The only way out is through.

What Carl Sandburg, a Winnie the Pooh story, and giving birth during COVID in NYC have taught me about life

“Autumn Movement”

Carl Sandburg (1878 –1967)

I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper sunburned woman, 
       the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.

The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes, new beautiful things 
       come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind, and the old things go, 
       not one lasts.

***

I’ve felt a bit like a Windswept Piglet lately.

If you’re unfamiliar with the children’s tale, here’s the basic story:

It is a very windy day in the Hundred-Acre Wood, and the wind sweeps Piglet up and into the homes of Pooh, Rabbit, and Kanga and Roo. Eventually, Piglet makes his way back home and declares that he is going to “stay inside where it’s safe.” The next day, Pooh, Rabbit, and Tigger all go to Piglet’s house to check on him and invite him on a walk. Again, the wind blows Piglet from under his chair where he’s trying to hide from the dangerous element. Every day, Piglet’s friends try to get him to go out, and every day Piglet stays in.

Then, Pooh has an “aha!” moment: he plans a Come Outside Party for his little, petrified friend. But, seeing and hearing his friends having fun isn’t enough to convince Piglet to join them. His friends end up having a terrible time, too, and disclose how much they miss their friend. Piglet misses them, too.

After they return home, a giant gust of wind swoops up Pooh, carrying him nearly off a cliff. His only saving grace is that his scarf gets caught on a tree branch. Piglet witnesses everything and runs outside to save him. Once they are back on solid ground, Pooh notices something remarkable. “Piglet!” he exclaims. “You’re outside!” Piglet responds, “Yes, I am, Pooh… and I’m not going to stay inside any more.” The story closes with the two walking alongside each other in the lovely afternoon breeze.

In my own version of this story, the wind is anxiety, and I’m the scrawny animal being pounded by its force, recording its power in my weary pages. Indoors represents depression, the place I end up when fear trumps ambition. The back and forth between the two—the whirling that sends me into an emotional paralysis—is relentless and trying, and I’m so tired.

I’m often left in a bewildered state, scrutinizing which is better: risk or safety?

Lately, the latter has won. The Universe’s blows have brought me inside, emotionally and physically, and I’ve felt pretty down about it.

This Sisyphean story is not a recent life development. I’ve dealt with the arduous labor to varying degrees for the last twenty odd years—the most heavy-hitting was after the loss of my little brother nearly ten years ago. That blow really catapulted me into an endless and repeating turmoil that offered rare moments of reprieve for years. On challenging days, I can still feel its power.

Since then, I’ve weathered many more storms—deaths of loved ones, COVID in NYC, matrescence, moving from a big city to a small one, birthing a second child while caring for a toddler, transitioning from teaching to writing—and have had people come in and out of my life who either a) try to invite me out of my own prison (like Piglet’s friends) or b) require my rescue (like Pooh), dragging me out of my numbness into vitality once again.

I’ve been grateful when both have happened, and I’ve learned to trust that one of those two things will likely happen whenever I’m floating through the air, lost in my own existential dread, catching glimpses of my daughters’ dimples and my husband’s smile while suspended in the tumult.

***

It was Friday the 13th of March 2020, when the wind shifted definitively.

After my principal’s uncharacteristic afternoon announcement that instructed staff members to take home all personal belongings, I felt the air suck out of the building. I was an eighth grade English teacher at the time, and I was also 36 weeks pregnant with my first child. Fear started to drive my every thought.

On my walk home that day, I stopped by the Stop ‘N Shop to grab a basket’s worth of items for the weekend. In hindsight, I should have bought the damn toilet paper, too. My walk home was about a half-mile, so I could only purchase as many items as I thought I could carry. I ended up with this:

Priorities.

That first year of parenting at the inception of a global pandemic nearly broke me. In some ways, it did. And yes, I know: No one wants to talk about COVID anymore. I’ve had plenty of editors tell me this in the past year, but I feel that it is the elephant in the room for people who became mothers or fathers during this “unprecedented” time (I know, I know: I cringe at the “u” word, too!).

That historical gale-force wind that brought with it crippling postpartum anxiety and depression nearly took me out for good during that inaugural year of motherhood. Thankfully, it was merciful and caring.

At least twice a week it would force me (and my baby) out of our 500-square-foot apartment in Sunnyside, Queens. I’d don my face mask and stroll my newborn down the quiet streets of Sunnyside Gardens, up and down Skillman and 39th Street. And though the fear was real, the risk was worth the potential loss of safety. It was worth it to breathe in fresh air, to feel the warmth of the sun, to be out in the world.

Me with baby girl #1.

The state of my mental health was poor—crumbling. I won’t sugarcoat it: Those first nine months of parenthood were hell, comprised of the daily tune-in to Cuomo’s televised press conferences, my daughter’s lip tie, my many bouts of mastitis and clogs, the Black Lives Matter protests, my husband’s WFH situation, the painful absence of friends and family, the hour-long waits outside on a cue six-feet apart to go inside a store, the disturbing and intrusive thoughts that kept me awake at night, the compounding lack of sleep from both my baby and my mind, and the vanishing of all that made our city life extraordinary: live theatre and music, restaurants, shopping, museums, and libraries.

But those nine months were also heaven.

While the world metaphorically burned outside of our NYC apartment, my gaze wasn’t held by its fire; it was steady on the sheer, shining miracle that I held in my arms for hours and hours at a time.

I remember studying her every move and feature, searching for clues that suggested I was her mother and my husband, her father. I remember deciphering her many cries, reading and memorizing the slightest distinctions in inflection and volume. I remember the stillness and calm in our sphere within a sphere within a sphere. I remember the growing gratitude I felt for the biggest life slow-down in recent history. I remember having the epiphany of all epiphanies: that all I really needed in life was my health and my little family.

Like Piglet, I found solace indoors, but once my mind began to break, once danger showed up in the form of darkness, I’d muster what small bits of courage and strength I had left and heed the wind’s call and head outside. It would take me, save me, and I’d allow it with paltry resistance.

I wanted my daughter to know the blooms of crocus, daffodil, cherry blossom, tulip, azalea, hydrangea, and iris. I wanted my daughter to know the contrast of leafy green up against sky blue. I wanted my daughter to know the difference between fresh air and stale air. I wanted her to see the beauty of the world right in the middle of its ugliness, and I wanted her to feel hope in a hopeless place.

I wanted to also remind myself of these things—the things that kept me going day in and day out, the things that keep me going now. I wanted to surrender and trust because I had learned that the Universe has this incredible way of holding balance, of harmonizing, even when we didn’t immediately see it or understand it.

The sweetest “freshie” ever.

***

Yes, there are reprehensible acts being done in all parts of the world right now. There is a lot of darkness. And yet, in my own home, in my quaint community, there is light.

I am able to experience bountiful love, joy, and hope in various forms: watching my two daughters, two peas in a pod, perform an impromptu ballet duet, observing the process and finishing of their own original art, and giving one another (and their mama and dada, too) the most sincere and spontaneous hugs and kisses.

It’s in these moments that I tell myself all is well when it is well and even when it is not well. It’s in these moments that I recite the mantra that I adopted years ago: “All is temporary.”

In the past two years or so, I’ve realized that this life is and will continue to be full of pain and suffering, and the only way out is through.

I’ve accepted what are the basic facts of my own existence: insurmountable grief, interminable anxiety and depression, caustic inner child wounds, and now also, the perpetual and agonizing challenges of parenting. And though there are actionable ways that I’ve learned to cope and heal, it’s impossible to eliminate the parts of me that will never die because they are simply who I am—just as much as I am a part of my children and my parents are a part of me. And, once I’ve accepted these facts, these harsh truths, that in and of itself is quite freeing, quite liberating.

By no means am I perfect or have a perfect practice. I fail daily—sometimes hourly—in reminding myself of these truths. Most of the time, I end up bogged down and lost in my own spiraling thoughts. But, I know that if I’m patient and trust the Universe wholeheartedly, I’ll be given that gentle reminder, that invisible push by Mother Nature, wherein I’ll recall the truth: I am who I am, including the parts of me that I do not like. And, it’s this truth that inevitably sets me free.

A most beautiful sky in Sunnyside, Queens, during COVID.

***

This past month, the wind at night has been rageful here in Asheville. Under a star-scattered sky, its strong gusts first make its way through the pines at the top of the mountains. I can hear its fury and calculate its distance from my bedroom window. And then it shifts dramatically, letting up and forcefully finding its way down my street, and I can hear its bluster travel through from the farthest section of the neighborhood to the mighty oak and firs in our backyard. I wince, half-fearful that Helene’s damage isn’t over and half-thrilled to be an audience member of this live and unpredictable production.

Carl Sandburg’s home is thirty-three miles south of my abode, and there’s something comforting about knowing that another person, whose words captivated a wide audience (ahem, a three-time Pulitzer Prize-winning poet and biographer), heard these same howls through these hallowed hills, albeit in a different time—a time before my own.

One evening, I drift to sleep and when I wake the next morning, I am gobsmacked by what I see outside my window: snow flurries, tossing and turning all about by her most powerful, the Wind. Tears begin to crest and then flow. I’m enamored by the beauty of the crystal flakes and am mournful of their transience. My inner child bids me to enjoy this moment, and I listen to her. I run to the back door and open it, letting the brisk, winter air invigorate me. I shiver from the cold, and I smile.

After a couple of quiet minutes, I go to wake my daughters and alert them to the exciting weather happening. They squeal and shout, “Snow day! Snow day! Snow day!” And though there’s scant accumulation on the ground, the dancing white is enough to entertain us for a few hours. We sit all “cozy wozy” on the couch underneath a fleece blanket and watch the show outside through the bay window in our living room. It’s during this time of observation and warm embraces that tears make another appearance, coming and going like the gentle wind that urges an unrehearsed orchestral dance of the snowfall, and I take in the wonderful, unexpected magic of the morning with my two miracles—my two golden suns.

I think to myself that this is the life that I live for. This is the life that has died and will die many, many more deaths, but this is also the life that will become new and beautiful and whole, again and again and again, until my time on this strange and mysterious Earth is up.

After the snowfall ends, my daughters and I, like Pooh and Piglet, bundle up and head outside for a walk with held hands in the lovely afternoon breeze.

“I’m not going to stay inside anymore.”

Thank y’all so much for being here! If you liked what you read, please tap that little heart below, leave a comment, re-stack this post, and/or consider upgrading your subscription. Your participation and support motivate me to keep doing the thing!