today I watched some schoolkids try to cross the road, indulging in the freedom given to them by the parents to cross the road without them, without hands clasped. looking both ways, backpacks strapped to their tiny bodies, a few false starts prompts the tallest, and presumably the oldest girl, to utilize the Law of Life that states that The Oldest Born is the Most Wise and Therefore the Most Responsible by throwing her arm across the chest of the smaller children in her care, halting them from plunging headlong into the nonexistent traffic of Logan St. the same motion my mother does when we try to cross the road now, or when she brakes too fast in the car, a last ditch effort to save me from being propelled forward out the windshield. the same motion I do to my purse, cat, or vase of flowers that have the privilege of sitting in the front seat and therefore closest to being thrown out the front windshield when I (and I often do) brake too quickly.
And I remember that lesson, the lesson of How to Cross the Street.
I remember the day Mom asked me to go get the mail and I walked out the door, down the gravel driveway, across the road to the mailbox, to turn around and retrace my steps back to the house. Handing the mail to my mother, she looked down and said, "you didn't look both ways before you crossed that street." to which I responded with "but I used my ears and I didn't hear anything, and there was nothing in my periphery either," a new word that Carlos had recently taught me in Nutcracker rehearsals meaning to be able to see things out of the corners of your eyes without turning your head around to look and this meant nothing to my mother. She just gave me the look that all exasperated individuals use that says "you know better."
and now I'm my own crossing guard, deciding when it is safe to move forward, or better to stay put, or even when just to inch out a little bit further to see around that bush that nobody has bothered to trim back. it's the small lessons that get you through life.
the past few days have been a whirlwind of lessons learned, emotions double checked, feelings of jubilation with an undertone of relentless fear - of picture taking and hand shaking and food and dancing and long walks on the beach and long nights spent awake worrying about all of the animals and human beings that do not have shelter during big thunderstorms and conversations pertaining to adultish things that you talk about and deal with after one graduates, like What's Next and dealing with stress and benefit plans and insurance and gaining credit and aging and illness and dependency and death and loss and there are things I'm scared of and am not sure I can learn how to deal with, not sure I can make it through and there are many things out there that I can't imagine my life without, yet so many things that I can't imagine would affect me at all, as if the same Laws of Life don't apply to me, in certain situations.
And tonight my heart hurts. tonight my heart aches so badly for things that I can't believe, that I can't comprehend, for things that I don't want to believe, and that I don't want to understand. and I don't know if it is the child or the adult in me that wants to take everything and everyone I love and wrap them in a giant bubble and tie it to my wrist, so that I can keep them safe from the hard lessons, the pain, the uncertainty, the Laws of Life, to float up above my head where I know I can keep them all safe.
And I remember that lesson, the lesson of How to Cross the Street.
I remember the day Mom asked me to go get the mail and I walked out the door, down the gravel driveway, across the road to the mailbox, to turn around and retrace my steps back to the house. Handing the mail to my mother, she looked down and said, "you didn't look both ways before you crossed that street." to which I responded with "but I used my ears and I didn't hear anything, and there was nothing in my periphery either," a new word that Carlos had recently taught me in Nutcracker rehearsals meaning to be able to see things out of the corners of your eyes without turning your head around to look and this meant nothing to my mother. She just gave me the look that all exasperated individuals use that says "you know better."
and now I'm my own crossing guard, deciding when it is safe to move forward, or better to stay put, or even when just to inch out a little bit further to see around that bush that nobody has bothered to trim back. it's the small lessons that get you through life.
the past few days have been a whirlwind of lessons learned, emotions double checked, feelings of jubilation with an undertone of relentless fear - of picture taking and hand shaking and food and dancing and long walks on the beach and long nights spent awake worrying about all of the animals and human beings that do not have shelter during big thunderstorms and conversations pertaining to adultish things that you talk about and deal with after one graduates, like What's Next and dealing with stress and benefit plans and insurance and gaining credit and aging and illness and dependency and death and loss and there are things I'm scared of and am not sure I can learn how to deal with, not sure I can make it through and there are many things out there that I can't imagine my life without, yet so many things that I can't imagine would affect me at all, as if the same Laws of Life don't apply to me, in certain situations.
And tonight my heart hurts. tonight my heart aches so badly for things that I can't believe, that I can't comprehend, for things that I don't want to believe, and that I don't want to understand. and I don't know if it is the child or the adult in me that wants to take everything and everyone I love and wrap them in a giant bubble and tie it to my wrist, so that I can keep them safe from the hard lessons, the pain, the uncertainty, the Laws of Life, to float up above my head where I know I can keep them all safe.
