The Human Experience
We walked the trail tonight, catching up after a long day of daycare drop-off, working at home, tedious errands after coffee; idiosyncrasies of new parenthood amidst a global pandemic. The pandemic lingers for new parents with infants and toddlers, the unvaccinated.
The trail provides a salve to anxieties, fear, and lethargy. Let's blame the pandemic and all that has come out of the woodwork, indeed. As a new mother, I have an inkling this is simply the beginning. Regulating all my worries and concerns in hopes my daughter will always be safe. In hopes she lives beyond my time here on Earth.
The sun drops between the rustling of almost turned maples, oaks, and walnut trees, pure gold. I let the internal chatter of all that is not subside for now. It is our greatest secret here, a large peninsula tucked between the lakes. Autumn sunsets when all the tourists disperse.
Those beyond these freshwater seas are always surprised by their expanse upon visiting. They imagine man-made ponds in their grandparents' backyard, a natural spring-fed pool on the outskirts of land flattened by agriculture.
No, not these Great Lakes — Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie, and Lady Superior. Over 6,000 ships have met their ill-fated journey when the thirty-foot waves blow through. When the winds force snow and ice from the Northeast, most notably in November. These lakes are a sacred graveyard to thousands of captains, sailors, and voyageurs.
As I walk near their shores, witnessing a sunset that passerby will never know exists — my treasure for staying — it is more beautiful because I know the power of this water at its horizon. Is it more sacred due to the knowledge that the lake will conjure up anger as fall transitions to winter? She is threatening, and she is soft. Both emotions and more subtleties held in her blue hues. The natural neons of sunset tell me so.
We are walking our daughter. She is one year old and needs our hands to guide her; Mama on the left, Daddy on the right, fallen leaves below tracing every step closer to independence. I relish being needed by her. This time of dependency is fleeting. The next step, of course, is that she walks without the steady guidance of our arms. A transition similar to the one Lake Michigan is about to put all of us through. You can prepare to the best of your ability for the storm, but it will still do a number on you. I hold her chunky fingers tightly as if my squeeze could stop time.
Up ahead, there is an older woman with a walker. It holds her up like we hold up our daughter, her human walkers. A physical message; my squeeze does not have the power to halt the clocks as much as I try.
There is not much time to linger as her little legs power ahead in pure joy. She hasn't grasped the concept that she will faceplant into all the crunchy leaves and concrete without our hands to guide her. I continue, but I keep looking back at the older woman as we pass by, unable to shake the message that how we begin, we end. Cyclical.
The old oak sleeps and awakes come Spring.
As the woman's bent legs shuffle, supported by her steel walker, I long for someone to hold her hand instead. Heartbeats holding heartbeats. Someone who loved her or loved by her in a distant time. Like we held our young child's hands in support nearby. Reciprocity.
The core of human sadness is our disregard for honoring our Elders. We are too distracted or impatient to hear their wisdom, heed warnings from their mistakes, or listen to the rhythm of human patterns. It has slipped our conscious that we will soon be the Elder if we're lucky. Won't it be beneficial to know what is on the trail up ahead? To have a starting point to work from, whether we use it to repeat their patterns, banish them, or expand upon them. To make it better for the next tree buds preparing for their grand entrance.
I hope someone I love will walk me down the trail when I can no longer hold myself up. When I am old and gray and hopefully in the Crone season of my life.
As we putter along, they will listen to me babble, keeping my story alive. I am passing it on for safekeeping, for it to be retold. Maybe it will be my daughter. A Mother now in her journey. In the middle, where life teems with so much fullness, she'll hardly notice our secret sunset as she supports me.
I will look up the trail in time to see a little Maiden-in-the-making toddling along, held by the strength, safety, and support of her parents. Her face is bright with exuberance at her new tricks. She squeals with glee.
My neck will bend to see my old feet shuffle, happy with the full circle of human experience. The lake winds will blow as they always do. The maple leaves will rustle, a lullaby to the tune of a golden sunset. I hear them crunch beneath my soles and hers as the little one walks by.
