And we talk and take in the view
We just talk and take in the view
When The Kid was young–but old enough to be speaking, and wasn’t–his therapists told me to talk to him. Constantly. Like, narrate everything that was happening. Which was…not comfortable for me? Because I know people who fill every square bit of silence with words, and I do not enjoy these people. (I prefer to fill every square bit of internet with words. Thank you.) But it was for my kid, and I’m a hero, so I did it: talking my ass off about the trees we drove by or whatever. He would look at me from the backseat, and I was pretty sure he wished I would shut up.
Now, though? Now he’s the one doing the narrating. He learns all he can about a topic, or a situation, by asking questions (so many questions) or watching videos or reading until he’s basically an expert on that subject, and then he recaps it for everyone in the vicinity. The other day, before Extreme Lockdown 2.0 happened, we met some friends in the park and he gave one of the other moms a briefing on…architecture I think? And when he walked away I told her about it, how this is his way of conversing and connecting, and I watched her eyes change as she understood.
I hear people’s voices change as they understand–as they hear the story, because stories change people. A friend called (gasp! Phone ringing?!) the other night to share their own story because of something I’d written about TK, and it was a story I hadn’t heard before and yet had. Every story is a glorious retelling in one way or another because we know–and can, when we really look, somehow find ourselves within–them all.
Here’s one of mine: crushing losses of identity giving way to something better. That story was what led me to New York. It was what changed me from the mother I’d planned to be into the one I am, hopefully, becoming. Last week, it was what happened when I came home from a run with a suddenly injured foot and a plan to rest it for a couple of days then resume normal life–specifically, the runs that keep me feeling like myself, or at least the sanest version of myself. So after a regime of rest and heat and expectations, I set out for my Saturday morning run and, a few strides in, realized I would not be making it even around the corner. I hobbled home, defeated. The thought actually formed in my mind: But who am I if I can’t run? I needed the boost to my sense of self, the rush of endorphins that would sustain me for at least a couple of hours, the assurance that I’m not that old and infirm and out of shape.
I swam instead. Through clear water churned by a rough wind. It was not exactly the same, but it was not less. It was just different.
There will come a day when I can’t run anymore, when everything else upon which I’ve staked my identity will fail or flounder or disappear. It’s a story told and retold over the years. It makes me cling too tightly until I remember what Anne Lamott said: “Every single thing I’ve let go of has claw marks on it.” And my hands? They’re not in much better shape from the gripping.
The good news is that I’m starting to feel the clinging, the clawing, the gripping: when I’m relying too much on dopamine surges from social media likes; when I’m demanding a structure to the day that eludes it and me; when the kids aren’t behaving the way I thought I’d ordered to be programmed into their factory settings. I feel the surge of frustration, the anger that can both define and undo me. And I’m learning what to do about it. What story to tell in the face of it.
It’s usually pretty simple–it involves a glass of water, or apologising to The Husband for being a bitch about the vacuum cleaner, or walking away, or taking deep breaths. Dwelling more on Little Brother’s faithful grin than the fact that he and TK haven’t finished writing their fucking sentences yet. The universe expands a little–my corner of it, at least. And with it, my story.