Remembering

On my laptop, dozens of discarded, half-written things. 

An essay about losing myself in the pursuit of pleasure. 

An essay about a friend’s phone call that brought me to my knees. 

Another about a spring, just like this one—a spring that was hot and windy—a spring I’d forgotten.

How many times must I forget, only to be shocked back into knowing? 

Like how, for my whole existence, I’ve been afraid that this world would burn, and yet I’m surprised by the fear anew each time a spark catches. 

Surprised, somehow, by this new drought, this new season of struggle, even when I’ve understood, time and again, that seasons like this come, and they also go. 

At the start of this new year I sat in icy cold water with two sisters and a woman we did not know. 

We were competing: Whoever could stay with the struggle the longest got the prize. 

One minute turned to four turned to eight. The icy water wrapped and released us, over and over, and our limbs were losing feeling. 

The men had long ago surrendered. From the shore they cheered and gaped at something we women innately know: that these bodies of ours were built to withstand suffering. 

In the end the woman we did not know lasted in the frozen river for 11 minutes, but when she came out her body could barely move. We went and huddled in the sauna. But even in the heat, her body was still cooling. 

She started to shake. We sat together as she told us that she was scared. She told us that she could feel ice moving all through her limbs. And we said the only thing we could: breathe. Just breathe. 

But even as we assured her, we gazed at each other, wide-eyed, and realized that we, too, were getting colder.

And there was nothing to do. Except stare. Except surrender. Except breathe.

–

Against all odds, the world is still here. And so am I. 

But it’s more clear than ever that my own body is declining–rippling, thinning, loosening…softening.

How many years have I worked for that softness?

How long have I sought to blunt my sharpness, to pull back the claws, to see myself in each and every thing? To find love everywhere. 

Softness, it turns out, requires strength. 

–

I almost lost my mom this year. My dad, too. 

And in that moment, of mangled metal, of almost losing my heart, I felt calm. 

Only after did I feel younger, smaller than I ever was, ever had been. 

A truth of life, I guess. 

That sometimes you have to become very small in order to learn just how big you can be.

Funny—that cycle of shrinking and growing. Of relapsing and persisting. Of strength and softness. 

Funny—that we are constantly forgetting, and remembering, forgetting, and remembering—

Forgetting that this will all fade—is fading, in fact. 

Funny, that I can look back, year after year, and read the same fear in every page. A voice that says: You’re running out of time. 

Funny because—of course I am. Of course we are. 

That was never a truth withheld from us. 

The clock has been ticking, my dear, since day one. 

So, my goodness, wouldn’t it be smart to love it while it lasts? 

Wouldn't it be smart to let go of the fear, lean back into the current, and simply enjoy the ride?