My New Roommate
the couch surfer I didn't know I needed
A phrase came to me last week that is now living rent free in my brain. I’m really okay with it being there, I lent it my couch to sleep on and gave it an extra toothbrush. It is kind enough to wake me up in the mornings. When my attention drifts off and I begin to miss the moment before me, it taps me on the shoulder and announces itself boldly:
NOW WAITS FOR NO ONE.
It pulls my mind back to what’s happening right now. I’ve begun to see the gravity of moments in a way I hadn’t before. I think the phrase moved into my head while I was moving into this new apartment. This space and all the love that fills it is something that I’ve long hoped for. But the actual moving process was arduous, draining and at times I lost sight of what was actually happening. The Dream Train was arriving and I was about to let it leave the station without me. I was allowing temporary inconveniences to cloud the beauty of the overall picture.
This happens to a greater extent when we experience something traumatic. Some of us hold onto painful moments and their narratives far longer than necessary.
The mind is eager to help you recall these difficult memories. This is a cruel form of time travel, we can’t exist in two places at once, so the mind steals from the current experience, eating it up as fuel. Who then is driving this doomed expedition? In my experience it is almost always fear: fear that one is missing something, fear of not being enough, the simple fear of what will happen if. When fear is in the driver’s seat, we are headed towards the part of the railroad where the tracks disappear off a steep cliff. Old wooden boards are nailed across the gaping hole. A rusty sign reads: STOP NO ENTRY, yet the train car is rattling right towards the brink!
And my dear roommate appears, as if from thin air:
NOW WAITS FOR NO ONE.
Poof! Suddenly the veil falls, leaving my current experience before my eyes.
I had my parents over for Mother’s Day. My parents are avid walkers, so we strolled around my neighborhood at sunset, hitting all the best viewpoints. For dinner I made zucchini, frozen pizza and grain free lemon bars (eclectic, I know). Joey fell asleep on my lap during the meal and the citronella candles protected us from the looming threat of mosquitos. I knew that it was magical and important. Back in 2009, my family convened for Mother’s Day in a hospital. More specifically, when my Dad and I showed up to visit my Mom, we were told she had been transferred to the psychiatric ward for a 72 hour lockdown. We were allowed a short visit, so I clutched my pastel flowers and walked silently down a long hallway. When the three of us huddled together in the outdoor rec area, fencing covering all four sides and the sky, we didn’t talk much. There weren’t words to describe how we all felt. We didn’t know the road ahead. My Dad and I certainly didn’t know we would almost lose her multiple times in the next few months.
Growing up, the day my Mother first got sick (April 16th, 1997) was always commemorated as a dismal anniversary. 1 year, 4 years, 7 years, 11 years. While the passing of time needs to be honored, it took me a long time to learn that I could hold these dates in my mind with non attachment, rather than allowing them to have power over me.
With this ingrained sense of date importance, the hospital memory haunted me when Mother’s Day came around. I’d dredge up the feelings to reinforce the narrative that I thought made me who I am. I’d remember the flowers and remember the confusion. Remember and remember until I almost forgot that my Mother was still here, she made it.
Eventually I came to understand the skin I was clinging to had been shed years ago. The only thing I was doing now was holding it up to block my own light.
This year I remembered the Mother’s Day ordeal as an afterthought. It popped into my mind when I was on a walk just 12 hours away from the day. Wow I thought. It felt as if it occurred in another life, which in many ways it did. Rather than giving into the narrative, I turned to gratitude this time. Because those experiences gave me more than just the persona of a caretaker, they taught me that recovery comes even when you least expect it.
Healing comes with time, if you can embrace the passing of it.
That is the beauty of this lifetime—it will continue to progress. We make the choice to go with it or push against life’s inevitable forces of change.
This means you must leave your shoes in the grass and wade into the river.
The mud and silt is felt underfoot, every so often a fish grazes your leg. The water is thick enough that you can’t see the bottom and that’s for the best. We like a degree of mystery. The current pushes past you and you are there to feel it all. You can’t hold on to any piece of the river, but you have no need to grasp: you are fully within it. The sunlight sprinkles through the treetops forming golden drops on the rippling surface. They too come and go. If the current carries something away, it happens with the understanding that everything is flowing.
Just like the river, which continues on no matter what, now waits for no one.
I intend to be in the river, waist deep for as long as I can.
Yours,
James
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absolutely stunning words. thank you, as always, for sharing <3