Sounds like you’re hoping for a miracle.
That’s what my soon-to-be new landlord wrote, responding to my seemingly unrealistic yet unyielding feeling that we’ll be in our new apartment in a few weeks, rather than in August when my current lease is up. She’s right; at this point, the only way this will happen is if a good tenant wants to sign a new lease on my place in the next few days. Unlikely, perhaps, but not impossible. I just have a feeling.
Could I be wrong? Of course I could be wrong. Does that really matter? I can’t remember where I heard this, but I liked it: The worst thing that can happen is nothing. Until something does.
The fact is, I’ve been feeling a bit estranged from myself this past week or so, probably some combination of pms, full-time work, parenting ups, downs, and all-arounds, and an energy of waiting. Waiting for something I can see and feel and taste and smell and hear. Waiting for what’s next. A feeling I also associate with a big dose of self-judgment, even derision. It comes with a red flags ablazing and the word “dangerous.” It smacks of “I should know better, I do know better…” Better than to think life is ever anywhere waiting.
Strip away all that noisy mumbo-jumbo, though, and I see that this feeling doesn’t have to mean I’m simply longing for what isn’t. Strip away the judgment, play two rounds of Mancala with Pearlie in bed, snuggle her and stroke her newly buzzed head and whisper to her that my love is like the air–you can’t see it but it’s everywhere–as she starts snoring, and the flatline of self-displacement blurs into being again.
Earlier tonight, twenty minutes on the phone with Mani also set me right back in my body. It is ok to be waiting. I could smother myself with stories, but that just doesn’t sound very kind. I’d much rather breathe.
Something unseen, at once deeply familiar and completely unknown, is gathering force and momentum; what I perhaps trained myself to treat with suspicion–a vision of the future–can be auspicious instead, coexisting with life as it is.
And this frees me up to experience what I may label “detached” as a kind of peace: The absence of futilely trying to control the current–an exhausting enterprise, to be sure. Just being here. Sensing the energy of this moment pregnant with “next,” and trusting my ability to know when to bear down. Placid waters have a way of crowning around the bend.
Nothing to worry about, really.
And finally, nothing wrong with hoping for miracles, like the two I call my children sound asleep earlier than usual after a full weekend, like the ones that are born every time we hang on and every time we exhale and stop hanging on. Like the miracle of words flowing when I thought they’d stopped, and of voices colliding in perfect pitch and timing. Like spring rain, an afternoon nap. Like laying down the line and lining up at dawn like birds on a wire.
It’s a miracle to even be sitting here, really. To have a vision at all. To have a life I want to live and a love I want to give more and more of. Why I would think this is dangerous is old news. Bring on the new. Bring it on.