Treelines

 

A few years ago, a family from southeast Asia moved to our neighborhood. When I asked the teenage daughter about her experience coming to the United States for the first time, she mentioned that on arrival she was shocked to see that the landscape was filled with "tall sticks." It was wintertime in Chicago, and the leaves had already dropped from the trees, leaving behind a barren landscape of tall sticks.

I've never forgotten that story, and now that it's January, as I walk my dogs around the neighborhood all I can see are tall sticks in every direction. I can't unsee her version of the world.

I recently took a trip to Vietnam and Cambodia. This wasn't my idea, or even in my top twenty travel destinations, but it was my friend Karen's weird 40th birthday dream, and she somehow persuaded me to be her plus one. One morning on that trip I got up at sunrise to join a group doing Tai Chi on the deck of our boat. The sun was coming up over Ha Long Bay, the landscape lush and otherworldly, and I had the thought that I have never been to a place like this before. It made me think of the teenage girl and the tall sticks. It also made me think about all the hard challenges my family has been through over the past couple of years. Foreign landscapes. 

Traveling around Vietnam and Cambodia necessitated some long bus rides with the other thirteen women in our tour group. On day ten of the trip, once we'd had plenty of time to become friends, I said to the women sitting near me on the bus, "Why don't you tell me your life story?" -which is one of my favorite Billy Crystal lines from When Harry Met Sally. 

Surprisingly, the women began to open up. Then the others sat up and leaned forward to listen, and soon every person on the bus took a turn sharing their life story. That bus ride was a fresh glimpse at how different the landscape of human experience can look for each of us, and I can honestly say I finished the trip with a deep respect for those women. They have been through a lot. 

My trip to southeast Asia turned out to be an unexpected exclamation point on a year of healing. Last spring, I transitioned from being the daily handler and caretaker for my daughter, who is in recovery for an eating disorder, to launching her into the world. The adjustment impacted me more than expected. For two years I've often felt anxious to get home to her, in the same way a new mother feels when running errands without her newborn infant. My Spidey senses are finely attuned to notice her sleep, mood, and food intake. Our house felt unnaturally still after she left, but when I walked my dogs last spring all I could see were green shoots forming on every tree. I've kept that image with me over the past six months. I've needed it. 

Last year I also lost someone close to me. There have been a couple of times in my adult life when I've had the thought that there exist clubs which we know nothing about until we're suddenly thrust into them. The grief club is one of these. This loss remains so raw that I rarely talk about it, even on a bus in Cambodia. I've learned that grief can be sickening, and that it is also a shallow bowl of water that must be carefully balanced so that it doesn't slosh everywhere. For me, grief looks like an ordinary life interspersed with tears in Target and an abandoned grocery cart, and songs I can no longer listen to. 

Last summer, I had the distinct impression that I need to be careful, and work hard and deliberately to ensure that the hard things of this season don't turn my insides to leather. I can't stand to live inside a version of myself that is cynical, guarded, or negative. That is not who I am, but I've become aware that if I'm not vigilant, I will drift into habits and attitudes that erode the best parts of me. This is a choice, and I finished the summer determined to push back. 

For me, this has required a purposeful refocus on spiritual things. Instead of casually, intermittently reading my scriptures, I'm studying them daily, meeting with a friend each week to do a self-guided institute program, and writing weekly goals. Sometimes when I'm out walking or trying to fall asleep, I think of the Les Mis lyrics, "God on high, hear my prayer, in my need, you have always been there." 

These lyrics mean something to me. For the past six months, since my daughter moved out and I've realized I need to make some internal adjustments, I've been openly praying for the hurt to heal. I lie in my bed and think about that Les Mis song, and I pray others' heart will be softened, and as a result mine will too. There is no blame, only a pain so big I can't move it around or put it on a shelf. It's just there, when I drive, when I load my dishwasher, and when I lie in bed and pray. I pray we will all heal. 

The other day I woke up in the dark and stood in my backyard in my red pajamas and my eleven-year old son's Crocs, freezing without a coat, and took pictures of the sunrise behind the sticks in the sky. My daughter, who was sick for so long, is doing well. She is amazing, and I make sure to tell her how proud I am of her every single day. And then there is the other thing tucked away in my heart. I never wanted to be in the grief club, but it has showed me how far unconditional love can stretch. 

This year I'm looking forward to crisp walks, and I'll be keeping careful track of the trees. I'm also running towards good books and longer work sessions. I love to be with people, but I also love to be alone, and I've been training to write some of these things down for a long time. I don't trust shiny fresh starts, but I believe in hard work and gradual healing. All of this amounts to my own little faith story. There is so much ahead, and I feel grateful every single day how our capacity for beauty, love, and joy can help even the tilt. 

Happy New Year!