Two years ago, I watched my dad die in front of me.
Twenty months ago, I watched my daughter be born.
A year and a half ago, I watched the world shut down.
A death. A birth. A pandemic.
These things have shattered me, uprooted me. I'm still picking up the pieces, learning how to rebuild my world with a new story set of protagonists, a new set of principles. Most days I don't recognize myself; I feel ungrounded. Things that gave me such stability and joy before -- the love of my father, the esctacy of music -- are gone or distant. With the new demands of parenthood, I have little time or energy to grieve, to process, to think deeply.
On the really dark days, I just sense the darkness, not the healing. Sometimes though, there are glimmers. Some days I see the pure glee in my daughter's eyes and a fraction of that glee seeps into me. Some days I am so tired, so stripped, so run-down, that all I really notice is the way the leaves move gently in the wind, or the subtle brilliance of the sunset, or the radiant greenery: and those small observations make me feel at home.
I often wonder why I write so much, what purpose it serves. Recently I've been rereading some of my old journals: from college and a few years post-college. Reading those old entries took me back, helped me relive those experiences, the ups and downs, the love and heartbreak and adventure from that time in my life. And it was so hopeful. I was buouyed by what I read. I was so happy that I had taken the time to detail all my thoughts and feelings, because the Amy of ten-years-later was incredibly grateful for the warm memories. Yes, there was sadness, and anguish, and anxiety. But my goodness, there was love. A whole lot of love. So much kindess, and friendship, and beauty, and music: and joy! There were so many beautiful people who crossed paths with me, whom I loved and who loved me. How lucky I have been in my life. Things might be hard now, seemingly impenetrable, but I have those lovely memories to reread and relive in my mind.