Everything Is Temporary
I haven't written in a long time because I have been too busy living. I've laughed. A lot. I've smiled. A ton. I've visited and chatted and hugged and giggled and hiked and skied and shopped and relaxed. When my 40th birthday rolled around in February, I partied. I DANCED (for seven hours straight in super high heels). In these past few months, I have loved. Strike that. I've LOVED. I have done JOY and done it wholeheartedly. It has felt so darn good.
About a month ago, I had a little person in my office who had big feelings. They sat in the grey "Take a Break" chair and cried and breathed and then they played. I know. It seems "wrong" to get to play after you have a tantrum, but that is how they heal themselves, I think. This day, this little person, like so many of my little people, was drawn to my Buddha Board. This therapeutic tool allows one to dip a brush into water, make strokes onto a magic board, that disappear after time. When I worked with adolescents, we would talk directly about that metaphor; they could draw their problems and after time they would disappear. I don't have that conversation with little people, but it is as though they instinctively know. They draw their hearts on that board and watch those feelings float away. Just like the big kids, they seem to learn that nothing really ever stays the same.
Everything is temporary.
Everything.
Even the worst, most awful, most terrible things.
Approximately one year ago today, I was fighting for my life. I would do all of the things that one does when they are a professional and a mother. I would put on the brave face and take on the world. I smiled. I laughed. I even did joy a little bit...or at least, I tried.
At night, though, when I would go home, I would crawl into bed and I would cry. I would cry the kind of cries that make no sound. I would have tears stream quietly down my cheeks and I would just simmer in sadness. I would think about how if my life ended, I would be okay with that. I didn't have the energy, drive, determination, or desire to end my own life, but I had no fear of death. I wanted it. I wanted to fall down into a hole and cease to exist. I felt lonely and alone and ugly and undesirable and hopeless.
Everything is temporary.
Today, I can hardly believe that self is the same me. I'm so glad she hung in there, because one year later, I am the embodiment of happiness. I am more alive than I have ever been in my entire life. I am more confident than I have ever been in my entire life. I am more joyful than I have ever been in my entire life. And, most importantly, I love better than I ever have in my entire life. I literally love everyone in a way that I didn't even know I could love. I love harder and louder and with reckless abandon. I'm not afraid to say all the words that bubble up out of my heart. I'm not afraid to hug people I love. I'm not afraid to let most other people love me. And the result is a life I couldn't have dreamed was possible one year ago today.
Everything is temporary.
Everything.
Even the best, most amazing, most wonderful and exciting things.
That thought always lurks at the back of my mind. As I live this life as out loud as I can and with all the love I can muster, I know that this could all end. It will all end. Jason Isbell sings about this in his song "If We Were Vampires:"
Only...
Everything is temporary.
If I learned anything in this life, it is that you cannot take things for granted. Relationships, health, wealth, life, love...you just never know. You really just never freaking know. I could waste my days being paralyzed by the fear of all of the "could happens" but then I'd run the risk of missing out on the right now. And right now is pretty awesome. Amazingly awesome. Breathtakingly, overwhelmingly awesome.
This feeling. It's totally worth the risk.
And, if I haven't told you lately, I freaking love you.
About a month ago, I had a little person in my office who had big feelings. They sat in the grey "Take a Break" chair and cried and breathed and then they played. I know. It seems "wrong" to get to play after you have a tantrum, but that is how they heal themselves, I think. This day, this little person, like so many of my little people, was drawn to my Buddha Board. This therapeutic tool allows one to dip a brush into water, make strokes onto a magic board, that disappear after time. When I worked with adolescents, we would talk directly about that metaphor; they could draw their problems and after time they would disappear. I don't have that conversation with little people, but it is as though they instinctively know. They draw their hearts on that board and watch those feelings float away. Just like the big kids, they seem to learn that nothing really ever stays the same.
Everything is temporary.
Everything.
Even the worst, most awful, most terrible things.
Approximately one year ago today, I was fighting for my life. I would do all of the things that one does when they are a professional and a mother. I would put on the brave face and take on the world. I smiled. I laughed. I even did joy a little bit...or at least, I tried.
At night, though, when I would go home, I would crawl into bed and I would cry. I would cry the kind of cries that make no sound. I would have tears stream quietly down my cheeks and I would just simmer in sadness. I would think about how if my life ended, I would be okay with that. I didn't have the energy, drive, determination, or desire to end my own life, but I had no fear of death. I wanted it. I wanted to fall down into a hole and cease to exist. I felt lonely and alone and ugly and undesirable and hopeless.
Everything is temporary.
Today, I can hardly believe that self is the same me. I'm so glad she hung in there, because one year later, I am the embodiment of happiness. I am more alive than I have ever been in my entire life. I am more confident than I have ever been in my entire life. I am more joyful than I have ever been in my entire life. And, most importantly, I love better than I ever have in my entire life. I literally love everyone in a way that I didn't even know I could love. I love harder and louder and with reckless abandon. I'm not afraid to say all the words that bubble up out of my heart. I'm not afraid to hug people I love. I'm not afraid to let most other people love me. And the result is a life I couldn't have dreamed was possible one year ago today.
Everything is temporary.
Everything.
Even the best, most amazing, most wonderful and exciting things.
That thought always lurks at the back of my mind. As I live this life as out loud as I can and with all the love I can muster, I know that this could all end. It will all end. Jason Isbell sings about this in his song "If We Were Vampires:"
"It's knowing this can't go on forever. Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone. Maybe we'll get 40 years together, but one day I'll be gone or one day you'll be gone."All of this loveliness in my life can't possibly stay this way forever. There will be more losses, more heartbreaks, and more sadness. I'm not going to lie... that scares the hell out of me. Sometimes, I think that my heart can't possibly handle another heartbreak. I worry that when adversity strikes, I will crumble. It makes it hard to take a risk with this wounded heart of mine.
Only...
Everything is temporary.
If I learned anything in this life, it is that you cannot take things for granted. Relationships, health, wealth, life, love...you just never know. You really just never freaking know. I could waste my days being paralyzed by the fear of all of the "could happens" but then I'd run the risk of missing out on the right now. And right now is pretty awesome. Amazingly awesome. Breathtakingly, overwhelmingly awesome.
This feeling. It's totally worth the risk.
And, if I haven't told you lately, I freaking love you.
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