Processing it all

What does it mean to write about trauma in real time? Instead of going to work to avoid processing the loss, the Finder makes the processing her work. She's lost her narrative, but she's writing her own story. Maggie Smith, You Could Make This Place Beautiful

If we lose the vision of our future, all we are left with is the present. And that, incredibly, turns out to be everything.

Being a witness to the present is a constant wrestling with the bland and the beautiful.

This morning I drove my children to and from the clinic. As I suspected, their sore throats were, at least at this point, simply mild colds. During the drive, I was preoccupied with the long-term consequences of my actions. Am I letting them avoid school? What if I'm failing to teach them how to handle discomfort? Will they work hard at their jobs someday or become ne'er-do-well lay-abouts? The aftertaste of Monday's conversation with C's teacher lingered and joined forces with my tendency to overanalyze. I am constantly plagued by self-doubt. This is why, during my youth, I only chose sports where I could perform independently: no need for anyone else to rely on me in case I messed up. But now, as a parent, I have two living beings relying on me for everything! Whoops. Didn't think that one through.

Clumsily and slowly, I brought my attention back to the present. To the beautiful drive through the local land trust, the geese, the tidal river shining in the distance. I asked myself, Am I in pain? Are we safe? Tired, yes, in pain, no. Sure of myself, no, safe, yes. It was sunny out. The children were reading their selections from last night's Book Fair, a curl of golden brown hair escaping at the left temple on each precious head.

I realize it's a little ridiculous to worry about the connection between my children's future professional productivity and a sick day in elementary school. I need to set the bar lower. Life is the accumulation of moments and micro-decisions, which seems like a lot of pressure, but what if the goal is to make reasonable decisions? Not perfect decisions, but decisions that incorporate some amount of logic. The reasonable person standard. Perfection is overrated, and you can never achieve it anyway.

My brain constantly tries to run from the present. After I calmed my nervous system in the car, I started to think about the meaning of life. That's not a joke; I think about the meaning of life a lot. For example: If one of the most important pieces of my life is my family, then why am I royally annoyed when my children aren't in school? Isn't my sole job to be a full-time parent? Why can't I find meaning or joy in this right now? Does that mean my life is not meaningful? Am I missing the point? I'm lost in the gray matter.

A skill I try to practice, borne of a history of deep depression, is to remember Other Self. My Other Self has survived hard times and come face to face with Joy and Awe. Sometimes I talk to Other Self. I remember, as a child, lying in bed and talking to my Other Self in the future, finding comfort in an adult version of myself.

I can't always find meaning or gratitude in the middle of my narrative, especially where my current life is not easily categorized. I don't have a finished brief to file with the court or report to make to a team. I'm not 100% fulfilled, if I'm being honest. It's painfully awkward not to have a to-do list.

My dog just hit the power strip. While I re-started my computer, my son presented me with a new, weird fact: When dogs lick your face they just want you to throw up so they can eat your food. Jesus, what?

Mundane can mean bland, but it can also mean ordinary or of the earth, and I find that reassuring. After the clock ticked to 3pm and screentime began, I put on my old sneakers and went out into the sunny cold to water my plants. This is a multi-step process until I locate a plumber. First, I must descend into our 1940's basement, ensuring that all doors are closed so the dog doesn't sneak in and eat the trash. Then, I climb atop the washing machine and reach up to the rickety pipes to turn on the water via a very, very old knob. The outside spigot is broken, and the inside components sort of are as well, so I replace the laundry detergent with a dirty old plastic container to catch the drips and hope everything holds. It's like trusting a 9 year old to babysit. Could go either way. Then I arrange the white bucket under the outside spigot and set to work moving the hose from the front of the house to the back of the house. Along the way I find the sidewalk chalk, an old beach towel, dog poop, and new sprouts on the butterfly bush. I water the lettuce, petunias, and my thousands of seedlings, and I watch the lupine begin its slow bloom up the stalk, the wings and keels and banners turning purple in circular rows.

I think that writing for me is about making meaning of my life. It's a desperate attempt to say, See? I am here. I exist. It's also a way to understand, make peace with, and move past the difficult, quiet, searingly painful moments. I have no idea whether what I write makes sense, but at least the process helps me make sense of myself. And, I think it's important not to diminish the value of connecting to other human beings through writing. How many times have I read a chapter or a poem or a memoir that saved my life, opened my eyes, or led me into a more vibrant existence? Someone in the past wrote words that linked my humanity with theirs and countless others. You are not alone. I am not alone.