Today, I came across an npr story shared by a former highschool classmate—a woman usually hidden away by whatever algorithms command Facebook these days. But for mathematical reason, her post emerged, and I read it, and I met a pair of sisters, and then I followed a link to their family’s tribute to their lost sister and daughter, and there I visited with a soul I’m certain I’ve known for all time, scrolled through journal entries that resonate, saw excerpts from books I have also loved and committed to guidance.
I did not know her, but I know her. I did not lose her, but I know the loss of her. I sat in the loss, aware that as much as so many of us have suffered over the last year, there are still greater things being suffered; and suffering is not unique, but it is always an opportunity for renewed empathy, grace, and action.
Our family is also treading over fresh disturbances in the wheel of time. A year ago, you and I were on our third day of what would become daily phone calls until the end. Every conversation was both urgent and… not at all. Looking back on them, the days and the conversations, I’m aware they carry added feeling and context because I know what happened later. I remind myself not to place burden or meaning on things retroactively. I know who we were then, and they still stand on their own. The question storm (Could I have done more? Could I have done differently? Could I have said the one perfect thing or asked the one perfect question?) really only serves one nagging need to know: how could we have gotten more time?
I try to live in the next questions instead: time for what? For why?
You wrestled that toothy gator year to year, hour to hour, then second to second almost. The list of things you were certain of was short, and the tip-top of the list was clear. “You know what would be amazing,” you asked. “To just wake up and hug my kid every day.” About that, the love and being-there for your son, you were certain.
I could end there. End the post; end my occupation of this “meat-covered skeleton.” (I do hope we all figure out who to attribute this quote to someday.) Wake up, know love, take action. Whatever time you have, whatever time you can unburden from everything else, is for exactly that.
But that would be a disservice to all it can take to reach that conclusion.
On this same exact day, some people, often through no particular choice, fault, or responsibility of their own, experience different things:
Wake up, feel fear, take action.
Wake up, feel rage, take action.
Wake up, feel obligation, take action.
I have also experienced wake up, be depressed, be in inaction, piss the bed, feel shame, feel fear, take action. That’s my counter to any argument that things like hunger or thirst or needing to pee would override “feeling” in the hierarchy of things that motivate action. In my own experience, physical needs can be demoted in urgency for a very long time… even fear can fail us if instinct or experience doesn’t kick in. I’m sure an unknowable number of people have died in the freeze state of the fight-flight-freeze trifecta.
Then I spent a good chunk of my years experiencing wake up, feel dread, spin-the-wheel-for-a-motivating-feeling, feel fear AND obligation, take action. I could dedicate an entire blog to “How to Use Adrenaline as a Bypass for Depression.”
Spolier: it’s a temporary, unsustainable method that will kill you, first emotionally and then physically (if you’re lucky?). Don’t do it (anymore/much longer).
Fortunately, I’m still here. I still get the “wake up” part. Like you, I also want to hug my kid on every one of those days. I want to be alive with her in the world for as long as we are able. That’s rooted a little bit in fear, in the whisper of, “If you die before she’s ready to lose you, it will harm her, give her grief to carry, etc!”
I say to the whisper, “I can’t know what she would choose to do or be or feel in response to my death. Not now. Not later.” Fear subsides; love ascends.
It hurts though, to see someone’s time “cut short.” Maybe it hurts because they had found their truest way of acting on their love (passion, purpose, insert-resonant-term-for-you), and it seems those people should get to keep on doing their doings forever. Maybe it hurts because they didn’t find it, and that strums other cords of tragedy in these bodies. Maybe they were too young to have gotten a chance to know themselves yet. Maybe they died senselessly. Or violently. Or all of the above.
If I wake up, if I am so graced, there is time. If there is time, I can be in the actions that express my gratitude and love. I can seek out ways to amplify the voices and encourage the aspirations and align with the other actioners who are trying to bring us all into a love-enacted wakefulness.
I know I love my daughter and want to express that to her, for my own joy and with the hope that being loved by me is a joy for her. I want to express my support and encouragement, for my own joy and with the hope they provide a firm place from which to fly in the direction of her choosing. I know that every day I get the “wake up” part, I feel gratitude and love, and that is my call to action now.
I have a job. I have bills. I have a neuro-divergent daughter slogging through remote-learning. I have my own neuro-divergences. I have chosen commitments. I have a life partnership. I have responsibility for my white privilege. There would be consequences from my neglect to act on any of those things. A result of those consequences could be diminished freedom, health, or opportunity—not just for myself but for others.
And the ultimate consequence for all failure to act is death.
Spoiler: death comes always and eventually and anyway. If fear of death is justification for the action… it may absolutely, in that moment, be saving your life and giving you more time.
Again though: Time for what? For why?
If we are lucky enough, dogged enough, intentional enough, helped enough, stubborn enough, or privileged enough to get to wake up and know love and be able to do something about that… what else is there want for? Time, at this point, is an undeserved cosmic gift. Whether I have a lot of it or a little of it left. That sentiment pervades the testament to the lost sister. And when I am gone, I hope I am recalled to memory as someone with love and gratitude at the helm.
I don’t know if you would call it tragic that you aren’t here in your meat-covered skeleton anymore, brother, where at least you could wrap your arms around your beautiful boy and show your love to him while you kept working toward your love for… [search return incomplete]. You would have something witty to say here, to acknowledge and bring levity to the truth that you are both not here and that you departed without a full knowing of why you should’ve woken up, known love, and taken action for you.
But I’m awake.
I know love and that I love you.
I’m saying so.