Hang on to our lives!
The expression, “Hang onto your hat!” is thought to come from the 1900s and alludes to a wild ride on a roller coaster. An alternate meaning is to prepare oneself for tumultuous or surprising news. These days, the Excitable States of America is taking us on a roller coaster shakeup most of the world wishes we were not on.
I’ve been asking myself, can I keep in touch with what’s going on without the roller coaster throwing me right off any serenity I’ve ever managed to work toward? I flick through CBC news, BBC, and The Guardian and flinch. But, as a friend has reminded me, “These are historic times. Think of World War ll. We can wish this wasn’t happening in our lifetime, but it is. It’s important to bear witness.”
Limiting the amount of my exposure to world news is a way of protecting myself, however, I’m wanting something much shinier. My stopgap answer will likely be different every week, but here goes.
Recently I was visiting family in Vancouver. My granddaughter, Luisa, aged 3 ¾, asked if I could read to her after supper. Pretty much my favourite thing ever! “Let’s curl up on your bed, Gramma.” So Luisa went off and came back with several books. The two cats who were sleeping by the pillows, didn’t think highly of this. We offered to share the bed but the cats stalked off in disgust. Every other time, I’ve read to her. “This time, I’m going to read to you,” Luisa announced.
“Sure, that would be lovely,” I said. “You read to me.” We curled up together.
Luisa has obviously been read these books so often she almost has them down by heart. So page by page, she read to me. Once when I made the mistake of cutting in with the words, she said imperiously, “Not you!” I was, however, supposed to intuit that when she jabbed her finger at the page, she needed a tiny reminder. I figured it out, eventually. Two or three words from me, I’d pipe down, and she’d be right back on track. We finished the first couple of books and she went back for more.
That night, as I listened to my granddaughter read aloud, I was aware of a large golden ball of happiness falling upon me. Luisa’s bath was coming up; we had a limited amount of time. And it was fine. It was perfect. This was our time together and she was utterly absorbed in the stories and delighted with herself that she was able to share them so well. Gramma was, of course, saying, “Good job!” at appropriate intervals.
I did wonder about the final kids’ book she brought in, Bob Dylan’s, If Dogs Run Free. The words were more challenging than the other books for young readers. We got to around page four, and Luisa obviously didn’t remember what to say. The double-page spread of a park and playground showed lots of action, though. Luisa pointed to pictures of kids swinging, and dogs drinking, children going down slides, multiple different activities. She zoomed around the pages with her finger and named them all. Three times. After that, she shut the book firmly and announced, “The End,” the way she’s heard me do countless times. Which made me want to fall off the bed, laughing, but her dad announced, “Bath time,” so I contented myself with, “Hey, that was great.”
Reading with my granddaughter was a treat, shiny as the top of a glazed crème caramel. But we can’t eat dessert all the time. My daughter and her family live a two-hour ferry ride away from me on Pender Island. I won’t drive in Vancouver anymore—the drivers are too aggressive for this country mouse. I’ve learned to take buses, skytrains and Ubers. It takes me an arduous half a day’s travel to get in and read with my granddaughter. I’m looking for everyday wisdom, small magics.
Back home, a friend called and said, “We have to hang onto our lives.” She was coughing disconsolately, dealing with a nasty sore throat. We’d been speaking, or more accurately, she had, about the state of the world. The idea of hanging onto our lives greatly appealed to me. That I could get behind. That’s sparkly. Which led me to ask how exactly do I make that happen?
My friend and I spoke about spending time outside; forest bathing or simply walking along a city street, a sea wall or hiking along a beach. Being in nature restores my soul. My pal, who lives in Maple Bay, was phoning me from her daily walk. She’d discovered fawn lilies in bloom. I had just thumped my way up the street on a short walk with the hiking poles my physio suggested I use, and I had rejoiced mightily in the moss. Even beside the road, moss on rocks foamed up in a brilliant green display. And trilliums were blooming in my garden. It’s been cool here and rainy on Pender Island
Is affirming my interconnectedness with nature and other people one of the magics that will allow me to deal more spiritually with the extraordinary times we’re suffering through? I’m thinking about the number of my friends right now who are dealing with painful circumstances: grown children who disown them, alcoholics creating drama, serious illness, moving, and how touched I am by my friends’ kindnesses and courtesy, the sheer dignity with which they conduct themselves. I so appreciate them. Somehow, opening my heart to the love I feel for them also connects me with the moss, trilliums, fawn lilies, and my family.
Rumi says, “Why struggle to open a door between us when the whole wall is an illusion?”
How are you hanging onto your hat these days?
Bless you, Joy! And thank goodness we do have those creme caramel moments! As you say, these are part of our process.
I always appreciate the balance of life's experience that you present, Zoe. "We can't always eat dessert," as you say, but oh, how wonderful that those moments are part of our process too. Cheers!