maya was down a few weeks ago with a scratchy throat, so i made her the hot toddy we had growing up when our throats were sore. maya doesn’t remember having had it, which is strange as it is a soothing mix of raw apple cider vinegar, hot water and honey that i drink even when i’m not sick. maya loved it and from the kitchen i said yes, me too, as she brought her empty cup to be rinsed. reaching to take it, the room zoomed and tilted for a quick second and suddenly i was back in my childhood home, sinking deep in to the orange sofa under the sick-comforter, my dad stirring honey in to a mug, i love lucy reruns on the tv.

those triggers, of smell, or sound, or an unearthed remembrance – that pull us completely out of our present and in to an encapsulated set of moments that exist only in our memories and our heart – never fail to blindside me in their astonishing, exacting, just-as-it-was-ness. i felt my dad as though he were in the room, so deeply, and i thought you’re here, you’re still here, i will always find you if i need to. thoughts of him are of course always quietly in the back of my mind, but there are those more powerful moments when out of nowhere i feel or sense him. in the morning shadow on my studio wall, sparkling in the dust motes when the sun hits them just so, his voice somehow intermingled with the johnny cash song pouring from a car radio next to me at the stoplight. the quiet ache of missing him and my loneliness for him doesn’t ever really go away; it just shifts like gears between low and high. for my sister it is the same, for however bullish and egotistical and unsolicited-advice-yielding as he could be, my father loved us, and all of his family, to the moon, and was available always for a hug, a long conversation, a dirty joke, a dirty martini. his death, almost eight years ago, was my first great loss outside of a few flattening heartbreaks and some moments i would pay to revisit or re-do. i’ve lost friends and loves, but saying goodbye to my father so unexpectedly and suddenly knocked the wind from my body, and it never came back in quite the same way.

it was the first time that i remember thinking, okay, so these are the moments. the crystalline, gorgeous, painful moments being a human on this planet means all of us will experience at some point. for many of us they float a sky length away and don’t enter our younger psyche except as something that will happen later, well beyond the consuming thoughts of love, accrual, sex, success, family, failure and joy that shape our opening decades. these sorts of preoccupations are natural as we brightly rule our singular and unique kingdoms while we’re here. but here’s the thing. for all of the intense focus on self instead of the collective or the community, we are here, taking up space and oxygen for a mere breath of time as it extends from the past, sits for what to us is a lifetime but to the universe is just an eyeblink, before continuing on to a billion different futures. time does seem to speed up, acutely so when we acknowledge at some point in our middle lives that there is less of it in front of us, and its movement, its perpetual march, and the spaces we create within it, are so fleeting and tender.

here, in the last years of my fifties, at a time when the sky seems to be falling, and a global chill descends upon most of us who are paying attention to what is happening in the world, i work harder than ever to create beauty. I could outline the gloom (and its possible cures) that exists currently, and i have tried, for my daughter, to do just that; to assuage her anxiety and alarm at what she and her generation are privy to politically and environmentally on a global scale every single day. we talk about weather patterns more disrupted than we’ve witnessed in our lifetimes due to climate change. populism and nationalism on the rise. atrocities of war taking place in ways we hoped and trusted would never happen again. consumption and waste and planet-choking materials filling our waterways, our atmosphere, impacting our bodies and animal, plant and sea life in every stretch of land here. my daughter is 20, and wonders constantly where things will be in 10, 15, 25 years. i look for answers, because that is my job as her parent, and her friend. and though we discuss and explore and share what we’re both seeing online and outside our door, and how much overwhelm we feel, i stay away from telling her, this is how it has been for millennium. wars have raged, over land and religion and money. borders have been marked and walls have been built. humanity has taken what they need when they need it. tragically, the speed and scope of how much we need as the earth’s population grows, and the tools and technology available to us to fill our endless hunger, means we have tipped the scales to an extent we may not be able to come back from.

i have searched to understand why i hesitate to point out humanity’s failings to maya. i have come to realize that although i feel deep pain and bewilderment when i look past my one little life and see the mess out there beyond my own horizon, i am at the very same time still enchanted with the magic that is this planet. much more so than i when i was younger, and self-immersed, and trusting blindly that the earth will keep turning and endings will mostly be good. from a more seasoned viewpoint over here, those preoccupations diminish in significance, replaced with the truths and absolutes of this rotating sphere of life, which are dazzling. it is astonishing to learn how earth continues to live and support all living things after millions and millions of years. astonishing to acknowledge the finite and delicate recipe that must be maintained to sustain that life. astonishing to witness, even in our brief time here, her constant evolution, her inherent nature to create balance, her tenacity and power. and most importantly, to realize how desperately she needs our care.

if you watched the nova series ‘the planets’, at one point you saw a linear diagram of the planets and our sun aligned by size. it was stunning to take in how tiny our planet is, and as ridiculous as it sounds, seeing earth, in the context of and dwarfed by a vast universe and its other enormous planets, brought a sort of calm and acceptance that would seem counterintuitive upon realizing our infinitesimal position in a very big picture. feeling that smallness was a sort of instant wakeup call that my time here, in my little house, in my lovely beach town, in this state, this country, this continent, on this planet, is only as big and significant as i make it, as any of us make it. and what i know is that the biggest bigness any of us will feel and create here, is fueled by loving and caring for each other.

and so this is what i choose to give to my daughter. to move from the very big picture which can be overwhelming in its doom and gloom, to the smaller pictures that make up our lives. to embrace what is so essentially human about the human race. so much of it has to do with ritual, and tradition, and comfort. those moments we carve out amongst the chaos to embrace stillness and sit in beauty. an evening walk. curling up with a book and a pot of hot tea. setting the holiday table for those who will come to celebrate. the warmth of wrapping your hands around a steaming cup of coffee. singing full out to the car radio with the windows down. being with the people we adore as much as we are able. dancing in the kitchen with a pal to motown while chopping tomatoes for the spaghetti sauce. choosing grace, and graciousness. being with animals, and spending time outside, among the trees. maya pushes back about the imbalances in the universe and how she is to embrace all of the beauty and warmth i’ve tried to bring to her as though those imbalances don’t exist. i remind her, they are man-made, and as such, must be man-unmade. how to do that mom, she asks. and i can only say, be true, be kind. have a light footstep on this planet. be present, and notice where there is need. keep your eyes open to others who are hurting, but describe boundaries to protect your tender heart. have integrity. love well, and deeply. live well, and deeply.

in a week my best friend, the one i have adored and cherished since the moment we met at 17, will arrive from amsterdam to soak up some sunshine and my family’s love of her for a deliciously long set of days. i’m not sure what we will do during that time, but i know we will have morning coffee and evening cocktails, and that the spaces in between will be perfect and imperfect and possibly even tough a few times as we lead such different lives, so many miles away from each other, and will adjust to being together. i will look in to her face and she into mine, and we will see things we haven’t seen before; wisdom, sadness, a new wrinkle or two, a spot or freckle that wasn’t there last time, a fresh inlet or outlet of happiness. and there too will be all of the moments our lives have intersected, our memories spanning decades close by or at a great distance. and signe’s face, the one i love so much, will be as beautiful as it was the day we first noticed each other at a language camp in central holland 41 years ago.

and when signe is gone, and it is just me and maya sitting at the table having coffee together, i will tell her, this is why. why we stay. and persist. and foster hope. for the people we love, for the deep tears and hysterical laughter. for the gorgeousness of good food and the comfort of your favorite old sweater. for seeing the lilt of your true love’s wrist a thousand times and breathing in their scent when they lean in to kiss you. for family and friends, how we nourish their souls and they ours. how one day maya, you will get on a plane, move through time and space to arrive elsewhere, walk through a few doors, and see in front of you a face you recognize, have longed for, and a love that spans everything, and makes it all make sense.