let everything happen to you
it’s on the fourth of january that i am often the most reflective. thinking about the grace of being alive, reflecting on the privilege to have known so many, and to be known by few.
this little girl turns 47 today. i’ve thought about her often over the last year. how joyful she was, how silly she was, how curious. sometimes when i’m driving alone i imagine her sitting next to me, that same glint in her eye and eager joy in her smile. i’ve grown fond of her, of carrying her childlike wonder with me as i move through my days.
i have been thinking, too, about the stories she would come to know, the ones i’ve carried with me, that have formed me, shaped my character and my way of being in the world. i think about old stories that i’ve clung to, their lessons i’ve needed to remember in order to get through hard seasons. that grief must have its due and that i mustn’t cling to it for too long. that love will come and go and come again. that friendships are not always evergreen. that the most important people in your life have agency and though it might be disappointing to know how they use it, you must let them. some lessons have offered false protection, too. shame coming disguised as prudence, quieting me, capitulating the narrative that my needs and voice need not be heard.
“let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
just keep going. no feeling is final.
don’t let yourself lose me.”
— rainier marie rilke, book of hours, i 59
we’re like matryoshka dolls, versions of ourselves layered upon versions of ourselves; degrees of glory that have shaped us through both beauty and terror, through the sacred and the profane. the lord is tender and patient with us. if we keep going, if we don’t let ourselves lose him, we’ll move through the waters and come to know something more of life and love. the past doesn’t disappear as we age, but if we were attentive, we will let it grow us toward wholeness and holiness.
i’m ever and always maturing—sometimes slowly, sometimes at a pace that feels discomforting. i read a fifteen year old blog post and thought that i’d arrived to something. i laughed at myself for my naïveté. these days i’m thinking about offering kindness, grace, patience, a relaxed presence—toward myself and others. i think it’s what we all need. it’s what i’ve always needed, but haven’t always been given.
i sometimes tell her that life will be harder than she knows. but i also remind her that it will be beautiful and holy, even when it hurts. in 40 years, i hope i can look back on myself with this tenderness, inviting my younger self to ride shotgun. i hope we laugh together, i hope we look back on all the life we have lived and are astonished at what a kind and merciful god has brought us through.
