That dream you didn't know you had

My daughter learned about the phases of the moon last week. In science, they discussed the eight different kinds of moons—including my favorite, waxing crescent and waxing gibbous, what we used to call “fingernail moons” in my family. In art, they drew them and then broke into small groups on zoom and quizzed one another using their drawings. For homework, they were supposed to go out every night and observe the moon as it changed.

Except every night was cloudy.

We looked and looked, but there wasn’t much visible to observe. Each morning, Maya would write an exasperated sentence: “It was cloudy. Again!”

It wasn’t the best week, I guess, to learn the sacred practice of scientific attention.

On the other hand, maybe it was the perfect week?

Also last week, I was learning. Like much of humanity, I have been eager to make plans to see my family. My parents are finally vaccinated. Spring break is coming up (funny how a classification that used to mean so much now means so little…what is a break?!). I wanted to drive down, commence the cuddle puddle, with 100% enthusiasm and 0% calculation. I’m so tired of calculations—on risk, on co-parenting, on everything. I miss my instincts something awful.

But it turns out, we are being vaccinated against COVID-19, not family dynamics. My parents, understandably, are trying to feel their way into what it will be like to go from their very insular little bubble to a house filled with the non-stop enthusiasm, erratic physicality, and endless needs of small children. They are worried they will feel shitty after the second shot. They live four hours away, so it’s not easy to pop home and give them a break.

I get it—we’re a lot. But another part of me doesn’t get it. I want my parents to feel vital and joyful and live forever. The part that doesn’t get it was sad.

And that’s when I realized: it’s amazing how sad you can be about a dream you didn’t even know you had.

I had no conscious grasp of the fact that I was walking around with a particular picture of what our reunion would be like. Once I admitted that to myself, I was more gentle with my own sadness. I gave it some space to show up in my journal (I’m a strong believer in a 7-minute free-write). Turns out there was a very specific and in tact dream hiding beneath the clouds of COVID. It’s mostly a dream of ease—the quality that eludes my family in all sorts of ways—and joy, which we are very good at.

Maya’s science journal wasn’t all that interesting last week. But the lesson wasn’t the journal, but the practice. Keep looking. Stay mindful that, beneath the clouds, there is evolution. Keep showing up even when it’s cloudy.

And that was my lesson, too. Honor the sadness attached to seasons in your psyche that you can’t even see. Give time for the clouds to part. See the dream, even if it’s painful. Let it go. Turn your attention to what remains, the beauty that is tangible and possible.