Nothing is Granted, So I'm Not Sure Why I Keep Taking It That Way
A quick little Advent message
Nothing is Granted
In the early days of COVIDTIDE, after the initial creative bursts of aspirational sourdough, but before Ted Lasso, I found myself longing to do the things I used to complain about.
Having abruptly been sent to our rooms for a year and a half, many of us found ourselves missing that which we never even thought to value - like access to live music, time with our friends, and reliable sources for toilet paper.
I’ve been thinking about those days a lot recently, usually when I am busier than I wish to be. And as embarrassing as it is to admit, I even feel a tiny bit wistful for 2020. Maybe because during that horrible year when the world was on fire and we had to stay home, no one expected anything from me, and since there was so little to do, I was blissfully free from that shitty voice in my head that likes to accuse me of being “lazy”.
But then I think, hold on. Am I really longing for a time in the past when there was less to do, when in fact, I spent most of 2020 longing for a time when there was more to do?
Bodies
I mention all of this because this past week, I spent time with my parents:
My sweet mom, who has a couple cracked ribs due to a fall, and for whom even a ride in the car is now painful; and my dear father, (who uses a wheelchair) for whom every simple venture out of the house is anything but simple. And suddenly I realized how little gratitude I’ve had for the ability to simply hop in a car and go to the store, entirely free from pain (apart from the painfully slow Colorado drivers so high on weed that they never seem to drive up to the speed limit). I never even thought to be thankful for this.
I’ve pondered it here before, but I wonder how we grumbly, glorious humans might spend less time and energy wanting what we don’t have, and more time and energy being actively grateful for these bodies, these surroundings, this time in our lives, and these people. Not one of us gets to keep everything we have now, or all the people we love now or all the able bodied-ness we have now, or the pants size we have now.
Advent
It’s the first day of Advent today - the time in the Christian’s year when we try to wake up a bit, rub the spiritual sleep from our eyes and pay attention in a different way. We cozy up to silence, and sit in anticipation. Nostalgia is the enemy. As is distraction.
And so, my hope for myself this Advent is to stop as often as I can (which, let’s be honest…may not be that often) and think, “what do I have in this moment, that, if taken away, I would miss terribly?” Because what can that kind of question lead to but the deepest thanks?
Thank you body that still gets me from here to there without much fuss.
Thank you ridiculous French Bulldog snuggled next to me.
Thank you HVAC system.
Thank you warm, dry bed.
Thank you eyesight, and hearing, and a heart that beats strong.
Thank you Netflix.
Thank you reader.
I am going through a difficult "season" (Dear God, I hope it's a season) parenting my 13-yo son. Everything feels contentious, though none of it needs to be so. This past Saturday morning we actually managed to cook alongside one another, agree on the music, and end up with a mostly clean kitchen - and I really can't say how grateful I was for that singular, peaceful hour. With that in mind, my focus for the season is to create as many of those moments as possible for us - even if it's just a few minutes per day.
Thanks for this reflection. The paragraph about your mom and dad's health prompted me to write. My wife of 44 years died in February of 2022 from Covid despite vaccination and boosters. I had retired early from a university to become her caregiver. She had multiple health problems and toward the end she could not walk. So I did all her body care and lifted her out of bed so she could sit and we could do things together (like read or color mandalas). Getting through this season is a continued part of my grief and resurrection journey. I didn't know that grief would have so many parts to it (though I sort of knew it would forever 'mark' a person). There was the grief of her dying, the grief of being alone, the grief of sorting 40+years of stuff. On this last part, I gave away her paintbrushes last night to a friend who is a local artist. I gave away a lot of her teaching supplies to a place that helps teachers in underfunded school districts. I asked memorial gifts to go to a school in Uganda where amazing work is done. That all can feel like a lot of virtue signaling. But at a deeper, better level it continues her memory by putting 'bits' of her back out into the universe. Her brushes will still make art. Her violin will still make music. Her sweaters will still warm women who would not have been warm otherwise. And so I sit with all this. I sit alone (but not really alone). Pema Chodron's book "When Things Fall Apart" has been especially helpful - sitting in the quiet in front of my Christmas tree for the second "by-my-self" holiday is hard, but I don't "bleed" quite so much now as I used to. The latest phase of grief is exploring how I want to resurrect into the world around me - what presence and to what things/people/activities do I want to expose myself? I got rid of my landline phone (political calls). I pretty much quit television. I don't do things I don't want to (esp. at church where I got over-used). I do help set up refugee apartments, tho I never meet the families. It is an anonymous act to help people who have had nothing and have suffered far more than me. My hope, is that I will learn to let the unfolding of my new and different life happen naturally - without being forced - which (on my best days) I can almost let happen.