第 10 章
The Wisdom That Comes With Time
I wonder if my grandchildren will retain memories of our earliest connections-how I carried them outside as babies to experience the sky and greenery, tickled their faces with flowers, blew dandelion fluff for them to watch, and guided their tiny hands to feel tree bark and ferns. Will they recall my arms around them as I carried them through the house naming objects-"Book. Kitty. Banana"? Will they remember summer nights at three AM when I carried them outside to lie on blankets as I told stories about the stars? Can they envision us turning over rocks looking for roly-polies, our butterfly net expeditions catching katydids, our wild animals with names like Cinnamon and Mint? And how much does it matter that they remember? I remember every one of these things and many more.
On New Year's Day at sunset, Jim and I walked on Holmes Dam, beneath a silver-pink winter sky with long blue shadows across the snow. The soundtrack of winter-geese flying overhead-accompanied us as skaters, ice fishermen, and sledding children in bright coats dotted the landscape. We observed a little boy in a red cap who, after sliding down the dam, refused to stand up despite his father's offers of help. The scene reminded me of an incident earlier that week when emergency vehicles converged across the lake to rescue a fisherman who had fallen through the ice. As I watched the apricot moon rise over the frozen landscape, I pondered how both stories ended well-the boy eventually stood up and rejoined his family, and the fisherman survived his hypothermia.
By mid-February 2021, a year of pandemic suffering had reached its peak-no vaccines yet, warnings of virus mutations, the second impeachment trial, twenty inches of snow, and temperatures of minus five. I had been yearning for my family so intensely my heart physically hurt. Then one morning, from deep within me, a voice cried out, "Enough." Enough making myself miserable, enough placing the power to be happy in my children's hands, enough waiting for reunion.
During meditation, I contemplated the Buddhist three poisons-anger, ignorance, and attachment. I finally understood that my constant yearning for my children and grandchildren was causing my suffering. I needed to loosen my grip and surrender to what I couldn't change. Connection had always felt like a life-or-death matter to me, but I was no longer that abandoned child. I could choose to stop making myself unhappy by waiting for something that would never happen. I could end my argument with reality and accept life as it is. When this revelation came, I felt a great release-tension flowing from my body, breathing deeper, nightmares stopping.
Two weeks after our second vaccination, Jim and I drove to celebrate our son's fiftieth birthday. This would be our first time hugging Zeke's family and dining inside their house since before the pandemic. When we arrived, we embraced longer and tighter than usual. Standing in the spring-green yard, I took nothing for granted, my blood feeling like champagne, a goofy grin spreading across my face as the slanting sun etched everything with gold. Being back in real life, unmediated by screens, I could once again live in the vibrant stream of the senses. On the long drive home, I decided that while "home" might be the most beautiful word in English, perhaps "reunion" was even more beautiful. Or maybe they're the same word. And there's another beautiful word: "acceptance."
We are palimpsests, our lives layered over ten thousand generations of ancestors, carrying all their trauma, happiness, defeat, and resilience. From genetics, circumstances, and choices, I've developed an identity composed of all my experiences. My story began as a baby watching dappled light through trees. Though dependent on family for love, by ten I knew how to seek loving relationships and comfort myself with animals, rivers, trees, and books. Now in my eighth decade, I've returned to childhood patterns-enjoying family gatherings, waking at dawn to watch wildlife, reading in my hammock until dark, and finding joy in dappled light.
The pandemic took me to my core loneliness, but I learned that deep happiness is independent of conditions-it's a matter of attention. I've learned to control my focus, accept responsibility for my happiness, and find light within. Like my grandmother who survived the 1918 pandemic, Dust Bowl, and Great Depression, I've learned to "make the best of it." Through meditation and mindfulness, I've become more present to beauty and primed for ecstatic experience. Light is my intoxicant-whether watching sunrise over a lake or rainbow bathing with my prism. In my truest moments, I disappear and become one with the light. Dear reader, you too can write your story as a life in light.
