“Ring the bells that still can ring, forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”
Leonard Cohen was right. Well, of course he was. In every life there are challenges that absolutely delight us, and other challenges that absolutely break us. The things that break us are not the challenges of small things. These are the big things of life. From lost jobs to lost friends, broken legs to broken hearts, being born into chaos, and dying all alone, we are both blessed and vulnerable to all that life can take. Every season of our lives is both a beginning and an ending.
We are in the waiting room of the world. We are waiting to go forward to a new normal because going back to the old normal is not an option anymore. Not even close.
We are waiting parent by parent, child by child, teacher by teacher, for a reliable plan for the ongoing, steady presence of schools. And in the absence of a reliable plan, a path to incrementally getting to some reasonable facsimile, day by day.
My grandmother, Mable Hopper, was a mostly stern, serious woman, at least to my 5-year-old self. Small in physical stature, Mable had a big wit, a beautiful singing voice, and a depth of intelligence that did not suffer fools or foolishness gladly. I, being five, was full of foolishness.
There are some sounds you never forget. The sweetness of your toddler’s voice, the off-key perfection of your best friend’s singing, the dependable snore of your snoozing dog.
There are some sounds that are so close to the heart and soul of your life that you never forget them. Sweet, reassuring sounds, like the joy and consolation of your big brother’s laughter.
When the virus hit the United States, Washington State was brought to its knees. Washington is my home state and I live in the Eastern part of it, the part that by comparison, has been dealt a significantly less lethal blow than our west side neighbors. And still, in some fundamental, essential way, each of our lives across the entire planet have been dealt a lethal blow. Within that devastation may come our salvation.
There are some sounds you never forget. The sweetness of your toddler’s voice, the off-key perfection of your best friend’s singing, the dependable snore of your snoozing dog.
There are some sounds that are so close to the heart and soul of your life that you never forget them. Sweet, reassuring sounds, like the joy and consolation of your big brother’s laughter.
Like a lot of children, I grew up with an alcoholic parent. I was the youngest child of my father’s second marriage. My dad was decades older than my mom. In my father’s maturity, my mother found a sense of safety and stability. In my mother’s youth, my father found a fresh start and a lighter heart. What they saw in each other was genuine. And like many couples, what they saw, revealed, and became to each other changed over the course of their marriage.
Caregiving is an ongoing endurance triathlon: swimming in dark, choppy waters, cycling a twisted, rutted road that ends in a cliff hanger, and running in every direction simultaneously. In the beginning, adrenaline and a sense of intensely focused purpose will get you a long way. But as you settle into the nearly completely unpredictable new normal of your life, you may find your energy, patience, resilience and sense of humor more difficult to rally. You may feel exhausted, sad, scared and alone.
If you’re going into this new year with the same old resolutions you’ve made and broken for too many years--get more exercise, lose the first 20 pounds, swear off potato chips, stop dating people who don’t really like the real you, finally quit that job, gym, relationship—it’s time to make another plan. This plan is made up of two simple parts: The first is the present moment and the second is your willingness to show up for it every, single day.
