Our Future, As We Had Imagined, Has All But Disappeared
On our way home from a cabin in the woods, I was in a funk, as I always am at the end of a mini vacay as I head towards the never ending to do list. The worst of which is unpacking the bathroom bag. It typically takes me until the next time we go out of town to realize one of my kids has not lost the finger nail clippers as they have been in the unpacked bathroom bag all this time. But who else is there to blame other than the offspring?
This funk, however, was a mixture of stress re: unloading the car, doing laundry and ultimately having to face the fact that I still needed to plan an online ceremony for the 6th graders graduating from my little school I opened seven short/long years ago. Two of the students began the very first day we opened. One of whom helped to paint the first classroom. It’s been seven years in heaven (not anything like the 7 minutes I never experienced growing up as no one asked me to enjoy such a time in a dark closet) and several hours of hell. That hell being an overwhelming grief I have been able to avoid since this whole Covid-19 thing started. I’ve been able to avoid it because I’ve worked day and night to save this little school of mine, to make sure these two kids and the other 45 could finish the year out with some semblance of “normal.”
There is no “normal” here and all those that say we will get used to the “new normal” are full of shit, in my sweet, humble opinion. There are also no coincidences, in my same sweet, humble opinion. Today’s ride home was a reminder of both these opinions.
Tears are rolling down my face right now as I write. Writing is how I’ve often dealt with life crises, but I haven’t written in a long while. In fact, I finished a 60,000 word first draft of a book back in November, printed it off and stopped writing all together. I don’t know why. I just stopped and haven’t thought about that little ole book until on the way home today when my husband asked me to look up a podcast. The name of the guy being interviewed on it was the same as that of my birth father. The book I wrote was that of my birth father too. The grief sank in as I began to wish I could ask him what he thought of all the stuff going on in the world. According to my mother, he was a staunch republican. An attorney. And, as others have since told me, a brilliant one. Would he still be a republican today? I don’t know. I’ll save my opinion and the argument I had in my head with him about that very idea for another time.
What I also wanted to know was if he’d be proud of me. Would he think I was brilliant? I had kept my school together. We are having a ceremony tomorrow and not a single family quit or asked for their money back, although their children have not walked through the doors of the building since March 18th.
I am writing now because I don’t know what else to do besides cry. Not that crying isn’t enough. It’s perfectly enough, it’s just that I realized throughout all of this, I’ve missed the part of me that could show up, throw a few words on a page and feel better at the end of it all. I don’t miss the grieving that has often come with the writing, but I know I have to allow space for it to come in. The entire world is grieving, and I don’t get to skip out on it simply because I’ve been busy.
Tomorrow I am holding a ceremony on a computer screen without hugging the students, teachers or parents who made it all possible. It sucks. My husband and I are also losing our restaurant and another small business that was making some great gains. Our future, as we had imagined, has all but disappeared. We are, like many families, at the precipice of losing everything. Yet, we had everything to lose. There are many who had nothing to begin with. If loss this great doesn’t somehow bring us together and more on a level playing field, I don’t know what will.
As I consider tomorrow’s ZOOMtastic ceremony (insert eye roll here), I think about the future these families had imagined for their children. I think about why they signed up for our little program, run by an extremely introverted director, who has ADD and a high level of anxiety. I think about how my teachers stood by me through this time and jumped right in to make tomorrow not only a possibility but a reality. And with the grief, I hold a gratitude and one I’ll never be able to express fully to all who walked through these past days, weeks and months alongside of me.
As hard as all of this is, I trust and know that without loss, there is no gain. Without sickness, there is no health. Without hell, there is no heaven. I am patiently awaiting the balm in Gilead, and for a vaccine or herd immunity or whatever it takes to be able to breathe mask-less again in public. And, more importantly, to be able to hug anyone who’ll let me.
What does my birth-father think of me? I’ll never know, but I can guess. What father doesn’t think his child is brilliant? And the students graduating tomorrow? They, too, are brilliant. And although the future their families had once imagined for them has likely and significantly changed, these kids will do amazing things. They, too, have everything to gain. I cannot wait to see what they do to change the world into the place they deserve, the place we failed to create for them.
Until the next day like this.
