overwhelm

There’s some kind of overwhelm kicking in.

Maybe some kind of mayhem from this week’s full moon. It might also be that a dear friend’s father died yesterday. Or it could be because I’ve overcommitted myself to too many things over the next week and a half, and I’m looking at the path ahead from a groggy, sleep-deprived stance (last night was a tough one). Then again, I’m certain the state of the world has something to do with it as well. There are just too many things happening to list out there… things that make it hard to breathe, things that make everything feel extra fragile.

And yet, breathe, I must. We must.

Because of this, I’m going to share an old piece of writing with you all this week. It was a poem/love letter I wrote many years ago, in another overwhelmed moment. I happened upon it this afternoon while looking for a recipe, and it made a thunk in my belly when I read it. A meant-to-be thunk.

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You often dream of what you’ll one day be like at the ripe old age of ninety.

If you live that long, you’ll surely be spunky and eccentric, at peace with all of the choices you’ve made throughout your life, ready to embrace your mortality and look toward your next grand adventure.

You hair will be braided into two silvery pigtails, and you will wear overalls stained with garden soil and dried up paint splatters, and big-rimmed hats with fresh flowers tucked in their bands. The young’uns will likely giggle at your quirkiness, but underneath all that, you will be the legacy carried forth in them that invites them to celebrate their own quirks.

The poise that gracefully supports your baggy, wrinkled body and accentuates your laugh lines will not be from running marathons or sky diving or writing best sellers, but simply from living your life fully and completely, heart wide open.

Your great grandchildren will visit, eat homemade peppermint candy, invade your art cabinet, spin around in your desk chair until they’re dizzy, and ask you yet again to tell them the story behind that scar you have on your brow…. about when you climbed up onto the back of a recliner when you were four, pretending it was a horse and that you were the lone ranger, and you rode so wildly and freely (all the while belting out the William Tell Overture), that the chair toppled over and you hit your head on the leg of the piano.

You will regularly take out your photo albums and marvel at all the love you’ve been blessed to experience, perhaps feeling a tinge of grief around those who have gone before you, but also being comforted by an overwhelming sense of gratitude and peace.

Imagine that. Not a smidgeon of regret. No residue of shame. Nothing needs to be added to or fixed. You simply know that all is well, that you did the best you could ever do, and that you were, and are, always enough.

So what are you waiting for, dear heart? What stands in your way of living that life right now, perhaps minus the wrinkles and the silvery braids?

There are times that you’ve waited for it to stop raining before stepping outside. You’ve waited for your desk to be tidier before allowing yourself to sit down and write. You’ve waited to buy an outfit because if you just hold off another month or two (or six!), you might fit into a smaller size, and you’ve waited to look better in a bathing suit before going to the beach. You’ve waited for the sting of loss to pass before you’ve opened yourself to something else. You’ve waited until each word was carefully composed in your head, edited a thousand times over, before speaking up. You’ve waited for approval before daring to be yourself, and for praise before believing in your own worthiness.

And even when your heart was so full of joy and love that you didn’t think you could squeeze any more in, you’ve waited for things to come crashing down on you. You’ve waited for failure, disappointment, even tragedy.

But here’s the thing. You can’t afford to keep waiting. Waiting is a waste of your precious energy. The truth is, you might not live to be ninety. In fact, the average life span of a woman these days is eighty-two (not that you’re in any way average). And while you’d be considered lucky to live that long, frankly, there are no guarantees that you will be alive a week from now.

I know that frightens you. Life feels incredibly fragile sometimes. You are reminded of this each time you pass by a roadside grave, each time another someone you know enters hospice, each time you watch the news, each time you blow kisses at your kids as they walk out the door, conjuring up in your mind an invisible protective bubble that wraps around them and keeps them safe.

But if you keep waiting for things to be easier, or more perfect, or less scary, or if you keep waiting for something bad to happen, you will miss out on so much that’s happening right now. You will miss the oh-so-subtle, mischievous glance that your little man gives you when you’ve peaked his curiosity, or that quick look of love in his eyes in between tantrums. You will not see the ways in which your daughter is growing up into a strong, self-assured, visionary woman. You will take your love for granted, and rather than greet her with smooches when she comes home from work at the end of the day, you will just keep sitting on the couch, watching who knows what, hoping that she will come to you. You will keep a do-not-disturb sign on your innermost thoughts because you will not deem them important enough to give them a voice.

There was a day not so long ago… you covered up your bed head with a scarf and threw your coat over your pajamas in order to take the kids to school when there was a last minute change of plans. You had been running around like a chicken all morning as you made breakfast, packed lunches, threw in a load of laundry, fed the animals, tied shoes, and signed fieldtrip forms. You were frenzied, holding your breath, waiting anxiously for a just one tiny moment of calm that didn’t seem like it would ever come.

As you drove down the road that morning, just as you were crossing the railroad tracks, there it was. A moon so huge and so clear, slightly less than full and hanging from the sky like a picture tacked up on a wall, close enough to reach up and touch every single nook on its surface. A jet flew right in front of it, and you and Noah imagined it was a rocket getting ready to land in a crater right next to the American flag. Clouds blew in quite suddenly, and with the sun still rising, the sky became a brilliant display of pinks, oranges, and purples, brushed on like watercolor paints, making the moon seem even more surreal. Zoe squinted her eyes and drew an alien in the air with an imaginary crayon.

You found yourself breathing again. Deeply. You appreciated that moment as though you had never been gifted one like it ever before… when in reality, you had been given that same gift every single morning, every day, every second, but overlooked it countless times just so that the dishes wouldn’t keep piling up in the kitchen sink.

And here you are, waiting again… for more spontaneous moonsets… for a less voluptuous belly… for your illness to go away so that you can start living again… for more money to drop into your lap…for overalls and gray hair to become chic… for some sort of adventure or some movie-worthy, life-changing event to snap you out of the humdrum of daily routines… for the kids to outgrow their orneriness and insecurity… for a sign of the next amazing thing you should do in your life. And in the meantime, life is rumbling on by like a freight train, full speed ahead.

Breathe, dear heart. Life doesn’t always offer you the luxury of dropping everything to gaze upon the moon. But it does offer you the opportunity to step into the beautiful life whirling before you. This is it. Right here. Dogs barking at people walking down the street, a dusty banjo hanging on the wall wanting to be plucked, the basket of dirty laundry that begs for your attention, garden beds overgrown with weeds in the backyard, squabbles at the breakfast table, love-making when the kids are sure to be out cold after a day of learning and playing and making messes, soaking in the stillness when the house is all yours, never-ending games of Parcheesi, a basket of oil pastels all worn down to nubs, arms that ache and thighs that spill over the edges of your chair.

So stop waiting. Stop putting yourself on hold, and touch this life, hold it up to your cheek, roll it around in your fingertips, taste it. There is nothing more sacred or glittery as this day, the one that is unfolding around you, steeped in dead ends and do-overs and magic you can’t see with the naked eye. And you are already a divine, gritty, and exquisite woman, worthy of it all.