“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.
Australia is currently burning with an unprecedented ferocity. Videos of people running for their lives, or desperately sheltering in water, are everywhere. Koalas, those mascots of Aussie charm, along with every other form of local wildlife, have nowhere left to run. Yes, Australia has had its share of fires in its legendary life, but this fire is unprecedented.
For many of us, in any given day, there is not enough time to start what we want to finish, much less finish what we’ve already started. Between the desires and demands we have of ourselves, and the needs, wants and expectations of others, life can sometimes feel like one big To-Do list. At times, the adrenaline rush from all that busyness can feel exhilarating, purposeful and focused. However, prolonged times of actual crisis can feel completely exhausting.
If we are lucky, we come into the world with healthy hearts that pump essential nutrients to our bodies and our brains for the duration of our lives. The heart is one of the most essential organs of our bodies and so intrinsically connected to who we are that it is also an iconic symbol of all that we love, long for, lose and recover throughout life. When we are worried, we call it heartsick, when we are grief-stricken, we call it heartbroken, when we recover life or rediscover it anew, we call it heartening.
Life, as my mother used to say, is “the whole damn glorious story.” She was right. Pared down to the bare bones, there are three sure things in that damn glorious story of life: we are born, we live, and we die. Whatever the actual time we each have, within those years there is a lifetime of learning and yearning ahead of us. And if we dare to risk our hearts, there is a fourth certainty.
Some moments in life shake you to your core and take your breath away. In these moments, the only way out is to find a path through. If you’re a hiker, then you know if you ever find yourself lost in the woods, you should almost always seek to take the path of least resistance to conserve energy and strength. This means stepping over, not up, walking around and not scaling whatever obstacles you encounter.
As I settled into the idea of simply listening instead of demanding to hear what I expected, a space opened up for a new sound to come. It was low at first, and quiet, but as my ear tuned to a new frequency, I heard it clearly. It was the sound of the whoosh of life, as strong and sure as the spring current flowing across the paddle of a kayak, constant as the river that holds the kayaker and his dream.
