Tonight my husband and I have the good fortune to be in Big Sur, California, for a weekend getaway. We don’t do this very often, so just getting away is wonderful enough on its own, but spending our days and nights on the beautiful and rugged California coast is a gift. We settled into our room and then, after the sun set, strolled up the path way to a soaking infinity tub that overlooks the ocean. We couldn’t see the ocean, of course. Not only is it night time, but the moon was new tonight, just barely an orange sliver that eventually slipped over the horizon. We were left gazing only at the stars (it is REALLY dark here), and there are so many of them visible here. We could even see the milky way. Coming from a small town that lay amid the vast metropolis that is the San Francisco Bay Area, we don’t usually see that many stars. Too many lights below showing people where to go on the ground to see the magnificence above.
Today is the day of the massive terror attacks in Paris. We were blissfully unaware of the events of the day as we spent the afternoon in Carmel near the end of an easy, leisurely drive down the coast.
My husband’s reaction to the news was sadness. Mine was surely sadness, but it manifested itself more as a kick in the stomach. I don’t want anybody suffer the pain and horror and fear and heartbreak that befell this country fourteen years ago, and that on a smaller scale continue to plague us. We read the news shortly after we checked in to our room. My husband was unprepared for bad news. He doesn’t always know how to process it. Who does, really? But I tend to do a little more diving in. I need to gather information and go headfirst into the sadness. I will feel it fully and that’s okay with me.
Out in the pool, sitting in the dark, breathing in the air and the stars and the darkness and the solitude, I couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude. Here we are, thousands of miles away from such a harrowing tragedy, living our little lives and having our little thoughts. There are billions of stars in the sky. And here we are, two people doing nothing of particular importance in the world, which itself has little particular importance in the scheme of things.
We’re so far removed in every way from real life. Even our own real lives.
I think of Maddie. I think of all the anxiety and stress I feel over parenting her. I think of the weekly chats I have with my therapist, who helps me figure out how to process what I’m facing, how to be good to myself, and how to, in both emotional and practical terms, parent both Maddie and my son. You would think my life, my mom-hood, is momentous based on the mental energy that goes into it.
But in moments like these, I wonder. I am one of those in-the-moment, here-and-now, do-what-needs-to-be-done kind of people. I really don’t spend much time pondering the meaning of life, or what is my path to happiness, or much beyond just living my life. I don’t know if it’s my nature or a product of having a special needs kid, which certainly encourages, if not requires, that kind of outlook.
And today, whatever energy I do put into all that, might seem pointless in the grand view of space and time, particularly when the people in Paris, in Syria, and so many other parts of the world are suffering.
I will go home the day after tomorrow. I will struggle with Maddie to get her to do her homework. I suspect I will have to ask her 20 times to take a shower. I’ll cook dinner (maybe) and clean up the kitchen and throw on a load of laundry. The usual stuff. That’s not going away. And I’m not going to give up trying because of my tiny place in the universe.
I will keep trying because my tiny place is mine, and it’s the only one I’ve got. I’ll keep trying because Maddie deserves it. She deserves to use her tiny place to its maximum potential. She deserves a mom who will see it to the end, who will not let tragedy in the world color her view, who will continue to be optimistic and hopeful about the world. A mom who, despite a constant cycle of bad news, doesn’t have a cynical bone in her body. A mom who believes in Maddie, who believes Maddie’s life is destined for greatness, and by greatness I mean love and compassion.
That’s where it’s at. Love and compassion. I will teach her about the world, its beauty and its sadness, and encourage her to retain the immense gifts of love and compassion with which she was born. That tiny spot in the universe makes a ripple, after all. And even if the ripple is tiny, too, a good ripple is worth making.
To everyone affected by the terrorist attacks in France, my heart goes out to you. May you heal fully and find more love and compassion than ever before. We’re sending it to you from my corner of the world.
The Year of Living Hopefully 