Wiggling through the weird

We love endings. We love things to be wrapped up tidily in traceable story arcs with a satisfying bow of a lesson on top. But much to our chagrin, our world is made of perpetual beginnings and middles that become unexpected beginnings again, even as we try to finish the endings already behind us.

This week my brother became a father, and his days of managing to get into a car in a reasonable amount of time ended. (Hello diaper bag, goodbye efficiency.)

His son started a new chapter full of oxygen and hunger and snuggles.

My cousin, who had only two months ago become a mother, lost her baby boy to a medical emergency. He died the day after my nephew was born.

There is no any rhyme, reason, or poignant lesson to be learned in this sequence of events.

But my brain is convinced there must be some deep wisdom to be mined from it all.
I can feel myself scrabbling for the grand message hidden in the tumult, like desperate fingers grasping for gold in the murky wet sand. People are meaning-making machines. This is what we’re built for.

However, underneath the panic, I know this isn’t a plot twist written to teach me something, no matter how much I would like it to be. A new and profound understanding would make the emotional whiplash a bit softer—easier to accept. Yet I already know, there is nothing there this time. Not yet. Because this isn’t my story, alone. It’s not a story at all.

These are the chaotic, uncoordinated, un-curated happenings of being alive.

Much of what we experience is tragically random, delightfully unexpected, messy, and weird. The things that make sense to us are in the minority.

So, what do we do with that?

If we hit pause on the search for stories and explanations, what exactly is left for us?

I say, we wiggle.

We inch.

We shuffle forward and embrace the not-knowing, reaching toe by toe into the next beginning and middle.

(“Knowing” is so 2019, anyway.)

Perhaps we’ll get to write new stories about it when we’re past whichever particular muddle we are in, and perhaps it will remain open-ended. But you don’t have to know what you’re doing, or what’s even happening, to show up for other people, and to show up for your own life. Wandering in mess doesn’t erase your contributions to the world, and uncertainty doesn’t have to be an all-consuming fear.

We don’t have to know how it ends in order to start.

All we have to do is try our best, and we can love and grow regardless. Some days that will mean showing up with only 1% of your capacity, which counts. Other times, your well will be full and you have 99% to offer, which also counts. You can show up slowly, barely, mostly exhausted and confused, and it still counts. You won’t stay that way forever, because nothing stays in any way forever.

Keep going. Wiggle through the weird. New strength, delights, and beginnings will arrive.

The following is a poem from my book Madwoman Maiden Mother:

“No Really, Keep Going”

Remember you too are
made of pulsing roots
and wiggle hums
and sluggish rain,
whirling disco ball reflections
and shaking fury.
The sobs and sighs of fog
have nothing on the glory of you.