Transience
I’ve mentioned before how the view from our 20th floor apartment is mostly concrete with a few shrubs thrown in along the banks of the Chicago River, that ribbon of water that serves as our most trustworthy source of nature (and thank goodness for it).
This morning, the river was how I love it most, which is still. And this is why- because when the river is still like this, it shows me what we so easily miss. We look at these trees all the time without clearly seeing, as they blend in with gravel of the railway yard behind them. And yet, on a morning like this, there they are, announcing themselves.
There has been a construction project slowly brewing out our window for a few years now, and it’s finally picking up with an intensity that means ‘THIS IS ACTUALLY HAPPENING.’ There is the base of a red crane and concrete being poured with a steady stream of construction vehicles coming in and out each day.
And this makes me sad, as you will see below- we are about to lose this section of our river view, including this glimpse of reflected trees and their stark branches, and the way they catch my eye on a winter morning.
We have so many moments in life like this, don’t we? Images that are present only because of the circumstances that are allowing for them to exist in that brief flicker of time, made even more seemingly ephemeral since, in a short amount of time, we likely won’t be able to see this part of the river at all.
Where else are these moments appearing? In my old blog posts, I sense an energy that I wrote from in my late 20s that feels slightly out of reach now, as though it was a fun holographic version of me. I’ve been thinking about this as I go through these posts and get to enjoy myself again, like an old friend breathing life back into a room. It’s not necessarily that I am not fun now. But life certainly is different. Parenting offspring into their teenage years can be a joyful process, though it feels at time like some of that joy leaves your personhood in the process, maybe slowly infusing into the bodies of the humans you are raising. I am okay with this, though I am cognizant of how the daily loading and unloading of the dishwasher and discussing soccer practice carpools and quizzing on AP Human Geography vocabulary has led to a slow turning inward of my own spontaneity and playfulness in place of this role of mystic stoic, ready to receive whatever energy my children are bringing in. Maybe life was skipping along and I had more awareness before getting trapped in the sticky tar of staying home for two years during the pandemic, and I never fully shook it off. I see how this could have happened.
And let’s face it, the world is heavy now. As much as I try to protect my energy so that I can direct it in appropriate ways to the causes in need of support, it still feels like a constant onslaught of chaos and fear and suffering. Being off of social media, the combination of world strife and sensational news reporting (for the sake of being sensational) still finds me. When NBC broke in with breaking news last Tuesday night as we were watching Olympic figure skating to show the video of the masked intruder who kidnapped Nancy Guthrie peering into her Ring doorbell camera, I was pissed. The news story is awful, yes- and the way it broke in on a casual viewing of Olympic coverage, giving us no ability to opt out of images that instantly turned my blood to ice, made me angry. Even when we are consciously trying, it can feel impossible to set boundaries that protect our energy in this present day.
I am in a writing group that met this morning, and the theme for discussion was magical realism, particularly in its ability to help us metabolize current world events. We spoke of how the linear story line is heavy, and how our lives also are so linear, but that inserting some magic allows us some space and frees up some of that weight so as to see the situation differently. It made me think of what I can do with my own writing, as over the past year and a half I have been writing and writing and writing, yet when I go back and read some of these writing sprints, as I did this afternoon, I realize that it’s often me bemoaning the same things, over, and over, and over again. Perhaps my mind has been stuck in this linear rut. Perhaps it’s time for me to add some magic back in.
I found this writing piece that I wrote last January-
“January is bearing down on us; a thick layer of oppression, which at first felt somewhat inviting, and now is a houseguest who won’t leave, and I am confused by my feelings. I don’t want to go outside right now. The thermometer read zero when we got up this morning. In this respect, I snuggle into January like it’s the coziest, most inviting space I’ve ever been in, just me, a blanket, and a book. But yet, I realize that this line exists; the problem is that it is a line that is never static, it shifts each day. It is also invisible. What works for me one day in my solitude backfires on me with a vengeance the next. Me dripping in isolation and depression, convinced that I am all alone in this world. And thus, in January, it is a dance of awareness, each day, feeling about with eyes closed, for this line.
I know that this January experience is not just me. It’s almost everyone- at least everyone in the midwest. I look at those of you in warmer climates with envy. Though- maybe January happens to you too. Maybe it isn’t just the cold, but the time of year. Post holidays, revving up for the year. and It just makes us…weary. Tired. Forlorn. ”
I chuckle at this a bit now because, oh my gosh, Lindsay, way to be super emo here. Though it’s easy for me to pass this judgement now, on February 15th, after we have had a few days where the sun has been shining and the temperatures have brushed up against the fifty degree mark. It’s funny how just that burst of sunshine can bring in a wave of wisdom and perspective, when just a week ago I was back in the same place I described in January of last year.
So what am I saying in this post today? I am saying that moments flicker and change. I am saying that the times feel heavy. I am saying that I wish we could all feel lighter. I am suggesting that we look for some magic to ease us out of the ways that life is a slog. Look out the window and see the reflection of the trees in the river. Notice how the reflection shows you more of the trees than the plain view before you. And when you spot that beauty, make sure to stop and savor. For once the breeze picks up, it will be gone.
