I can remember, from the first hint of a bump, the way people would lavish their wisdom upon me. Some days I took the words as a gift, other times they came as jarring admonitions.
Safest your kids will ever be, is right there in your belly.
The days are long, but the years are short.
Just wait ’til she’s a teenager, she’s gonna hate you.
You’re going to miss this.
It’ll be over in a blink.
I’d like to think that I was somewhat graceful in how I received these things, at least on the outside, though I’m sure an occasional lip snarl was visible. As the years have gone by, faster than even those strangers promised, I find myself reconsidering what they said. I soften, toward them and toward the inevitable ways we resist the advice of those further down the path. Wisdom tickles at my own lips as people around me lift a toe toward ground I’ve trod. I hold back, but only barely.
I come home and think that I should remember those words, I should heed the advice of people intimate with just how quickly one day becomes I should have. I have the best of intentions, but even the best intentions can fall victim to the cumulative weight of 8 hours of being pelted by one thing or another. When the trek from the driveway to the mudroom has the ability to spark squabbles between the girls over, from what I can tell, absolutely nothing and when the dog vies desperately for my attention when all I want, for-the-love-of-all-that-is-good, is a moment to finally pee, I wonder if my priorities are completely out of whack. Defeated, frustrated and frozen because I just want the chance to pee after unreasonably setting aside that most basic need to take another meeting.
This moment, which doesn’t happen every day, makes me feel the deepest kind of shame. I chose everything that I have—daughters, business, people who love me. How dare I wish for those things to fall away entirely so that I can what, go to the bathroom and then linger to obsess over my deepening 11 wrinkle?
Yesterday I was in the blurry moments of transition, when I leave the office to meet the bus, but my responsibilities don’t end—emails still come through, calls flash on my phone. I was about to close my laptop when I saw the news about Boston. I didn’t at first know what it really meant, so often do horrifying headlines flash from the screen. I clicked and began to understand. I thought back to Sean and Ave at Fewnway on Saturday, then I thought back to September 11th 2001 and being on our way to Logan. I thought of Newtown, of Ransom, and of Dawn, I thought back to my accident, and I felt everything slip away.
I tried to understand what it was, but the best I could do was sense a letting go, detachment coursing through me. Again. Like unwanted wisdom from the universe. Doesn’t matter how good. Doesn’t matter how pure. Lives will end, abruptly and without notice. Moms will die. Sons will die. Senseless tragedy will strike even as you feel as if you are still grieving from the last time.
What is the lesson?
…to anticipate inevitable loss?
…be grateful for every moment?
…to hate those who do evil?
…to lift up those focused on good?
I want this time to be different. I want to remember what has happened and be conscious of my blessings in every moment. I have no doubt that I’ll try. I’ll continue lingering over my sleeping girls, I’ll be kind to those around me, and strive to focus more on good than evil. I hope I will always be surprised when evil visits, just as I hope I’ll have the discipline to focus on the very good things that exist in the world but don’t hold the headlines quite so long.
I suppose this is all a longwinded way of saying that perhaps the pearls people try to give us, no matter how crudely, are in fact gifts. Just as life is, in each moment, whether we are aware of it or not, a beautiful thing.
Be tender to all those you meet, because as the saying goes, everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.
Oh life is so incredibly fragile but we can’t live it that way or we won’t really be living. Perspective can be hard and as hard as you try – moments will slip away, you will miss important things and forget more than you remember. But oh holding your loved ones close can be appreciated so much more when you realize how big that world is out there. And how unkind sometimes.
I still believe that there are more good people than bad but even the good ones are not perfect. One foot in front of the other Amanda. We go forward.
Thank you, BetteJo. Forgiving ourselves for the in sustainability of both grief and gratitude seems to be pretty hard, but worth working at.
Oh, Amanda … every word of this echoes in my chest. The speed with which my gratitude and awareness can crumble in the face of frustration and aggravation and the endless wave of NEED that my children sometimes feel like. The desperate, fierce wish to REMEMBER what matters. The clutching at straws of meaning, trying to understand what it is we are supposed to be learning. Thank GOD for you. That I do know for sure. xox
It’s all tied up in the strength of our collective spirit. The indomitability of our capacity for celebrating life. I feel the same way about you. xo
I struggle. Yesterday I wanted to value everything. Instead, it was a day full of fighting, screaming, brawling, and CONSTANT negotiation between and with my kids. When my husband came home, I felt terrible because I was so incredibly grateful to leave the house — and them — for an hour. I couldn’t help but think that life goes on, even though I want to pause, even though I am humbled by the fragility and the strength that these moments of abject sorrow show me.
I cut a section that talked about wanting moments as nothing—not mother, sister, daughter, wife, business owner, but that no matter what I am all of those things. Stepping away doesn’t end that, so my guilt at wanting to be less “on” shouldn’t bring guilt, nor should our need to continue in life, even though it feels cruel.
Thank you so much for commenting so honestly. This post made me feel a bit naked.
This is simply beautiful. I too have struggled to bring lessons from these tragedies into my daily routines, thinking, and behavior. It’s so hard though. We’re just not programmed that way, at least not all the time. I heard an interview on NPR yesterday from a psychologist who specializes in trauma who said that we are literally hard-wired deep in our brains not to contemplate our own mortality and fragility on a continuous basis. It’s too much. And I wonder if this is okay. We are sometimes grateful, sometimes peaceful, sometimes aware that we will all die, but most of life is just coping in the moment. That’s the way it already has been, and that’s the way it already will be.
Sometimes I think that the chance to experience waves of revelation, to rediscover the besottedness of the first days after baby comes home, learning anew that swinging until you hit the clouds in the sky at the playground is the best therapy, these things are true gifts. Rewards for living that cannot be sustained, rather we have to honor them when they come.
Collectively I think we could probably do a lot more to share the times that don’t spring from tragedy, when we are reminded of how amazing life is. Thank you for sharing your take on this. Loved it.
The world is filled with the walking wounded. It’s out job to be tender with one another. Thank you for another reminder.
Hope you are feeling better, Amy. xo
I’ve been staring at this empty comment box wanting to say something, and I can’t think of anything to add. You’ve conveyed many things in a few elegant words. So I’m just here nodding my head and feeling grateful to read words that resonate and even offer comfort.
You will never know how much this meant. I so treasure your comments, friend.
After tragedies such as these, I often feel guilt about my NORMAL frustrations with my children, my husband, the person who pulls out in front of me and then goes 7 miles below the speed limit. I remember the first time 6-yr-old Henry made me spitting mad after Newtown–I was spinning in an emotional storm of anger and guilt. How could I be mad when the parents mourning their children would give anything to be in my shoes?
Honesty during these times is paramount. I’m so grateful we all have a voice where we can sound out our emotions–I’m grateful for you, your voice and your spirit. xo
Thanks, sweet one!
I live in Boston, and follow your blog. This passage resonates with me. I’ve also read and re-read your post “This Is Eight” several times this week. Lindsay Mead Russell is a friend, so I enjoyed the whole series of posts. I just wrote a bit about the boy who died, and I shared your “This Is Eight” post. It’s all I’ve thought about this week, as my son is eight too. Thank you for these meaningful posts…they are great.
Brooke, thank you so much. Your post today was beautiful. I still can’t understand eight not transitioning to nine. I loved reading about your eight year old and clicking through to pictures of your family. I’ll be checking out your husband’s company and look forward to reading more of your words.
Like an echo of the last time and the time before that, I’m trying to make sense of it, to grasp at little magical moments in my day and hold them close. Thank you. Thank you for so eloquently expressing the conflicting emotions we feel as we navigate the landscape such senseless tragedy.
So kind of you to say that it was eloquent, because it felt clumsy and scattered. May everyone’s heart begin to heal.
This is perfection. i wish I had seen it last week. It so wonderfully explains how so many of us were feeling. You really are a gifted writer. I mean it.
I’m studying at Boise State University and I wish to show my appreciation for your kindheartedness toward those who seek help with this one topic. Your serious commitment to getting the answer out there appears to be quite useful and has enabled students much like me to arrive at their objectives. Just know that this work means a lot to all of us.