If someone asked me to paint a picture of my life (why ever would someone do that?), I'd go straight to metaphor. I'd paint a roaring waterfall. But not one where the water rushes over a ledge and free falls into the abyss. One where stone shelves jut out from every angle—an endless cascade of rock bottoms. There would be no frame because it's obvious the edge of the canvas is only the beginning of the bumpy ride.
Once, in an effort to talk me through the end of a marriage that was a disaster of impressive proportions, my dad told me I was in a good position. He said, Well you're at rock bottom, kid. You can't get lower than the bottom. And I took a lot of comfort in that at the time. I couldn't have imagined a life more difficult (or humiliating) than trying to finish grad school while living in my parents basement with my brand-new (to me) daughter's crib in the closet. It was a generous closet—my parents are the kind of rich that means even your guest closet has built-in bookshelves, a desk, and room left for your clothes and your kid. But still. We were not living the dream. My dad was right; I was at the lowest point I'd ever been.
Neither of us could see into the future and know that in just a few years, I'd be rushing to the preschool, past the police cars and ambulances in the parking lot, to find my daughter on a stretcher after her first seizure. We didn't know that a year after that, I'd add cancer to my growing list of physical challenges. We didn't know Donald Trump would be elected, and we couldn't imagine I'd ever utter the phrase: I'm really hoping for a root canal.
But here we are. Rock bottom after rock bottom later, still riding the waves. And while that may sound like something we'd be into, the truth is I'm not good at it yet. Some days I feel like I am pretty good at taking the hits. But the real challenge for me is figuring out how to live in the space between the rocky outcroppings.
Anton Chekhov once said that Any idiot can face a crisis; it's the day-to-day living that wears you out. And when I stumbled across it in a tiny book of big insights, it was as though he was speaking to my very soul.
Any idiot can face a crisis: Whenever I'm hanging off a ledge, people always say things like, I could never do that, and I don't think I could handle that. And I always think (and sometimes say), Yes you could. Of course you could. What other choice do you suppose I have? The truth I don't ever say (because it sounds really dumb) is that the hardest times are actually the easiest times. We have all kinds of instincts to carry us through a crisis. Maybe not the first time; but once you've taken a hit or two—once you realize they'll keep coming and you can't stop them and you can't dodge them—you learn how to tuck and roll.
It's the day-to-day living that wears you out: So there you are. You've survived the last bump, and you're healing nicely. You're back in the water and you like the water. You bought your own boat. You're a river rat! But...like...when you're in the water, you know stuff. You know what it sounds like when a bump is ahead. You know what a subtle change in the color of the water means. And so you're vigilant by default. Your days of blissful floating are over. You analyze everything and you anticipate everything because you cannot unknow what you know. Sure, you could have a few beers and forget about it for a little bit. But that's not sustainable. And also, the higher you fly, the farther you fall. You know that because you've tried it. You've tried everything. And at the end of the day, all you have is an (admittedly brilliant) lousy Chekhov quote to keep you afloat.
And by you, I mean me. But also maybe I mean you. Because if there's one thing I've learned on this crazy ride, it's that everyone has a picture without a frame. We're all white-knuckling from one drop to the next, and we're all doing our best with it. There's no feeling sorry for yourself as you tumble off a ledge, one eye closed because you're scared, and one eye open because you tell yourself you're going to be ready for the next one. Because that's just life. No one said it would be easy. Least of all my dad, who knew the best he had to offer in my (at-the-time) worst moment was to suggest I take comfort in it. And it was damn good advice. Hopeful at the bottom, humble at the top.
But who am I in between? Well I'm kind of a wreck. I know I need to be working on that. I wouldn't be writing a blog post if I didn't know it. But I'm not actually there yet. The day-to-day is wearing me out. If there's shame in admitting it, then shame on me. But here's the thing I know: sooner or later, there's going to be a crisis on the horizon. Another ledge is coming. And you can see me at the bottom, smooth and shining like the polished rock I am.
Once, in an effort to talk me through the end of a marriage that was a disaster of impressive proportions, my dad told me I was in a good position. He said, Well you're at rock bottom, kid. You can't get lower than the bottom. And I took a lot of comfort in that at the time. I couldn't have imagined a life more difficult (or humiliating) than trying to finish grad school while living in my parents basement with my brand-new (to me) daughter's crib in the closet. It was a generous closet—my parents are the kind of rich that means even your guest closet has built-in bookshelves, a desk, and room left for your clothes and your kid. But still. We were not living the dream. My dad was right; I was at the lowest point I'd ever been.
Neither of us could see into the future and know that in just a few years, I'd be rushing to the preschool, past the police cars and ambulances in the parking lot, to find my daughter on a stretcher after her first seizure. We didn't know that a year after that, I'd add cancer to my growing list of physical challenges. We didn't know Donald Trump would be elected, and we couldn't imagine I'd ever utter the phrase: I'm really hoping for a root canal.
But here we are. Rock bottom after rock bottom later, still riding the waves. And while that may sound like something we'd be into, the truth is I'm not good at it yet. Some days I feel like I am pretty good at taking the hits. But the real challenge for me is figuring out how to live in the space between the rocky outcroppings.
Anton Chekhov once said that Any idiot can face a crisis; it's the day-to-day living that wears you out. And when I stumbled across it in a tiny book of big insights, it was as though he was speaking to my very soul.
Any idiot can face a crisis: Whenever I'm hanging off a ledge, people always say things like, I could never do that, and I don't think I could handle that. And I always think (and sometimes say), Yes you could. Of course you could. What other choice do you suppose I have? The truth I don't ever say (because it sounds really dumb) is that the hardest times are actually the easiest times. We have all kinds of instincts to carry us through a crisis. Maybe not the first time; but once you've taken a hit or two—once you realize they'll keep coming and you can't stop them and you can't dodge them—you learn how to tuck and roll.
It's the day-to-day living that wears you out: So there you are. You've survived the last bump, and you're healing nicely. You're back in the water and you like the water. You bought your own boat. You're a river rat! But...like...when you're in the water, you know stuff. You know what it sounds like when a bump is ahead. You know what a subtle change in the color of the water means. And so you're vigilant by default. Your days of blissful floating are over. You analyze everything and you anticipate everything because you cannot unknow what you know. Sure, you could have a few beers and forget about it for a little bit. But that's not sustainable. And also, the higher you fly, the farther you fall. You know that because you've tried it. You've tried everything. And at the end of the day, all you have is an (admittedly brilliant) lousy Chekhov quote to keep you afloat.
And by you, I mean me. But also maybe I mean you. Because if there's one thing I've learned on this crazy ride, it's that everyone has a picture without a frame. We're all white-knuckling from one drop to the next, and we're all doing our best with it. There's no feeling sorry for yourself as you tumble off a ledge, one eye closed because you're scared, and one eye open because you tell yourself you're going to be ready for the next one. Because that's just life. No one said it would be easy. Least of all my dad, who knew the best he had to offer in my (at-the-time) worst moment was to suggest I take comfort in it. And it was damn good advice. Hopeful at the bottom, humble at the top.
But who am I in between? Well I'm kind of a wreck. I know I need to be working on that. I wouldn't be writing a blog post if I didn't know it. But I'm not actually there yet. The day-to-day is wearing me out. If there's shame in admitting it, then shame on me. But here's the thing I know: sooner or later, there's going to be a crisis on the horizon. Another ledge is coming. And you can see me at the bottom, smooth and shining like the polished rock I am.
You're a fabulous writer, you know that, right? Yours is the only blog (is it a blog?) I read. This piece reminds me of something mother always says- that the trick is to hit the high portions of the washboard road called life so you don't feel the bumps so much. I'm not sure that makes any sense, but I'll spend my life trying to figure it out.
ReplyDeleteWhy does it say written by unknown? It's Cara, in case you didn't know, Kimberly
Delete