I grabbed my phone to bear witness, but then paused. For some reason it didn’t feel right. I tossed it back down into my bag and surrendered, watching.
See, I’m not one for flying. Since a young age, I’ve struggled with our motorway in the sky. Turbulence feels like a rollercoaster with no tracks. The pressure in my ears tortures my brain. Creaking noises, shudders, or babies crying are a foreshadowings of never making it to my final destination. In the past, I’ve even taken pills to numb the fear.
But, one comfort I do enjoy is the window seat.
Often times, I forget what reward comes with the risk of flight. That perhaps my plane may fail and plummet into the open waters below, but man, what a view that would be. And on Monday, I was reminded that without these scary moments, the ones where we aren’t sure where our feet will land, our lives would be empty. Pointless.
Thus, I let her speak.
The sky was darkening, the light blue turning a thick navy and the pale orange sinking into a burnt amber. But amidst this nightly scheduled broadcast was a storm raging inside a massive cluster of clouds. The thunderous roar would flicker in the distance, filling the sky with flashes of light. I hadn’t seen anything like it, not this close; not front row seats. Even the orange would seep through, too, continuing the breathless dialogue between my head and my chest.
Everything is going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay.
The color orange has fostered little respect from me on the ground. Over the years, it’s displayed roots in impulsivity, in speed, and in hostile heartbreak. But when defying gravity, orange is a steady steward. It shares in a conversation about remembrance, about impermanence. It both wakes us up in the morning to celebrate a new day, but then gently urges us to forgive our criticisms while inscribing the will to do so one day more before bed.
So, while the rest of the plane found their films and flirted with their phones, I kept my gaze fixed on the clouds until the dying light of that tempered orange glow morphed into a smiling crescent moon. Everything is going to be okay.
It’s a comfort and a curse to know that things will pass; to know that grief’s sting will dull with time, but that so too will love and every good thing we do not wish to leave behind. But in these moments, if we choose to be present and not cast aside what our bodies feel, we are painted a picture of why life is experienced by perspective, not fact.
A window, just like between me and the vast sky, is one of many portals in our lives. They are with us everywhere, asking us to hold space to communicate. Most of the time, we are too inconvenienced to hear them out, but these past few weeks have been louder than most.
The lens of my camera is once again an appendage, a third eye. It is a privilege I carry, being commissioned to partake in more than a person’s highlight reel. But with that responsibility comes tears, and transparency, and remembering. While in Florida this last week, I listened to someone retell their story while the red dot danced on my screen, but this portal also purchased me a ticket to their inner world. That when the red light wasn’t deployed, I perceived the parts of them that were unfiltered and floundering. It’s so easy to think we know what is happening in each other’s lives simply by snooping on social media, yet that’s rarely the case. Even the most lucid souls keep private their greatest, intimate thoughts. Theirs were fresh that morning as they rolled down their cheek, in need of a hug. I needed that hug, too. And I have a feeling more will come this April while I am away traveling, capturing stories just like theirs.
My mirror, more often than not, also speaks to me. It retells my story, over and over again. It knows my struggles in detail. I avoid her when I don’t have the capacity to listen. Yet, while in Florida, I couldn’t ignore her anymore. Whether it was the heat or just the amount of reflections available in each room, I couldn’t disregard what I’ve been feeling. That ever since October, I’ve been letting my health get the better of me. I stopped going to the gym because of the pain I endured from my skin, which only caused the shame to heighten. Even running felt like a chore, the harsh winter air tearing into my not so formed flesh. After a few months of this, my body changed. She has changed, back into a person I don’t particularly like. My eating habits wavered, my care for her plummeting. I was fervently trying to hold other pieces of my life together, mitigating my health concerns with only a few conscious meals here, a few longer runs there. But it wasn’t working. And neither were some of the other pieces — pieces I didn’t want to let go of. Pieces that I still care about.
But then my grandmother died.
No one prepares you for losing a loved one away from it all. Away from family, away from feeling tied to your roots. And all I yearned for was a deep, enveloping hug to hold me all together as I fell apart; to feel that familiarity, even for just a small second. But that comfort never came and a myriad of heavy thoughts took its place.
It wasn’t until my father’s arms, in the middle of the arrivals gate, that allowed me to be open about my grief. To let me feel it. To come to terms that I’d been losing a lot more than just my grandmother, but that her passing reminded me that life is precious, and complex, and temporary.
I never want to waste it.
And at her memorial, I turned again to my lens, a portal to study the intricacy of human nature and what it means to let go. Laughs were shared amidst the void inside a sea of faces. Flowers floated along the water as we each internally spoke to her. I was her only granddaughter, one that dotted the line after six older male cousins. I wouldn’t have had it any other way, and I know she wouldn’t have either.
I told her that I will always endeavor to burn the croissant rolls during Thanksgiving. I told her that I’ll always think of her at the sight of a koala bear or maraschino cherry. I told her that I’m grateful for the family she gave me, and that as that dot of the line, I will never settle. I have marched to my own drum since infancy, and though having taken detours along the way, I know the decisions I’m making now are the right ones. Not perfect ones, not easy ones, but right ones — because it’s all perspective.
I’ll never wish for life to happen to me. I may not have control over much, but I do have control over where my energy lies. I have control over what I tolerate and what I stand for. Now, that doesn’t mean my health won’t continue to break me on certain days, nor does it mean my resilience is impervious to whatever comes. It just means I’m forever grateful to the windows, mirrors, cameras, doors, senses, and circumstances that allow me to embrace what a full life looks like. Right now, it’s a little messy and it hurts, but it’s also spectacular, and potent, and worth every bruise, scar, and broken piece of my heart. You can’t have the good without the bad. If you shy away from one, you lose the other. And, no matter how naive it sounds, I intend on leaving every human being better than I found them. I won’t always get it right, none of us will. But there is one thing I am set on –
Everything will be okay. Pinky promise.
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