My boss gave me a tedious, rote task to do recently and it was just what I needed during a tumultuous time in my family. Guardrails come in surprising forms!
Well said. At certain times in life, I’ve gravitated to seemingly rote tasks that have a clear way to secure the outcome. As my teens become young adults, I’ve noticed the complications when one realizes they can do all the “right things”, for example floss, brush, mouthwash, and still have a cavity. Real life experiences don’t always go as planned one can plan and still miss a plane, have a friend hurt you, have a marriage end, health issue and that realization is obvious but alarming.
Oh, Liz, my heart is bursting with love. Reading this is like being in your pocket as you make it through each hurdle. As you figure it out. As you look for the best direction. And as you realize how many of us are traveling with you.
This is lovely, thank you. I send love to you. This reminds me of a year my family had ten years ago. When, within 13 months, we lost my BIL, my nephew, and my mother. I went to bed, and I woke up in a fog, an unable to swallow away a lump in my throat. I lost 19 lbs from grief, the kind where you can't will yourself to cry. It never "gets better," we just make ourselves keep on doing what we need to do for the ones who depend on us, who count on us as their own guard rails right now. xo
Liz, that you even have words during this time says (to me at least) that you have a deep steadiness and wisdom you can trust. It may be obscured by fog now, but it’s there, like the sun behind cloud cover. I know you are no stranger to grief, and every experience of grief is different, not to mention feeling YOUR feelings as you support your loved ones in theirs. The sheer immensity of it all means there’s no right or wrong, there’s no mapping it out. There’s just waking up each day and doing the best you can. Then trying again the next day. You can trust that, and the love of so many surrounding you, even here, in these comments.
Jun 2, 2023·edited Jun 4, 2023Liked by Liz Gumbinner
Liz - spectacular piece, leaving us all on the edge of our seats 'cliffhanger style' awaiting word on what is next …
Reading this I was immediately reminded of Edgar (E.L.) Doctorow's wisdom and advice for writers, but I think that's only the metaphor - it's advice for life, but so is my friend Annie from New Jersey who says, "Build a bridge and get over it", so thanks for triggering memories those two lovely people. I've only met Doctorow from his great books and the movies made from them, interviews on Charlie Rose (oh, those were the days) … and I expect you already know these prescient words, but here they are in case any of your readers are curious:
"Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way."
Blind people find their way, deaf people find their way, and we all find our way even though our path is ordained somehow to be debris and obstacle laden, populated with assorted idiots, and friends. And relatives. You can pick your friends, but you can't can't pick your relatives. You see, those stresses and troubles you encounter and must overcome are not the except to life, they are sinews of connective tissue that IS life. As a child wobbles and falls with every try, they get closer to taking steps without falling, and before you know it, they've won the Silver Medal at the Olympics - it's the journey from the playpen to the podium.
If you're having troubles, go for a drive at night with your lights on, or for a dusky walk across a familiar bridge - and you'll where you are going, and there is a very good chance that when you arrive that will be, that will feel like, where you are meant to be.
In your chair, at your keyboard, bleeding onto the page between laughter, carriage returns and going to till dawn.
Love this. Amazing how your writing feels like my very own guard rail. And I hope you feel like we are all (as one of the comments so poignantly put) traveling with you… right in your pocket, right there with you.
A younger close friend of mine lost his mother at 15. He told me that when people would ask him how he was he’d say “well enough”. It’s a phrase I’ve adopted. You’re right, these are the crappiest clubs to belong to, and I don’t want anyone else to join, but it’s impossible to explain how it feels.
My boss gave me a tedious, rote task to do recently and it was just what I needed during a tumultuous time in my family. Guardrails come in surprising forms!
Liz, another moving commentary. Thanks
My guardrails feel a bit untethered at the moment. I’m okay, but it’s rough is a helpful refrain. Thanks for this writing.
Bridges can be terrifying and terrific depending on the day, the time, the weather, or the wind. So happy that beautiful Brooklyn did you right.
Well said. At certain times in life, I’ve gravitated to seemingly rote tasks that have a clear way to secure the outcome. As my teens become young adults, I’ve noticed the complications when one realizes they can do all the “right things”, for example floss, brush, mouthwash, and still have a cavity. Real life experiences don’t always go as planned one can plan and still miss a plane, have a friend hurt you, have a marriage end, health issue and that realization is obvious but alarming.
Oh, Liz, my heart is bursting with love. Reading this is like being in your pocket as you make it through each hurdle. As you figure it out. As you look for the best direction. And as you realize how many of us are traveling with you.
This is lovely, thank you. I send love to you. This reminds me of a year my family had ten years ago. When, within 13 months, we lost my BIL, my nephew, and my mother. I went to bed, and I woke up in a fog, an unable to swallow away a lump in my throat. I lost 19 lbs from grief, the kind where you can't will yourself to cry. It never "gets better," we just make ourselves keep on doing what we need to do for the ones who depend on us, who count on us as their own guard rails right now. xo
love you xo
Thinking of you guys with love. ❤️
Liz, that you even have words during this time says (to me at least) that you have a deep steadiness and wisdom you can trust. It may be obscured by fog now, but it’s there, like the sun behind cloud cover. I know you are no stranger to grief, and every experience of grief is different, not to mention feeling YOUR feelings as you support your loved ones in theirs. The sheer immensity of it all means there’s no right or wrong, there’s no mapping it out. There’s just waking up each day and doing the best you can. Then trying again the next day. You can trust that, and the love of so many surrounding you, even here, in these comments.
Sending your family lots of good vibes 🫶🏻🙏🏻
This is fantastic. I'm always saying "welcome to the @#$% show" when I talk to new-ish grievers. There's no road map, for sure!
Liz - spectacular piece, leaving us all on the edge of our seats 'cliffhanger style' awaiting word on what is next …
Reading this I was immediately reminded of Edgar (E.L.) Doctorow's wisdom and advice for writers, but I think that's only the metaphor - it's advice for life, but so is my friend Annie from New Jersey who says, "Build a bridge and get over it", so thanks for triggering memories those two lovely people. I've only met Doctorow from his great books and the movies made from them, interviews on Charlie Rose (oh, those were the days) … and I expect you already know these prescient words, but here they are in case any of your readers are curious:
"Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way."
Blind people find their way, deaf people find their way, and we all find our way even though our path is ordained somehow to be debris and obstacle laden, populated with assorted idiots, and friends. And relatives. You can pick your friends, but you can't can't pick your relatives. You see, those stresses and troubles you encounter and must overcome are not the except to life, they are sinews of connective tissue that IS life. As a child wobbles and falls with every try, they get closer to taking steps without falling, and before you know it, they've won the Silver Medal at the Olympics - it's the journey from the playpen to the podium.
If you're having troubles, go for a drive at night with your lights on, or for a dusky walk across a familiar bridge - and you'll where you are going, and there is a very good chance that when you arrive that will be, that will feel like, where you are meant to be.
In your chair, at your keyboard, bleeding onto the page between laughter, carriage returns and going to till dawn.
Cheers,
Mark
Love this. Amazing how your writing feels like my very own guard rail. And I hope you feel like we are all (as one of the comments so poignantly put) traveling with you… right in your pocket, right there with you.
A younger close friend of mine lost his mother at 15. He told me that when people would ask him how he was he’d say “well enough”. It’s a phrase I’ve adopted. You’re right, these are the crappiest clubs to belong to, and I don’t want anyone else to join, but it’s impossible to explain how it feels.