Faith

The Beginning

I am a mother of “big” chirrens (as we say in the South). Our boy started high school this year and his big sister is a Senior. I have discovered that I am largely vestigial as a care-giver, entertaining questions about how much parenting is “enough” and whether I’m asking too much when I look for a hug, or company at the grocery store or information about plans. 

Mom and Dad are neighbors just 6 miles down the road. They are beginning a new chapter of their own. They grapple with aging in place, how to manage changes in physical capacities and maintain a healthy independence. They are a true love story. As different as Mom and I might be in some ways, I’m taking mental notes and learning her particular gift for loving fiercely. And no one has more grit than my mother. She’s a marvel. Dad is a man who for decades would “sweeten” his coffee with the very tip of my mother’s finger, kissing it afterwards as if to lift lingering drops of either coffee or sugar. He loves her without wavering. He loves her in a way that never reveals to observers a chink or a crack in his affection for or commitment to her. He is a marvel. They are truly opposing natural elements – she is most definitely fire and earth and he is most assuredly air and water.

In the meantime, Dusty and I are learning how to occupy and amuse ourselves as the parents of increasingly independent children. We met 20 years ago and it’s been a very full 20 years – courtship, living in sin, marriage, two, late-life babies, and 5 or 6 jobs between us. We’ve undertaken the purchase, renovation and maintenance (sort of) of a forever home; and the maintenance and sale of a 10-bedroom, 6-bathroom beach house. And then there’s the rearing of those two, beautiful, amazing late-life babies.

But here we are, 20 years later and back at Point A – full circle, as it were. Here we are again in a second courtship of sorts. It’s a fairly common occurrence to find ourselves at home and without responsibility for feeding or entertaining progeny.  Dusty is the very best person with which to approach this time of life as he’s so very good at following the current. I, however, am a recovering control freak. But now is the time I need to take my hands off the proverbial wheel. I would be wise to stop “managing” things. I need to step the fuck back. And this is new territory for me.

This time of life and today’s political reality have prompted the question of what to do with myself. My first instinct is to write – to tell the story of my endings, beginnings and how I propose to make a difference in my particular corner of the world. EB White once wrote something to the effect that writers who undertake the art of essays have in common the curious notion that people must have an interest in what’s going on inside the writer’s head. White was asserting – of course – that this was folly. I should agree. But I also know that very often when I sit down to write it’s probably because I must extract what’s tumbling around inside my head. 

Back to the original question: what to do? And I mean this literally – what the fuck am I supposed to do? When a sculptor approaches a new work he or she will very often look at the stone or wood and try to see the negative space. I’m going to examine the negative space and in it I will see the beautiful, stark contrast of the positive. As I watch my children pull away and refuse my meddling, I’ll see instead the emergence of a strong, independent young adult. As my parents wrestle with the various rebellions and betrayals of aging bodies I’ll see the renewal of their abiding love for one another as they face this chapter together. As I witness the backward motion of our elected officials I’ll see instead the opportunity for citizen awakening and a transformative uproar. Here’s what I’m going to write about: finding our way. I’m going to face the dark shit – the global, the local and the personal. And I’m going to let it teach me all it has to teach me, because this is life. This is what happens. Shit is really hard and we suffer and when we’re lucky we still find one another.

My goal is for these posts to amount to more than a well-examined belly button. I want whatever I post to be devoted to finding or exploring ideas with love and light. That will cover a lot of ground. I want my “voice” to reflect my natural optimism, even when I’m wrestling with dark or ugly shit. And there’s a fair amount of dark shit going down these days.

Some would say that it’s misery loving company. I would put a slightly different spin on that: it’s just lovely to know that we have company. When I read someone else opine about the glory of a hot cup of coffee and an early-morning breath of fresh air, I’m reminded that “oh, yeah – I can do that too.” I don’t have to be on vacation, I don’t have to be looking out over the misty ruins of Machu Picchu. I can be at home, on the front step. I can be perched on a rock along the Eno with my big sister. That well-examined moment is just as rich in the familiar as it is in the exotic context. That moment, that cup of coffee is a story to tell. And I’m all about telling the story.