the most human i can be
On the bed in our hotel room in Orlando watching the news during the coverage of Hurricane Ian, I heard a weather forecaster say that the hurricane was sitting and spinning offshore. It reminded me of a line from an 80's movie, although, I can’t recall which one, the title of my blog, and the state of my mind.
The hotel was pet friendly and any time of day or night there were wet dogs of all sizes and breeds going in and out of the lobby with their people in raincoats. In the morning, kids ran around in jammies after eating the breakfast buffet which had Mickey Mouse waffles. Speaking of Mickey Mouse, the woman at the front desk wore sparkly Mickey Mouse ears each day which somehow made me feel both better and worse.
As we sat nervously watching the news with forecasters standing outside in apocalyptic looking conditions holding street signs so they wouldn’t blow away, there were people still swimming in the pool. The restaurant at the hotel, Flamingo Crossing, stayed open while servers scrambled around tending to anxious guests. I may have enjoyed a Mai Tai at lunch, not the wisest or most sophisticated of choices but somehow appropriate.
I also ate snacks galore, salty, processed ones that left me feeling well-preserved for the next ten days.
After two nights in Orlando, we headed home. Turning down our street, I took a deep breath, and felt the sting of oncoming tears. There was very little damage here but seeing neighbors chatting while cleaning up their yards blanketed with fallen debris made me feel deeply grateful and keenly aware of how different it could have been. How different it was for others. I felt a pit in my stomach, knowing that people south of us were dealing with such excessive damage and so much loss.
While our power was out, we were inundated with kind offers for places to sleep, eat, drink tequila (Thanks Wendy), shower, charge our phones, and chill out. The neighbors that have generators were gracious to those of us who don’t (yet) and had our youngest over for dinner and movies two nights in a row.
The Friday after the storm, Phoebe and I wrapped hundreds of sandwiches at a local food bank. The number of volunteers there took my breath away. When something tragic happens, kind, helpful people make everything better. It brings me such profound joy to see people coming together doing what they can to be of help.
Then last Monday, I went to the gym in the morning after dropping my kids off at school after they missed a week and listened to Stephen Colbert on Anderson Cooper’s podcast talk about grief. I felt my own grief bubbling up inside as well as the heaviness of the sleepless nights, the worry, and heartbreak all catching up with me.
I no longer stop myself from crying in public places (as If I have a choice) because I know now that it’s my body’s effective response at processing the stress that has been accumulating in me for days so I snorted, made weird noises, worried others, and let my big tears fall where they may. I felt guilty too, admitting to anyone that I was exhausted because it could have been so much worse and what right did I have to say I was exhausted? But the stress of the week had taken a toll on all of us.
Listening to Stephen Colbert talk about the complexity and beauty of being human and how he cries often not because he’s sad but because life is so beautiful made me want to hug people. He talked about feeling it all, about being as human as he can be. And about noticing beauty, kindness, joy every chance we get. Even and most importantly, amid tragedy.
Last Wednesday was Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the year in Judaism. It’s a day to reflect, repent, and realign. We had a beautiful day at Temple and at home together preparing food and taking it easy. It was also my dad’s 83rd birthday. I understand now that his death and his absence will always hurt. But that the pain lives side by side with the joy. Not knowing my dad as an 83-year-old-man pains me. In my mind, he would be as warm and affectionate as he always was - probably with questionable wardrobe choices like a baseball hat perched on the top of his head or maybe wearing funny “dungarees”. But he would be adorable with his brilliant smile and rosy cheeks. I’d hug him and smell his aftershave. And I’d sit next to him on the couch and hold his weird thumb indented from an infection he had as a boy. Sometimes conjuring up these feelings gives me solace. But, of course, it’s never enough. And somehow that becomes okay.
None of it’s really okay and yet at the same time is has to be. When I look to the helpers like Mr. Rogers told us his mom told him to do during tragedy, I remember all of the goodness and all of the promise. The linemen restoring power who have been working tirelessly (one was working on a line behind our house at 3am), the first responders, the tree trimmers, the hordes of people collecting supplies, the restaurant workers, and those serving coffee and hot food, everyone chipping in, how things are constantly falling apart and coming together, how beautiful and heartbreaking this all is.
We need time and space to pause and process. We need to stop thinking about our feelings, and just feel our feelings without haste or judgment. Whatever you feel, give yourself permission to feel it.
If you need a good laugh right about now, think of me, wearing the “No Boo” lights around my neck at Hall-o-scream at Bush Gardens. I went with some of my daughter’s friends and two of their moms. When you wear this, it signifies to the workers to not jump out at you and be awful. It seemed to have worked because I couldn’t handle the zombies and the creepy people with chainsaws. I wore that necklace like my most treasured possession, like my life depended on it, and like an amulet which I held up to ward off evil in the “scare zones.” Someone said in an horror movie voice, “Face your fear little girl.”
My friend, Charlotte, said on the phone today that it would be much easier if we could wear necklaces for a variety of reasons. I love this thought, maybe one for when we’re feeling fragile, one when we’re grieving, one when we want to be left alone. It would signify, be nice people, be gentle, it’s a whole big mess of a world out there. It’s terrifying. And beautiful.