The Smallest Beautiful Thing

The Smallest Beautiful Thing: 15 July 2022

I’m writing in the Carnegie Library in Turners Falls, Massachusetts. It’s our third library today, the first we’ve been able to enter. I got the times wrong on the first one, the address wrong on the second. Jack, Emma, and I were in search of wi-fi, because I needed to write this blog about resiliency. About how little I have these days. I might have given up the search without their encouragement, which occasionally was phrased as whininess, to keep me moving forward.

We agreed that it might be best to have lunch first, since we were getting increasingly snippy. I eked out a tiny mobile signal and looked for a restaurant. Despite its published hours, it was closed. But we found one nearby that was open. The waitress reminded me of Emma’s second grade teacher.

Mrs. Shelf was the only thing that kept Emma, and many times me, moving forward through a year of virtual school. I don’t know how she carried the load for all of those students and parents. Emma had barely been allowed to watch Blues Clues at the time she was issued a Chromebook and told to sign on to the Google Meets and find her assignments in the class folders.

Jack’s virtual year went okay until he checked out in February. He wasn’t even required to have his camera on, so he never did. His first period teacher was dealing with her mother’s cancer; his last period teacher’s loud, too-cheerful voice still echoes in my mind. I’m amazed, in retrospect, by what we all survived. But my goodness what a toll.

They, I think, have recovered more quickly, more wholly, in part, I’m sure, because I was often carrying them with my reserves. But my reserves are not replenished. The pandemic pause was never really a pause for me, and when the pandemic was declared might-as-well-be-over in South Carolina, the switch was an immediate, full-throttle ON. I feel like I’ve been awake for three years straight.

So I’ve been thinking about resiliency, and how to build up my reserves. One thing that helps is giving up unnecessary obligations. With a job, husband, children, community, a lot of people count on me for a lot of support and connection. I’m allowing myself the grace to say no to other requests. When I have a little time for lunch or a coffee, I make sure to choose companions who are life-giving. I’m letting myself decline invitations from people, even really pleasant nice people, whose company still somehow feels like an obligation instead of an opportunity. Maybe next month, or year, or decade. Maybe not. When possible, I choose from desire, not duty.

I’m also trying to be content in the moment, even an uncomfortable moment. When I do end up with a person, or in a situation, that’s a bit draining, I try to be content in the moment as it is, without wishing it away to something else. Partly that’s because I’ve realized, when I’ve started down that wishing path, that I can’t really come up with anywhere I want to be. So I try to settle into the place I am. Take a breath, pay attention to the present moment. Surely I can find gratitude for one thing, even if it’s just something that could be worse. Isn’t it nice not to have to wear a mask right now? I need to weed the patio, but what a lovely moss is growing in that crack. I wish it weren’t 100 degrees, but that little breeze is most welcome right now.

Sometimes I can add perspective. Things could be so much worse, and are so much worse for so many other people. I’m not living in a war zone, or needing an abortion, or lacking shelter, or discriminated against, or unable to put gas in my car. But sometimes this line of thinking just makes me spiral. What the hell am I complaining about, anyway, when so many other people are experiencing true deprivation, true horror, true need?

And in those cases, what has helped is to look for the smallest, beautiful thing right around me. What a gift to breathe a deep breath, to let go some tension on the exhale. Maybe a song reminds me of some carefree time when the world felt large and full of possibilities. Maybe my beautiful child said something especially witty, or charming, or kind. Maybe the slant of the sun reminds me of the incredible, complex interconnectedness of the universe. Maybe the waitress reminds me of an adult who helped my child when I couldn’t.

For the moment I can’t see too far ahead; can’t envision some larger purpose, or some impact I’m to have, or a grand calling. But generally, I can find one beautiful thing. One small thing can be the light showing me my next step, and from there, usually there’s another next small step. Drop by drop, strength for this day and, with luck, a little extra to begin to build back the reserves.