The other day I found myself driving along, accidentally thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong with anything (oops), my new job, the future, parking garages, the freeways, merging, crashing (etc. ad nauseam), and after a while I just had to laugh a little and say to myself out loud, “God, you can’t be afraid of everything.”
And for me, after the laughter dies down over how ridiculous I am because I’m always afraid and panicking all the time, I have to remember something. I don’t want to miss out on any of this. Because everything feels like it has some sacred value for being just what it’s been. And somehow, I feel like I need to welcome and protect even the most painful pieces and hold them tight somewhere because they are some integral part of the total beauty.
So I hold on to it all by finding ways to keep going forward into this world and moving, moving.
Like last week, Z and I went downtown and got egg sandwiches at Grand Central Market and walked around and took pictures of the buildings and dreamed of buying one of the defunct ones with broken windows that was so beautiful and had lion parapets or some thing or another and we sat out on the sidewalk drinking iced coffees in the sweltering heat. And I was not afraid of anything.
And one night it started to rain on our way back from a comedy show and we got home and ran upstairs. And we stood on the rooftop barefoot in the warm summer rain, quiet and happy, just looking around at the city and breathing it all in, and I just thought, here we are, and so it is. And I was not afraid.
Here’s what I think sometimes: I want to remember everything. Palpably. Especially the ache of experience. Because every time, in the moments when I feel so much peace and beauty and happiness, it’s only because I know more than that, it’s because I know the ache of life. In some strange way I don’t want to forget about that the most. And in some way, I’m lucky, because I can’t.
And here we are, and so it is.