You ever really sit down and have that moment where you realize you're undergoing a major existential identity shift that requires a re-arranging and re-framing of thought and beliefs you held to be air tight?
The number of things I believe in that have utterly blown up in my face is staggering. Things that we're told are rock solid, foundational truths, aren't so black and white when the isht hits the fan and reality sets in. Because no matter how you try to ignore it and shelter in place and remain in your bubble, evil still can and does happen daily. By choosing to not acknowledge and face it and name it, we let it grow. Fester in the dark, slowly amassing its power. And then, once it does come to light, what do we do?
I was raised in the South, surrounded by evangelical Christians. The heart of MAGA land, practically, in the Bible belt. I had multiple copies of the Bible and Bible study books given to me that I did read and work through. Diligently, because I was nothing if not a hard working child who strove to succeed and meet or exceed expectations of those around me. I went to Sunday school. I went to vacation Bible school.
Granted, these weren't regular things for me because I did primarily live in a household that didn't make religion a priority. Instead it made human values a priority: kindness, tolerance, forgiveness, patience, curiosity, learning, and love. Endless, bottomless love.
I have the fondest memories of my grandparents going all in on my interests. My grandmother would attend school awards events and cheer me on, no matter how many times I won. She loved to celebrate and share my work. She baked for EVERYONE and gave from the bottom of her heart everywhere she could. Mr Rogers tells us to look for the helpers. Oma was a shining example.
My grandfather, my rock and north star, also loved cheering on his girls. I have so many memories of being read to in the hammock or at bedtime - wonderful stories full of excitement and adventure and all of the things he prized as most important. Even after I was well on my way to reading aloud myself, I would beg him to read me a story. He always would.
He loved coming to my gifted class every year to talk about his homeland and educate us on the beauty of Germany. He kept doing that long after I left too, because he loved getting to see and talk to the new crops of bright young kids. And most importantly, he loved to read. And learn. Even in the most difficult years of his later life, when he would struggle with it, he would always say he'd be okay as long as he could read his stories. He was terrified of losing that and his mind - his greatest asset.
Both of them would always tell me they wanted me to write. They enjoyed reading whatever I wrote, even if they didn't fully get it or understand it. I guess I have a unique way of looking at the world and a singular talent for expressing things in words (that is not a brag - I am the least self assured person you know). They wanted to read and know and learn and understand.
For the last couple of years, I haven't been able to. Trapped in an endless well of grief and confusion, I lost my voice and myself somewhere along the way. And then, stuck in traffic on the 101 yesterday evening, I felt a gentle little spiritual bonk that somehow unlocked something critical - kind of like when Aang gets slammed into a rock and his Chakra suddenly opens (those who know, know). They wanted me to *write*. They didn't care about what or how. They wanted me to write because they knew how much I needed it. And they knew I wrote best from the heart.
Sorry it took me so long Ops - I'm a little slow these days, but I'm here, and I'm doing it.
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