Across two weeks, I have held my grandma’s hand while sitting beside her in memory care, the most precious tiny fingers of my best friend’s new daughter, and the swollen fingers of my dad as I saw him for the first time in the ICU after recovering from a complex open-heart surgery. In each moment, time stilled and all that mattered was the hand in front of me and the gift of the individual’s life. There was a great tenderness in each of them. A fragility too.
I haven’t written a newsletter in the past month. Life has demanded my attention be set upon only the present moments in front of my unfolding. Writing is my way of honoring all that I may be holding and also releasing it. Before I write here, I must write for myself first. I haven’t gotten that yet. Time is moving fast and the only way I know how to slow it down is to slow my brain down with the lists of “what need to get done” and all the streaming thoughts of the future. Writing, in any form, has been on my list of “what needs to get done” up until now. For that, it needed not to get done.
The last month has been a time of holding hands of precious loved ones while simultaneously holding gratitude, joy, grief, fear, utter awe, great anxiety, and my own fragility too. It’s all there at once. My mind has been riding the wave of remembrance, presence, and thoughts of what lies ahead. I don’t want to miss any of it. It’s why my photo storage on my phone is absurdly full and why the notes on my phone have a few lines that say,
As your memory fades
My desire to hold every memory
Of you
Grows
Your eyes
Your wit
Your laugh
Your love.
I am not quite sure how to close out these thoughts. I’m tired. In 20 minutes or so, I will be off to work. Today, I am taking the little one I nanny to a park that has been specifically designed to be accessible to all. I have a few more weeks left of being her full-time nanny; a lifetime ahead of being her friend. Much of my day will be spent holding her hand. Right now, the hands she holds are her stability for walking. We each want her to be able to experience the joy that is walking on your own. We each also want to never let her gentle hands go.
It is always both.
Today, in whatever your hands hold, hold it with intention.
Perhaps even awe.
This is so sweet, Bailey.
So beautifully written! I love this!