I’ve been staring at the ceiling for what I think is hours now, waiting for the day to begin. As I linger in my first waking moments, it feels ridiculous to not at least try and be a bit productive. Writing has felt impossible over the past few days, which isn’t to say I haven’t tried. When my fingers hit the keyboard no words appear on my screen and my mind stays blank. I’m guessing it’s a bit of a vulnerability hangover from putting my writing out there whenever I did, a week or so ago. I’d very much prefer to move through the lingering lethargy so that I may continue writing, processing.
I’m wondering if this was just a horrible idea. I’ve told myself for a very long time that I want to share my writing in the hopes of connection, growth and as a meager attempt at sharing my truth to hopefully help someone else. Now, that I did get it started — took the leap and the first step and all of those whatnots. Now, I’m feeling a bit confused with my brain, which is really nothing new. It’s like I took the first step and in a familiar way, my brain is telling me that I’ve done enough, to shut down the show and go back into hiding. Every time I get vulnerable or push myself outside of my comfort zone I fall back on the belief that the next time it’ll be easier. It never is, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I don’t think vulnerability ever really gets easier, maybe we just get more used to walking through the fire. Sometimes I feel like I’ve put so much space between my last vulnerable moment that a new one doesn’t even seem possible, pretty ridiculous thought, eh?
This life is short and we don’t really mean much in the scheme of things. I think about the kind of life I crave, want to cultivate, this life that will inevitably reach an end point. I want to look back knowing that when I saw opportunities to walk through fire, I took them, not around, or above, or under. I believe that all of our moments of fire, even the ones we can’t recognize or see, add to a constant pot of collective, universal growth. When we walk through fire we shape ourselves, we gain experience to sculpt how we react to the world and how we share knowledge as well.
There’s a lot I would like to write about right now, that I probably, definitely, need to write about right now. But that stuff feels really heavy and like I’m not quite ready to write about it here yet, ya know? This is the kind of stuff I must be using paper for; pen and paper instead of a keyboard. That way, for now, it stays safe as it sorts itself out within the pages of my brain.
Instead, I’m going to write about how the sun is currently streaming in through the window on this cold day, encasing fuzzy, little Jasmine in a ray of golden love. When I watch this, my heart softens and things are okay. The way the sun shines in through the window, in this particular apartment, reminds me so much of my parent’s home back in Massachusetts. As I watch the sun stream in and Jasmine’s face shift towards the warmth, I’m there, in Massachusetts. I’m watching the sun stream in on Pebble’s face as she lies, just as she used to, face turned towards the sun. Energy is a funny thing and in these moments if I seek it stilly, I find so much love there. I miss my parents so much right now, and so many others. I’ve always thrived off being alone but the pandemic has reminded that that line of belief doesn’t take in the vital aspect of living, human connection. My mind can wander in so many directions, and I go with it.
Life moves quickly, doesn’t it?
It seems it was only a few short moments or days ago when I was scoffing at my parents requests and running away from anything that brought us closer together. Convinced family was the cause of my suffering, my younger self was less than gracious to the people who have given me everything and so much more. I forgot they were human too, or maybe I just hadn’t learned that lesson yet. I love my parents and I loved them then too, but I took them for granted. I know that lesson would have come to me in some way or another, and perhaps with or without the pandemic I’d be left with this feeling. A feeling of space I guess, of moments I thought I was too cool to bear witness. You hear people talk about how tragedy touched their lives and more often than not, they won’t finish the thought without the ominous warning that they never saw it coming.
Of course we never see it coming, even when we do. I think grief just works like that.
I know things now. Armed with the knowledge that my parents are human and that I could never be too cool for them, because they are both infinitely cooler than me. Distance is hard and the pandemic makes it feel that much harder. I’m reminded today by my early morning thoughts, to never forget those moments, the moments I let wash away and the moments of love. To hold the ones I love closely, fiercely and if I can’t right now, to hold them in my words and thoughts.