WORDS
That We Float At All
By: Bethany Toews
We do what needs doing.
“I am seized by two contradictory feelings: there is so much beauty in the world it is incredible that we are ever miserable for a moment; there is so much shit in the world that it is incredible we are ever happy for a moment.” — Zadie Smith
I didn’t invent the world. If I had, I wouldn’t have included so much human suffering. I definitely would have included the leaves changing color in October though. And those magnificently blue autumn skies. What splendor! I can’t help but sit in my car in the parking lot crying for the glory of it all. There is just so much glory. And, so much human suffering.
I don’t have the grasp or the words to express what feels beyond comprehension in terms of the suffering that is taking place in the great big world. I barely have the grasp or the words for the anguish that’s happening in my great little world. What I do have is a lot of tears to offer to tiny altars everywhere. If crying were an Olympic sport, I would have a serious chance at taking home gold.
I didn’t choose what has happened over the past few months. I didn’t choose to have my sunny summer beach plans canceled by a call from my brother telling me my father had had a stroke while driving with my mother. It wasn’t what I wanted but there I was, my reality instantly adjusted. We adjust. Humans are exceptional at this.
I rode my bike so fast — away from the water and towards the place where my father was carried unconscious by strangers into an ambulance. As I rode, the ambulance passed by. The breath left my body. I immediately started to cry as the words, “I love you, Papa. Thank you,” tumbled out my mouth and kept repeating as I got back on my bike and raced to meet my devastated mother.
It didn’t let up from there. A couple weeks after we got my father home from the hospital and on his long, slow journey towards recovery, a mass was found on my beautiful sister’s pancreas. More tears were all I had to offer. That and endless hours doing anything and everything to keep the world she has built afloat.
I have washed dishes and bought groceries and folded laundry and taken out the trash. I have changed diapers until diapers turned into tiny little underwear I pulled up and pulled down and picked up and washed and put away. I’ve made meals and packed lunches and pleaded with cute mouths to please eat their vegetables. I’ve pretended to be a hamster and a monster and an egg. I’ve rowed imaginary boats to imaginary islands and done my best to avoid imaginary lava. I’ve done all these things without ever considering I might not. And I have marveled at what my sister makes possible every day without anyone really considering the miracle it is.
I don’t have the grasp or the words to express what feels beyond comprehension in terms of the suffering that is taking place in the great big world. I barely have the grasp or the words for the anguish that’s happening in my great little world. What I do have is a lot of tears to offer to tiny altars everywhere. If crying were an Olympic sport, I would have a serious chance at taking home gold.
I didn’t choose what has happened over the past few months. I didn’t choose to have my sunny summer beach plans canceled by a call from my brother telling me my father had had a stroke while driving with my mother. It wasn’t what I wanted but there I was, my reality instantly adjusted. We adjust. Humans are exceptional at this.
I rode my bike so fast — away from the water and towards the place where my father was carried unconscious by strangers into an ambulance. As I rode, the ambulance passed by. The breath left my body. I immediately started to cry as the words, “I love you, Papa. Thank you,” tumbled out my mouth and kept repeating as I got back on my bike and raced to meet my devastated mother.
It didn’t let up from there. A couple weeks after we got my father home from the hospital and on his long, slow journey towards recovery, a mass was found on my beautiful sister’s pancreas. More tears were all I had to offer. That and endless hours doing anything and everything to keep the world she has built afloat.
I have washed dishes and bought groceries and folded laundry and taken out the trash. I have changed diapers until diapers turned into tiny little underwear I pulled up and pulled down and picked up and washed and put away. I’ve made meals and packed lunches and pleaded with cute mouths to please eat their vegetables. I’ve pretended to be a hamster and a monster and an egg. I’ve rowed imaginary boats to imaginary islands and done my best to avoid imaginary lava. I’ve done all these things without ever considering I might not. And I have marveled at what my sister makes possible every day without anyone really considering the miracle it is.
“We do what needs doing. That’s what humans have done since there ever were humans. That’s why we’re still here. And, in the midst of all the doing, there have been untold horrors. And, untold wonders. And a whole lot of dirty dishes.”
I don’t know why it is so, only that it is. And so I do what I can. And I cry for what I can’t. And I cry for what I can but don’t really want to but do anyway because life is demanding it. And I am struck that the reason we humans have managed to make it this far must be because we had the sense to invent celebration in the midst of all the struggling.
Perhaps it feels silly or irreverent even to consider the importance of celebration in the context of devastation, but I believe it is paramount to our survival. We are, among other things, sweet creatures, and we fancy happiness. Something inside us stubbornly insists that joy is a birthright. That laughter exists for a reason. That we have the capacity to endure pleasure as much as pain.
I don’t know for certain, but even if I’m wrong, I’d rather exist believing there’s a reason we’re here beyond just hurting each other. And so, I celebrate what I can. I celebrate the sound of my 2-year-old nephew’s laughter. I celebrate my 7-year-old niece’s tears after she completed her cross country race and said her lungs hurt. I celebrated her lungs. I celebrated the effort all these little kids were making for no reason other than the will to run upon the earth towards a final destination.
I celebrate the rain and the frog sounds at night while I am struggling to sleep because I don’t know if my family is going to be okay. Because I don’t know if my niece and nephew will get to wake up to their mother. Because I don’t know how much longer I can neglect my own life to try and make theirs a little more bearable — maybe even delightful in moments. Because I don’t know if my parents will be able to pay their mortgage. Because I don’t know if I’ll be able to pay my rent. Because, because, because…
Perhaps it feels silly or irreverent even to consider the importance of celebration in the context of devastation, but I believe it is paramount to our survival. We are, among other things, sweet creatures, and we fancy happiness. Something inside us stubbornly insists that joy is a birthright. That laughter exists for a reason. That we have the capacity to endure pleasure as much as pain.
I don’t know for certain, but even if I’m wrong, I’d rather exist believing there’s a reason we’re here beyond just hurting each other. And so, I celebrate what I can. I celebrate the sound of my 2-year-old nephew’s laughter. I celebrate my 7-year-old niece’s tears after she completed her cross country race and said her lungs hurt. I celebrated her lungs. I celebrated the effort all these little kids were making for no reason other than the will to run upon the earth towards a final destination.
I celebrate the rain and the frog sounds at night while I am struggling to sleep because I don’t know if my family is going to be okay. Because I don’t know if my niece and nephew will get to wake up to their mother. Because I don’t know how much longer I can neglect my own life to try and make theirs a little more bearable — maybe even delightful in moments. Because I don’t know if my parents will be able to pay their mortgage. Because I don’t know if I’ll be able to pay my rent. Because, because, because…
“I celebrate when I finally fall back asleep and dream only to wake to a new day. A day I get to face and find ways to celebrate.”
I celebrate the gallons of saltwater I have contributed to the earth through my eyeholes. I have been especially generous this year and that calls for celebration. I have acknowledged how much living sometimes hurts. I have also managed to laugh out loud at ridiculous memes and the surprising things toddlers say and the text messages my funny friends send when I need to remember what levity feels like.
I celebrate the end of my 5-year relationship in the middle of all of this, and how much it has scooped out my insides and arranged them on a plate for me to ponder and rearrange. I celebrate that my ex has been here, helping me and my family. Together, as we try to make sense of our separation.
As I type this he is building the mantle for the fireplace in my parent’s new home — the home that I worry they won’t be able to afford while I’m celebrating the rain and frog sounds in the middle of the night. As long as they remain in their new home, I will see the beauty my ex created in the center of their living room. And I celebrate that with all my heart. It feels right. It feels true.
We are here to celebrate, not in spite of what feels impossible, but because of what we make possible in the face of difficulty. Of what life we sustain in the midst of so much dying. Of the peace we encounter and maybe even create in moments. Of the love that is holding all of it, all of us, together. Even as we fall apart.
I celebrate because somehow, we are still here. On this magnificent speck in this endless void. We float. Somehow, we float. We float and we fall and we rise again. I celebrate that we float at all.
I celebrate the end of my 5-year relationship in the middle of all of this, and how much it has scooped out my insides and arranged them on a plate for me to ponder and rearrange. I celebrate that my ex has been here, helping me and my family. Together, as we try to make sense of our separation.
As I type this he is building the mantle for the fireplace in my parent’s new home — the home that I worry they won’t be able to afford while I’m celebrating the rain and frog sounds in the middle of the night. As long as they remain in their new home, I will see the beauty my ex created in the center of their living room. And I celebrate that with all my heart. It feels right. It feels true.
We are here to celebrate, not in spite of what feels impossible, but because of what we make possible in the face of difficulty. Of what life we sustain in the midst of so much dying. Of the peace we encounter and maybe even create in moments. Of the love that is holding all of it, all of us, together. Even as we fall apart.
I celebrate because somehow, we are still here. On this magnificent speck in this endless void. We float. Somehow, we float. We float and we fall and we rise again. I celebrate that we float at all.
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