issue #2: beauty & terror
"let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. just keep going." -rainer maria rilke
Our youngest child, Zadie, was born on September 11—the anniversary of an unimaginably horrific day—in 2020, a year of immeasurable loss and tragedy. The greatest, most beautiful gift born surrounded by terror.
Since then, I’ve struggled with this juxtaposition, trying to understand how one can be elated and devastated at once. How to feel happy and sad at once. How to see gifts amid the sorrow. How to find peace within all-consuming anxiety.
How do you simultaneously hold space for gratefulness and anger? For hope and despair? How does one quiet the voices of rage to hear the whispers of grace and goodness? How do you let everything happen to you? How do you keep going?
Joy and grief are never far apart and as the days move through time I’ve learned just how close they can be. They beat heavily onto me at all times, like two waves crashing onto the same stretch of shore. The weight of carrying both constantly feels overwhelming as if living wholly in one means disregarding another heartbeat within my own soul.
Sometimes I don’t know what sits heavier on my chest—sorrow or gratitude.
In quiet moments, when I reflect on the last few years, the grief consumes me. I regret that these years were handed to my children as a part of their childhood. I regret the memories that flood me in place of the light-hearted, carefree moments of early parenthood that I dreamt would be mine. I wish I could erase the sights of their sweet, tiny hands cracked and bleeding from constant washing. Their masked faces. The behaviors that develop at the intersection of anxiety and OCD and lack of socialization. I wish they’d never seen how I struggled when all I had to use to hold them together was the weathered string spun from just me instead of the strong, supportive fabric of their family, friends, schools, teachers, and coaches.
I regret all the things we’ve experienced in recent years that I never wanted to exist in their reality. The hate, the racism, the violence, the mass shootings, the police brutality, the climate devastation, the wars, the political deceit, the irresponsibility of lawmakers, the failures of justice, the unbelievable way we fight with each other, the way we refuse to give a little of ourselves for the benefit of someone else. The constant steps backward that come and come and come and beat on us until I am ragged and broken like a boxer in the corner of the ring barely able to stand.
And then, just when I think I’ll never make it, that this is too much grief to ever recover from, I wearily gather the strength to look up.
And all I see is joy. The sun breaks through the clouds. Flowers bloom through the cracks in the sidewalk. Trees bud, birds chirp, water streams steadily in a brook. Hundreds of books line our shelves. Children dance and laugh and play. Muddy feet and dirty clothes and sticky fingers. A phone buzzes with texts from people I miss dearly. None of these things are large or grand, but each one feels like a deep breath when I think I’ve got none left.
I remember that beauty persists even if it is never fully disentangled from terror.
It doesn’t take away the grief, the loss, or the pain. It doesn’t take away the anxiety, the stress, or the worry. It doesn’t take away the anger, the fury, and the outrage. It doesn’t take away the utter loneliness. It doesn’t take away all of these things that I wake up having to swallow every morning so I can continue to shield my children with warmth and whatever strands of sanity I have left.
It just persists. And so do I.
When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time on the beach. There was a day when the tide was exceptionally rough. The waves, large and looming, thrashed in a way that hurt and made me wince in pain. I struggled to stand as the waves crashed after each other, and soon, the weight of the water was too much. I went under. I dug my hands into the shore, trying to grip fiercely onto the slipping sand, which basically, was an impossible goal. The water was winning. I was belly down, and gasping for breath in between each crash of the surf. Each time I thought that it let up enough for me to stand, I'd be hit again with the sort of ferocity that only nature can give, the kind that reminds you just how out of control you are. It happened over and over and over. I endured, thinking I was almost through it, just to be tossed into the shoreline once again. It wouldn't end, until suddenly, it did.
The tide retreated and I stepped up out of the water. The blue ocean glittered majestically in the sun, joyous shouts echoed in the distance. The hot air dried me instantly. The ocean rolled in and out gently, thoughtfully, kissing the tips of my toes as if in apology. The epitome of beauty—as I had known it then and as I know it now—when only moments before I was soaked in terror.
This is how I’m understanding life, right now, to be. Maybe beauty and terror do always exist at once. Maybe joy comes dotted with grief, even when not explicitly intertwined, even only in the steadfast truth that all joyful moments must come to an end. But what do you do when you feel like the terror is too much? What do you do when you are just too exhausted to continue searching for silver linings and joy and magic and beauty?
You still find more. You always find more.
I’m not sure how to. But I’ve done it anyway. We all have.
The bookshelf
The #kidlit we’ve been reading in our house this week
The YA pick: The Sun is Also a Star by Nicola Yoon
I’ve been listening to this on audiobook this week while I clean and walk and drive and it’s delightful—an endearing teenage love story twisted in ideas of fate and choice, beautifully and honestly written.
The middle grade pick: The Most Marvelous International Spelling Bee by Deborah Abela
Arian’s been in a comfort reading mood lately and this two-book series (this is the second of the two) are ones he re-reads again and again. Both are heartwarming stories of a young girl who is afraid to follow her dreams and her adoring family who help make it happen.
The chapter book pick: Nate the Great and the Missing Tomatoes by Andrew Sharmat
I loved Nate the Great as a kid and I love that my kids do too, so I was thrilled when Marjorie Weinman Sharmat’s son gave the series a recent reboot. This is the latest of the new Nate the Great books, which have the charm of the originals but with a modern twist. Shea’s favorite bedtime book series by far.
The picture book pick: The Comet by Joe Todd-Stanton
I picked up this one on whim at our local bookstore based on the beautiful cover and it’s been a pleasantly relevant addition to our shelves. With simple language and stunning illustrations, the story touches on the pain and stress of moving houses and how that affects our relationships and sense of belonging. I probably needed this one more than the kids.
The board book pick: Duck & Goose Colors by Tad Hills
Z has reached the phase of toddlerhood where she wants to read the same book over and over and this is one of them.
The postscript
Loved this profile on Dianne Feinstein, what a woman. This older story on what bullets do to bodies is gripping and gutting. When I need perspective (always?), I love this poem. This feature on Pakistani mangoes is wonderful. The greatest life hacks in the world (for now).
Thanks for reading and sharing, I appreciate you.
issue #2: beauty & terror
This ❤️ " I wish they’d never seen how I struggled when all I had to use to hold them together was the weathered string spun from just me instead of the strong, supportive fabric of their family, friends, schools, teachers, and coaches"
Beautiful, perfect words.