience — a decision I made because I hoped that by sharing about my decades of depression, I might help someone, anyone–even just one. I wanted to add my voice to the chorus of people brave enough to be open about depression; I wanted people to know that an ordinary mom, wife, daughter, sister, writer and friend like me struggled. I hoped that by being open and honest, my words would help to smudge the stereotypical beliefs and discomfort surrounding depression.
Recently, I heard from an old colleague and friend. She’d started writing a blog where she was brave enough to share her story. A story about a depression so gripping and severe that she’d planned to end her life.
As tears threaten to drip as I type, I am so grateful to write the following words:
she did not end her life.
She chose to Love. To Laugh. To Live.
And, amazingly, she told me that my words, my humble words on this humble blog, helped her gain the courage to go public with her own struggle.
(If you’re watching on your mobile device, follow this Vimeo link: https://vimeo.com/user16802566/videos )
It’s Tuesday, which means it’s time for another This Is Childhood installment. You’re in for a treat–Amanda Magee. She is a gifted writer whose wise words are always luminous and true.
Today, she writes about Eight, “These years are motion and fire. They are amorphous and finite at once, molten lava coursing through time, inexplicably and unapologetically racing and slowing to form the many facets of a spirit.”
See what I mean?
The This Is Childhood Line Up:
THREE – Nina Badzin
FOUR – Galit Breen
FIVE — Allison Slater Tate