No miss

It doesn’t matter whether you eat them — the point is to make them. (Photo by ivabalk)

We were playing with my toddler nephew on the day of our departure when my husband said to him, "I'm going to miss you."

The two-year-old didn't hesitate. "No miss!" he said crossly.

The message was clear: "We aren't going to talk about goodbyes. We aren't going to wallow in sadness. We're playing together right now. We're going to live in the moment and keep our goodbyes light."

However, when the little guy got back from an outing and discovered we had gone, he allowed himself to experience a pang of loss. "Cece and Kyle not here," he said solemnly.

I've been going through a similar process with my own grief about leaving my home for a few months and venturing into a new phase. There are times when I need to stay focused on the work and the preparations, and there are times when I need to give myself over to the emotions that the process is bringing up. Each mode of being has its place.

When I was younger, I was even more sentimental than I am now. "This is the last time I will ever walk these halls as a seventh grader." That kind of thing. As I got older, I came to understand that my memories could carry the load. I didn't have to create a special "last time" to look back on — I had all of the times to look back on.

And then, as I got even older and had a broader range of experiences, I realized that my memories couldn't carry the load. There were gaps. All the people I listed in my diary from choir camp, swearing I'd never forget them or the times we shared — I forgot them all, and the times we shared. The diary feels like it was written by someone else. That feels strangely okay.

Knowing that I can't count on the memories, I circle all the way back to the importance of living in the present moment. I haven't figured out how to experience it more deeply or savor it more fully, though. Here I am on my last day at home, trying to live into the feeling of it to carry it with me. It isn't going to work. There's nothing to do but be here.

This line of thinking leads unappealingly and inevitably to a contemplation of mortality. Well, so be it. It's oddly soothing to concede that there is no objective best way to measure myself and my life and the value of a particular moment. We contribute in the best way we know how, and then we’re gone.

So I will keep doing the things on my to-do list, banal as they are, and take care of my responsibilities. I'll enjoy and appreciate an ordinary day, knowing that it's a gift just for things to be normal and unremarkable.

I know that I will continue to miss the people I can't be with. I will freely express that longing, regardless of what my nephew might prefer. I'm not going to wallow in it, but I'll let myself feel it. And then, I'll get back to whatever I'm doing. Hopefully, it will involve lots of playing.