I, like so many other parents, had a lump in my throat as I dropped my child off at school this morning--still wallowing in yesterday’s horrific news of yet another school shooting in America.
On days like these when the magnitude of our society’s collective brokenness overwhelms me, my first instinct is to withdraw. In a sense to stop living. How can I move on knowing some other parents’ lives will never, ever be the same? I feel guilty knowing I can go to the grocery store and drive a carpool like it’s just another day.
Because for some parents, this is not just another day. Their life as they know it has ended.
I saw the title of my last post where I talked about “choosing forward”. At first glance, the thought feels almost blithe to me today. How does anyone “choose forward” when their child was shot in school?
But sadly, I know it’s not just today. It’s every day. There are always unconscionable things happening somewhere.
It always brings up the same question for me:
how do we live in this?
I know despair has its place. Anger too. Both can be either a reason to resign or an impetus for new resolve. I also believe we need to be willing to sit in collective pain without looking away.
And yet, I know that hope too is necessary. Not as blind optimism or inaction. But the hope that we can create a better way forward. We can’t give up.
One of the incredible things about children is their open minds and their belief that problems are solvable. I look at my own kids who name societal problems and brainstorm ways forward. They can imagine a better way. As a mom, I often think about how important it is to foster that spirit in them in a world that wants to extinguish it with cynicism. The world needs their hope and imagination.
I sat down to write this morning and my instinctual response was to stop. Who was I to be writing a trivial little story when someone’s world has ended? I often feel this emotion in these times. As if I would show greater solidarity with a broken world if I just sat in the brokenness vs. creating something.
And yet, every story well lived and told involves overcoming and creating something for someone. Which is always the way forward.
I remembered a scene from a story I had watched recently-- Station 11 – a miniseries based on the novel by the same name. The series centers on a group of creative individuals that survive a flu pandemic that resulted in the collapse of civilization.
In the opening episode, the character Jeevan (an adult) becomes a caretaker for Kirsten (a young child). Together, they navigate through overcoming dystopian circumstances. In one scene, the two characters discuss their experience in confronting overwhelming uncertainty. Kirstin said— “I was never scared with you.” Jeevan said – “I was always scared.”
Choosing forward with hope as we live our own stories is our only opportunity to create hope for someone else.
Last night at the end of a day where I felt spiraling in melancholy, I had the joy of attending a spring art showcase at my daughter’s school—an event that is a beautiful celebration of arts and community and children and joy. It was the first in-person celebration of its kind since the start of the pandemic.
In her introductory remarks, the head of school eloquently addressed the tragedy in Texas which we honored with a moment of collective silence. She then talked about the joy of witnessing the creativity and hope in the children and community we were there to celebrate. And how we can hold both emotions – grief and hope—at the same time.
Indeed, we always must. Somehow, even in this.