A warning, or apology: I am about to be vague.

But it’s on purpose. Perhaps ambiguity is helpful, at times, for its universality.

First, a short backstory, to set the stage.

…

This has been a tumultuous and quiet year and six weeks.

Tumultuous in its amplitude of emotion, its drastic changes, its whirlwind of revelations.

Quiet in that I have never lived without an accomplishment in mind, without a purpose or eye on some prize, without at least knowing it was a tactical pause, a regrouping, in the ever-pressing push towards the advancement of my place, as appropriate, within this crazy rat race. My whole life I have been, quite simply, a born-and-bred achiever. But during this past year, I have been forced to be still. I have found myself suddenly, and inexplicably, helpless. No ability to work, nor to continue my doctorate, and eventually, barely able to care for my infant child, who was struggling to live. I found myself, in other words, mystifyingly impotent. Weakened. Dependent. And it didn’t matter how hard I tried to right the ship: she was intent on sinking. My health, finances, loved ones, and beliefs on the deepest of levels, all slipping determinedly towards ruin, like ice melting through my fingers.

So in between bouts of despair and rage, there would be this quiet.

And out of this quiet, there would be some awakening.

…

I have lived a rather interesting life.

I chose it, without knowing, of course, what would happen. I only knew that there was something deeper than how we mostly live.

For a long time, things were rather sad.

For many, many years, it was something of a struggle.

Very dark times. Very sad.

And then there were these points of light in it.

And then there were these illuminations, gifts, you could call them, that cracked open life to show something shiny inside, that could never be owned, but could be experienced, like tasting a fig plucked from a tree.

These times occurred more often. They grew. I felt blessed, finally. Grateful, and at times, free.

The gifts increased. They touched every aspect of my life. I was on to something, I was moving towards something, willingly, wherever it would lead. I merely listened and allowed it to open.

The dark times seemed to have happened to someone else. I could barely recall them. And I didn’t want to. I had shed that identity. I lived happily in this new way. And thought I trusted it.

…

And then, disaster. Quickly, everything tumbles, like dominos. It doesn’t matter if I scream. It doesn’t matter if I pray. I am alone, and clutching ice.

…

So much quiet.

…

So much quiet, that things begin to stir.

…

I see so many things, looking back. I can see her and her strength. I can see her in her naiveté, and in her fallibility. And through it all, the thing inside her, that she listened to, and didn’t listen to, that didn’t belong to her, but shone brilliant, with the blinding power of a prism, those times, those moments, she unknowingly set it free.

…

…

…

Adahlia sleeps. So quietly, she sleeps, I could be in bed alone. I slide my hand in her direction and my fingers find a heel encased in footie, a rubber-bumped, no-slip sole. In response, she presses her leg to my forearm. Its not enough. She rolls towards me, on to her side, flinging a tiny arm over mine, her fingers massaging and petting my skin, finding and tracing pathways of comfort in the ridge lines of my bicep, my extensor-this, and flexor-that.

…

I realize: I have lived an extraordinary life.

I realize: I am actually, truly, happy. In this moment. With all this shit going on, and falling apart, I am actually, happy.

I realize: I have lost all sorts of things that don’t matter, even the things that people say are the only things that matter, but actually, don’t.

Whether we are financially ruined by this crazy year or Jo lands a job or we meet a leprechaun with deliciously addictive cereal and cookware filled with gold. Whether my kidney kicks back in or I go into chronic kidney failure. Whether or not Adahlia has a blood disorder.

It doesn’t matter to me anymore.

I have become reacquainted with myself.

…

The fact that Adahlia exists is pure miracle. She is the most ridiculous, wonderful, insanely beautiful twist in a play I am much too small to conceive. I am so, so grateful to know her, to have been chosen to be her mom.

The fact that Jo can see me, and I him, and we can trace the excavation of our knowing of other in self, to arrive at delight in other, despite everything that has attempted to blind or confuse us, is nothing short of a mind-blowing, heart-bowing, sanctity.

None of this could have happened with out everything terrible that has happened.

And the idea of the three of us being here, together, makes me giddy.

…

We have come full circle.

All I ever wanted, and never knew I wanted, is now with me. On this journey of self-discovery, I have rediscovered me, a true me, and she has been witnessed.

We not only can grow and change, but we do it together. We are catalysts for each other.

We open our own eyes, and in doing so, we create the space for others to open theirs, and in doing so, we are seen and finally see.

And we are wiling to die, if necessary, to make that happen.

…

I realize: I could die, right now, and my whole life would be complete.

And that fills me with such bursting gratitude, such soft peace, that I think I would like nothing better than to join my two loves in sleep.