Rain in Slow Motion

I’m in fear of losing a moment; even while I am in it.

My awe and delight are tinged with the knowledge that this moment of bliss is temporary. Transitory views, experiences, encounters: I question their value.

What is it all for?

Moments here, then not here?

Because they are transitory, are they without value?

It’s too hard to accept sometimes - how utterly evanescent this all is - and there’s something in me that willfully fights it. Each time I put pen to paper or lift my camera or pick up the phone to call a dear one and describe the scene to them, I’m desperately trying to capture the fleeting and give it something of forever-ness. When I realize just what I’m doing, there’s a little embarrassment; who do I think I’m kidding? A journal, a picture...they are illusions of endurance. Paper, ink, digital footprints; vanity of vanities.

Kohelet is daily with me.

Just surrender to the moment. That’s the age-old wisdom that I daily try to relearn. But it’s hard and unnatural. If the moment is a mandala, there’s a bitter gritting of the teeth when I reach forward to brush it into the past. I accept intellectually that to resist is a pitifully lost battle. But deeper, in my soul, I don’t understand how to embrace that which disappears even as my arms are wrapped around it.

We left the desert sun above ground and ventured into Carlsbad Caverns last week. I was struck by a towering stalagmite more than five feet in diameter and so tall I had to crane my neck to see it’s reach. It’s the result of one drop of rain that fell into the desert above us and slowly oozed it’s way one thousand feet down, pulling along minerals as it went until - an almost silent drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It’s rain in slow motion: ephemeral desert rains spread over eons, and the darkness of the cavern shelters their dynamic record.

When we came back topside, wouldn’t you know it?

It was raining. Rain in the desert. A storm that flitted by, dropped it’s showers and disappeared almost as soon as it arrived, the dry ground acting like nothing had just happened.

It was a moment. Here. Gone. But a thousand feet down, the rain continues to hollow and carve and build and shape.

I watched a brilliant rainbow arch over us and felt wistful at its too-quick fading; on this plane of reality, I have to make peace with the impermanent. But how overly-simple it would be to assume that this plane of reality is all that really is.

Rerouting

Today marks one year since the phone call that rocked our world.

Exactly one year ago today, my mom texted me - Call when you can talk. I have something I need to tell you. It had already been an overwhelming week of personal crises and I was consciously grateful for her wisdom and love in patiently walking me through my stumbling difficulties - just like she always did. I thought this call was going to consist of additional insights she had into my struggle, some more encouraging words and blunt challenges that she had to offer.

"I had an ultrasound at the doctor a few days ago..."

She had been dealing with some kind of infection all summer. We had been together for family vacation only a week or so before and she struggled with painful symptoms off and on.

"They found a growth..."

If you've heard it before, you know the thud in your gut, the instantaneous nausea, the profound surrealness. If you haven't heard it, you've no doubt imagined it in the most fearful corners of your worrying mind...and it's every bit as horrifying as your nightmares.

We stumbled our way through the conversation. Both of us in shock, reaching for hope, reminding each other that we didn't know if it was horrible and terrible, or just your run-of-the-mill bad. It was in her endometrium, but it hadn't been staged yet. Maybe it was early enough to be dealt with.

A few days later, as we were struggling to our feet after being hit with that wave of shocking news, Mom left us a message on our family chat - Stage 4 uterine serous carcinoma, inoperable.

It's understandable, what comes along with that kind of news: the terror of impending loss, the frantic search for alternative prognoses, the begging G-d, the longest hugs, the hidden tears, the miraculous good days, the despairing bad days. This year passed by in a blur of all that and more. I gave lip-service to the inconceivable concept that she might not make it; but it was only once I got the text - "She's gone"- that I realized that I never really believed it could happen to her.

That what could happen?

You know. Mortality.

This has been a year of holding breath, of treading water, of my world constricting smaller and smaller until it seemed to consist of only one particular point.

The week after shiva, as the Engineer and I were laying out in the sunshine, we tried to lean against the wall surrounding that One Particular Point and imagine that there was something else that existed. We talked about taking a trip to visit grandparents and felt the walls give just a inch. We figured we might as well extend that trip by a few weeks since he was working remotely and the walls bowed like a rib cage expanding around a deep breath.

What if we just traveled for the rest of the year until they call me back to the office? And with that suggestion, the emotional Big Bang vaporized the suffocating walls and that One Particular Point exploded out and re-condensed into everything.

This trip is to give the kids a piece of her - of the girl who was raised on three continents, who didn't have just one "home", who experienced early such a variety of lifestyles and people that stoked lifelong curiosity and genuine empathy and the ability to relate with ease to folks of all backgrounds.

This trip is to push off the ill-fitting return to normalcy that I'm just not ready for - because the world is not normal with her not in in.

This trip is to give us the chance to heal together. We've had our eyes focused in the same direction, and now that the fight is over, we're looking at each other all battered and bleary-eyed. It's time to pull each other closer and affirm that life with you in it is life I still want to be a part of.

This trip is to fulfill a daydream we've shared on and off for years, fueled by the keen realization that the future is uncertain, nothing lasts forever and now is the only moment we are guaranteed.

We don't know where we're going exactly. We just know that we're going. This is truly a ramble - no destination in mind. Just the need to have our external reality match the transient nature of life that we are feeling so sharply.

This year has dealt so many of us some knee kicks in one way or another. I know I'm not alone in feeling disoriented in the current world. To you reading this - yes, you - I'm reaching out my hand and giving yours a little squeeze. It will be ok. May we have the courage to embrace the inescapable reality that nothing in this world lasts forever - and to look for seeds of transcendence which are tiny tastes of what lies beyond the limits of this very limited world.