Greetings from the inside of my 1300 square foot house where four differently-sized and styled humans try not to destroy one another all day (bite to Maya’s head notwithstanding, we’re doing a fairly decent job.) I’m experimenting with doing these weird little Instagram live videos
On this night, 17 years ago, everything crumbled. A senior in high school, I couldn’t process the horror, uncertainty, and loss of life that would result from the start of a never-ending war. In my eyes, 9/11 wasn’t the defining moment of my generation. That came a year and a half later when we were told destroying a city full of people halfway across the world would somehow keep America safe. No one seemed to understand the absurdity of this, save for the grey haired women that rode in the paddy wagon with me the next morning. We had been protesting together at a time before protest was commonplace. No one really knew what to do with us, the rag tag crew of dissenters. A few hours in lock up felt like some sort of bizarre hippie summer camp. In the days that followed, reality sank in. Our actions had done nothing. We never had control over this, and a few hours of singing “we will overcome” in a crowded jail cell wasn’t going to stir the masses.
2016 confirmed how off course we had come. I had nightmares of a day when humanity had used up all of its resources, and all that was left was the technology it created.
And now. That impending sense of doom creeps in at night, an hour after I finally fall asleep, as my husband returns from his daily tour of duty. A first responder, his vision of the near future becomes bleaker each day. His fears are infinite. These late night conversations shake me to my core, and I wonder how I’ll be able to hold it together the next day.
And then they awake. First, Liv, the older one, beckons me to her bed in a resounding “moooommmm”. She won’t come out from under the covers until I arrive, safely beside her. She rushes down the stairs, pets the dog, and immediately begins reading from her mile high stack of library books, only looking up to periodically bellow “hungry!” until I slide a bowl of Cheerios to her.
Her potential is infinite. She will do great things.
An hour later, Savannah appears, hair wild and hugs abound. “What are we going to draw today, momma? When can we leave? Will we see GG?”
The love in her heart is overwhelming.
We get dressed, blow off e-learning, and ride bikes to my grandma’s long term care facility. The rain has already washed away the oversized flower we drew on the sidewalk the day before, but a halo of color remains. We pull out our chalk and begin composing a sunset over the ocean (Savannah’s idea today). We discuss the fleeting moments of life, impermanence, and memory. This ritual gives us purpose. Grey haired women soon appear on the other side of the glass, shuffling over with walkers and in wheel chairs. They try to talk to us, but it’s impossible to hear through the thick pane of glass. The care staff smile as they rush past. I point out the heroes to Liv and Savannah. I tell them about this magical gift they possess and how now, more than ever, we must share it. The rain will soon wash away the day’s work. But that kid spirit, that overwhelming love and determination and excitement that each day brings must continue. This moment won’t last, but the memory will.
Saying no to fear of uncertainty, self-doubt and opening to the voice you share, allowing it inside to battle, confront and embrace my fear, recognize it as useful, a place of power not to cower, but stand on and be ready for another day of a grandma hassling with stomping teens doing online school, or not doing. Does it matter?
How to avoid the shoes or paths that make it worse
And when the road of sorrows is all that lies ahead, I do not curse it but am aware that knowing the pain that lies ahead, I can be present for others on this course
The gift of grieving is one can see more clearly these other travelers and they see me
Courtney, I love that there's nothing ephemeral about the questions you ask. They break my heart in the best possible way. Three months later, from Saint Paul, Minnesota, in the wake of George Floyd's murder, your questions reflect different light and elicit very different answers.
On this night, 17 years ago, everything crumbled. A senior in high school, I couldn’t process the horror, uncertainty, and loss of life that would result from the start of a never-ending war. In my eyes, 9/11 wasn’t the defining moment of my generation. That came a year and a half later when we were told destroying a city full of people halfway across the world would somehow keep America safe. No one seemed to understand the absurdity of this, save for the grey haired women that rode in the paddy wagon with me the next morning. We had been protesting together at a time before protest was commonplace. No one really knew what to do with us, the rag tag crew of dissenters. A few hours in lock up felt like some sort of bizarre hippie summer camp. In the days that followed, reality sank in. Our actions had done nothing. We never had control over this, and a few hours of singing “we will overcome” in a crowded jail cell wasn’t going to stir the masses.
2016 confirmed how off course we had come. I had nightmares of a day when humanity had used up all of its resources, and all that was left was the technology it created.
And now. That impending sense of doom creeps in at night, an hour after I finally fall asleep, as my husband returns from his daily tour of duty. A first responder, his vision of the near future becomes bleaker each day. His fears are infinite. These late night conversations shake me to my core, and I wonder how I’ll be able to hold it together the next day.
And then they awake. First, Liv, the older one, beckons me to her bed in a resounding “moooommmm”. She won’t come out from under the covers until I arrive, safely beside her. She rushes down the stairs, pets the dog, and immediately begins reading from her mile high stack of library books, only looking up to periodically bellow “hungry!” until I slide a bowl of Cheerios to her.
Her potential is infinite. She will do great things.
An hour later, Savannah appears, hair wild and hugs abound. “What are we going to draw today, momma? When can we leave? Will we see GG?”
The love in her heart is overwhelming.
We get dressed, blow off e-learning, and ride bikes to my grandma’s long term care facility. The rain has already washed away the oversized flower we drew on the sidewalk the day before, but a halo of color remains. We pull out our chalk and begin composing a sunset over the ocean (Savannah’s idea today). We discuss the fleeting moments of life, impermanence, and memory. This ritual gives us purpose. Grey haired women soon appear on the other side of the glass, shuffling over with walkers and in wheel chairs. They try to talk to us, but it’s impossible to hear through the thick pane of glass. The care staff smile as they rush past. I point out the heroes to Liv and Savannah. I tell them about this magical gift they possess and how now, more than ever, we must share it. The rain will soon wash away the day’s work. But that kid spirit, that overwhelming love and determination and excitement that each day brings must continue. This moment won’t last, but the memory will.
And they will do great things.
I'm saying no to a rising tide of despair.
Riding the rising tide of fear,
I jump off to my sea wall of stillness.
Fear cannot touch me here,
Behind me are family, friends,
Safe, here on the wall,
Surrounded my my Stillness.
Riding the ebbing tide?
Loss.
Saying no to fear of uncertainty, self-doubt and opening to the voice you share, allowing it inside to battle, confront and embrace my fear, recognize it as useful, a place of power not to cower, but stand on and be ready for another day of a grandma hassling with stomping teens doing online school, or not doing. Does it matter?
Grieving
Grieving has rubbed a spot raw in my heart
It can’t be healed and salves don’t work
Instead I have learned like a blister on the foot
How to avoid the shoes or paths that make it worse
And when the road of sorrows is all that lies ahead, I do not curse it but am aware that knowing the pain that lies ahead, I can be present for others on this course
The gift of grieving is one can see more clearly these other travelers and they see me
Courtney, I love that there's nothing ephemeral about the questions you ask. They break my heart in the best possible way. Three months later, from Saint Paul, Minnesota, in the wake of George Floyd's murder, your questions reflect different light and elicit very different answers.
Awesome! What is your Instagram name?