Hurtling towards the end

We are now hurtling towards the end of the year, towards the end that exists at the midpoint of a year.  I wrote about it last week.  Both the calendar and the natural world speak of fullness, of the bright, raucous beginnings of the most swollen season of the year.  And yet everything in me aches with endings right now.  Why am I am so finely tuned to this cadence whose beat I cannot hear but nevertheless feel undeniably in my bloodstream?

The flowers of early spring – peonies, rhododendrons, countless others whose names I do not know – are all brown and faded, either drooping from trees or already fallen and ground into mush on the pavements.  Every day I seem to walk through another puddle of brightness on the sidewalk, underneath another tree that has let its petals go under the weight of too much lush beauty.

The tree outside my window is now dense with leaves.  They have transitioned from the first, tentative shoots of bright green to the deep, shiny green color that will fill my window until mid August.  Last week people in caps and gowns swarmed around my town, and Grace and Whit and I had the same conversation we had the year before about academic regalia, about the orange hood I wore when I graduated from business school, about how isn’t it hard to keep those flat hats on your head?

School ends this week, and I know that event is the central note of the painful drumbeat of farewell to which every day is set.  As I did last year, I will take my tear-stained face and camera full of photographs of my children in white and escape immediately to Storyland.  We will hide out in a place that means a lot to all three of us.  A place where I say yes.  A place where magic blunts the loss that limns every moment.  I don’t know many more years Grace and Whit will be charmed by Storyland’s small rides and fairytale attractions, but as long as they are, I will take them.

I can’t run away from the endings, but I can at least take myself – and my children – to a place where for a bit we forget about the closure of another chapter, about the turning forward of our time on earth.  Of course when I’m there, I have to try not to wonder if this will be the last time.  My deep and fundamental awareness of life’s transience comes with me no matter where I go.  The challenge is to not let it overshadow the moments of extraordinary joy.  Like when I hear Grace and Whit squeal with delight at the gate of Storyland.  So I won’t.


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6 Comments

  1. Posted June 4, 2012 at 4:58 am | Permalink

    I’m glad you won’t, Lindsey. Aand my guess is that you will continue to find wonder in it all, every day.

    My hope is that we all will. Thanks for shining a beautiful light on it all.

    XOXO

  2. Posted June 4, 2012 at 9:50 am | Permalink

    Oof… I just confronted an end of an era myself and wish I were still living in it… Here’s hoping for exhales. In other news, Storyland makes me grin.

  3. Posted June 4, 2012 at 10:59 am | Permalink

    Storyland sounds like fun 🙂 Sometimes I feel like as a parent, I have the chance to be a tourist in a much more satisfying way–getting to know my own town, and all its attractions, from a wonder-filled kid’s perspective. Yes!

  4. Posted June 4, 2012 at 11:17 am | Permalink

    I heard a passage that I think would resonate with you – from a TV show (Touch) of all places. I had to write about it this weekend because it’s so apt for me right now.

    The universe, from atom to galaxy, is in a perpetual state of flux – but we humans don’t like change. We fight it. It scares us…so we create the illusion of stasis. We want to believe in a world at rest – the world right now. Yet our great paradox remains the same. The moment we grasp the now – that now is gone. We cling to snapshots, but life is moving pictures. Each nanosecond different then the last. Time forces us to grow, to adapt, because every time we blink our eye, the world shifts beneath our feet.

  5. Posted June 13, 2012 at 6:15 pm | Permalink

    I’m so sorry about Grace’s broken clavicle, and I hope that Storyland helps! We love Storyland too. One of my favorite pictures of my daughters is in Storyland– they are holding hands, walking away from us, perfectly happy. Have fun!

  6. anneliese
    Posted June 14, 2012 at 3:16 pm | Permalink

    I used to be like you, clinging to the moments, stuck in a web made of the time that I was uncomfortable leaving behind. I liberated myself from grandmother fear with this beautiful, undeniable truth: that the vastness grows more complex and more gorgeous with every passing day as a woman, as a mother: that the best is ALWAYS (in) becoming. I am now the proud granddaughter of joy, and can let go, and hold on to all moments with a firm lightness, imbued by the anticipation of whatever it is that will happen next… with my chin up, sun felt, looking forward…geronimo…!!! good luck, and PLEASE keep writing.