Maybe it’s better that way

I think most of us are, by nature, sentimental beings. It isn’t about the same things. While I will get all misty-eyed looking at pictures of my offspring as children and the grandchildren as newborns with their moms, my husband will say fondly, “Ah, the 1965 Mustang!  But while entirely different subjects, the emotions evoked are probably at least close to the same.

Around this time of year (August), many moms are hyper aware that a child’s milestone is coming up — first grade, first year in high school, turning 16.  And if it’s the end of something (senior year, for example) as opposed to the beginning, it’s marked all year long with “I can’t believe this is the last time she’ll be cheering for the Lions”, etc.  Nothing wrong with that.  It’s part of how we adjust to the inevitable changes.  Sometimes I think it’s overdone, but to each his/her own.

What I’ve been thinking of lately is the last time we do things and don’t know it.  Like that last time you rock or hold your child until he’s sleeping soundly.  Or the last time she is willing to hold your hand in public.  The last time an aging couple makes love, or the last time in older age that your taste buds work really well enough to enjoy an almost overripe strawberry or sense the juicy sweet tanginess while biting into a homegrown tomato.

I saw one of those sentimental types of posts on Facebook recently mourning “the last time I picked up my child.”  I think it was probably geared to reminding people to appreciate those moments.  We often sigh and give in when our little ones want to be held, and it was provoking us to stop sighing and enjoy that while it lasts.  When I read it, I struggled to remember the last time I picked up any of my three.  I haven’t forgotten the deep joy of holding each one, of looking into their little smiling or sleeping faces, of being thrilled just by their very existence. (And I still feel that way.) But I couldn’t come close to naming that last time.

After pondering that for a little while, I decided it’s good that we can’t know.   It would be absolutely too much to take.  

Maybe that is a little part of wabi sabi, of finding the beauty in the imperfection.  It’s part of taking the glad with the sad, of living fully, of keeping palms open for what life hands us and realizing there will always be a mixture.  

[Just as a side note, when I find myself with clenched or balled-up hands, it always gives me notice that there’s something I’m trying to hold onto or something I’m trying to prevent.  Maybe I’m wanting the wabi without the sabi.]

I don’t proclaim to understand much about what is often called mindfulness, but I can say that I think that’s a part of it — being fully in the moment. BEING fully in the moment.  Not thinking about the moment or thinking about the next moment or hour or day.  Some people are naturally better at this than others.  We aggressive ones who like to constantly put our mark on things have to, paradoxically, work to relax.

But there’s the word for the day, simply — Being.  

May you and I find the peace and comfort therein.