Tag Archives: happy moments

We Are All Good Enough To Fly

gym-snow

This is not my happiest hour.

I thought about that, break lights in front of me all the way home tonight. I thought about whether that was a good thing, a bad thing, or just a true thing. This is not your happiest hour, I told myself. It just isn’t.

Friday, when the better part of the East Coast shuffles off to Happy Hour, you will be thinking about a girl in a room with a green sparkling leotard on, knees dry and cracking, palms sweaty, hair curling at the roots. You will think of her standing in a room, learning for the first time that she’s lost someone she deeply cares about, and you’ll pause. Wherever you are, at 7pm on Friday night, you will remember Friday, December 12, 2003. Friday, December 12, 2003. The perfect date – 12.12.03. 1+2 = 3. 1+2 = 3. You will be obsessed with dates and times, adding and subtracting them, and so, at thirteen, the perfect date will feel a lot less perfect.

I used to think I could only ever be angry, could only ever be sad. I had to gear myself up. I had to get real mad at God every year when I scrolled through the Facebook status updates, the photographs, all of us remembering a man who meant so much to us. To a group of girls in leotards.

Then, last summer, I met somebody who made me realize that might not be true. She had lost her daughter, decades ago, and each year, she remembered her. In the middle of her three boys, there was a girl, and I imagine she was beautiful, and full of life. I imagine it hurt like hell to lose her. It’s been years and years, and she still remembers, still makes a note to reflect, to say something about it, on her daughter’s birthday and the day she died.

For a while, I wondered if we stop. If we pause, and take a trash can, and empty our past into it, sit it out on the curb, and let our new relationships be untainted by what happened years ago. But we are who we are because a girl in a dress or a man in blue wind pants and a white polo helped us be a better person, for years and years after we lost them.

I was thirteen then. I lost my faith. I cried loud at his funeral, until my lungs ran out of breath, until my eyes ran out of tears. I cried through a full pack of tissues. Because I thought something monumental was happening – something was over. And it was, but something else would forever be beginning because of it.

My dreams continued, I pushed onward because he had always believed in me, I carried his lessons with me from team to team, from job to job, I paused on dark days and thought of him, his hope for me, his patience with me, and I knew I was blessed, for a short time in such a crucial stage of my life, to know a man who gave me wings when I didn’t believe I would ever be good enough to fly. He taught me that: we are all good enough to fly, even when we don’t see it ourselves.

And with that, I know, there is time yet for my happiest hour.

Burned Out Stars & The Hardest Parts Of Growing Up

girlshug

I’ve been spending time with hollowed out souls lately. Each of them is falling apart in different ways, twisting happiness into a pretty bow that sits in shop windows on the streets of Manhattan, as if it is a thing to be ogled but never touched.

What a terrible lie. What a sad way to go traipsing through today, sure that tomorrow isn’t getting no better. Tomorrow isn’t shining no brighter. Tomorrow isn’t singing no sweeter.

They deserve a fire in their stomach, firmness in their step, a flush in their skin, a flicker in their smile.

They deserve to feel alive.

They deserve a ‘just because’ postcard from a forever friend. Footsteps before the knock on the door. Kisses on the forehead. Thinking-of-you text messages and thought-you-might-enjoy-this emails.

They deserve warm tea and diner booth conversations and hopeful mornings after train wreck nights. The payoff of an old, patient family recipe. Melty chocolate chip cookies. Days without alarm clocks and breakfast after noon.

I want so much for them.

I’ll tell anyone who asks and even the ones who don’t: I want so much for them. But nobody gave me a guidebook for how to tread lightly on the subject of self-worth, when your hands are empty and your bank account is dwindling and your days are looking like a remake of Groundhog Day because nothing ever changes. Those are the hardest parts of growing up.

I want them to see hope in new places and faces. I want them to brush the tears from their eyelids and promise they’ll never let adulthood weigh them down.

They are stars in my life, so bright for so long, burned out before I had a chance to realize. It took me too long to realize.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It took me too long to realize.

And so I can only hope they find happiness in moments instead of years, in hours and minutes instead of months, in the kindness of strangers who hold doors and wave you to make that left turn when you can’t quite see whether it’s safe. The crossed-off to-do list. The clean house. The freshly laundered sheets. The shoveled sidewalk.

It’s hard to fall in love with the way this world takes and takes. Harder still to find happy in the chaos. This life can feel like whack-a-mole, but I hope their moments are bright and their eyes are wide and their hands are ready to catch some magic in the mundane.

I want to tuck a story of hope inside their frayed shirt pockets. Let them feel it beating against their heart.