Am

Somewhere between grief and forty-one

Charlie and I played a lot of hide-and-seek when he was a toddler. As the seeker, he would count to “free” and yell out, “Are, are you?” as he looked for me. 

On my turn I’d count to ten extra slowly to give him time to hide. Narrating as I looked for him, “Are you behind the couch?” Always careful not to glance in his direction. 

“Charlie? Are, are you?” I would playfully call.

“Am!” He’d shout as he jumped out of his not so hidden, hiding spot.

Charlie and I each celebrated milestones this month; he completed 5th grade and will be moving on to middle school in the fall. I turned 41 years old. Forty. One. Phew. This is the fourth birthday I have marked since my mom died; my life forever measured in before and after. Maybe with another four I’ll stop counting. 

Suttle Lake, where I’ve spent 3 of those 4 birthdays

I wrote the first few drafts of a version of this essay last year. I had something very wise to say about being on the other side of a midlife crisis that conveniently corresponded to turning forty. I desperately wanted to tie the last several years up into a nicely wrapped package with my life in order and my grief under control. A declaration that I was on the other side of the worst of the mess. When I was unable to edit that essay into a final draft, I stopped writing and haven’t written much for a year. It was easier to avoid the page than to admit that I was still very much in the mess of it all.

Echoing Joan Didion’s sentiment, “I don’t know what I think until I write it down,” I don’t know what I feel until I write. The page serves as an exit sign for my ruminating thoughts, guiding them out of my head and creating some space for me to inhabit my body. It is in my body where I can actually feel my emotions- an essential step to allowing them to move and metabolize. After the words are released, I can exhale and feel, at least for a little while. 

So instead of writing I became busy. Or tired. Too busy to write. Too tired to write. Living more in my head than in my body.

Work-quake is the term coined by Bruce Feiler to describe a disruption in which you choose, or are forced to choose, rethink, or reimagine what you do in the world. In the space between grief and forty, I was experiencing a full blown life-quake. It had already been rumbling as I moved through the early years of motherhood; my mom’s death was the tectonic jolt forcing me to question who I was in the world.

The aftershocks of my life-quake were endless. I was nostalgic for before- before I had a real job or children or a husband. A time when I believed there were limitless possibilities for my life, countless futures. The loss of my mom followed a year later by a close friend, Lindsay,  compelled me to contemplate the finitude of my own life. I was grieving my very real losses while mourning something less tangible and difficult to name. As I neared forty I began to acknowledge that the multitude of lifetimes that I had hoped to live in my single, human life were much less likely, if not impossible, to occur than I had believed they were in my 20s. 

If I just didn’t have so many responsibilities to so many people across so many roles my life would be easier. Mom, wife, boss, board member, sister, daughter, home-owner. Laundry mountain was never conquered; kids needed to be schlepped to soccer practice, school, dance practice and the ends of the earth; the Zoom meetings and Teams chats never ceased. I was dragged through each day in a current of obligations. I came to resent every description that could follow the words “I am.” I longed to cry out, “Am,” without any title or description following it. 

Somewhere between grief and forty-one the aftershocks diminished in their frequency and magnitude. The daily requirement to make breakfast and walk the kids to school got me out of bed on the days I didn’t want to and outside when I otherwise might not have. The near nightly interrogation of “How are you really?” from the hubs pulled me back from the edge of total withdrawal. My work in the public sector reminded me that I could still make a meaningful contribution in the world when I doubted if it even mattered. I didn’t always look forward to teaching Jazzercise but I always felt better after moving my body and connecting with people in class. I felt the nourishment of reciprocity through some of my responsibilities that sustained me through the most difficult time. My roles and responsibilities are primarily expressed in relationships to others. It is those relationships that continue to hold me when the ground rumbles beneath me. 

My longing for freedom from responsibility was rooted in the myth of individuality. To be free from responsibility would be to be free from connection to others, the earth, and my community. This seemed desirable to me in my lowest moments but in reality it would mean that I didn;t belong to anyone or anything. Who we belong to matters; not the belonging of ownership but the belonging of interconnectedness. Our responsibilities are often a demonstration of our commitment and devotion to that which we love. I was so busy resenting all of my “I ams” that I was closed off to the vitality that flowed from the reciprocity of all the people, places, and things to which I belonged. 

I want to emphasize the reciprocity of belonging. This is not a call to subservience or submission to everyone in our life. I am not saying anyone should happily fold their mountain of laundry every day while the others in your household leave their socks on the floor. I experience this as a see-saw, sometimes I am up and have more gas in the tank and am therefore able to make substantial contributions. Other times, I am down on the see-saw and more reliant on those around me to carry the load. The see-saw is never static, it is always in motion in relation to our context.

Acknowledgement and understanding of our interconnectedness to all beings is essential to our well-being and a future of interdependent thriving. I experience the fullness of my AM in connection to those in my life, not in isolation from them. There isn’t a day in my life that I don’t wake up responsible to someone or something or a hundred somethings. The weight of them is often heavy but some of them also point to the connections and relationships in my life that frequently help me carry the load. They keep me moored to a safe harbor that I can return to when the waters get rough.

So now with these words set free onto this page, I can sink into my body, exhale and appreciate another year to explore the possibilities that come through belonging. With all that I am responsible for and to, I am also held.