Being in this sacred place gives me space to breathe. Life’s toils are pushed away in all directions. A sweep of my arms and… whoosh. They are waiting for me, but for now they’re on the fringes. Far enough away that for a time, I can truly see what’s right in front of me.
On our first morning here, I looked down the beach and saw Jason and Buddy returning from their morning walk. Ian was up by then and we began walking on the long boardwalk to them. Then Ian grabbed the railings, quickly hopped down the stairs and ran towards them. Buddy, in his perfect love of Ian, took off running for a reunion that appeared months in the making when they had just been separated by a good night’s sleep. The love of a dog.
I captured this reunion on video and when watching it, I was struck not just by their deep, unconditional love but by how easily Ian bounded down those stairs. That was a skill – going up and down the stairs alternating his feet – that we worked on for what seemed like years. It started with him learning to pull himself up and crawl up the stairs, always mindful that he was using both legs equally so one did not become stronger than the other. Supporting the way he would crawl up and down the stairs to make sure his form was correct. Celebrating every single step, literally and figuratively. I remember he would stop midway up the stairs, turn and clap for himself. And oh, how we would rejoice!
When it was time to move from crawling to walking, Jason installed a handrail below the main one on our stairs. You can still see it in the Christmas morning photo of our boys. (I don’t know that I can ever bear to remove it.) Ian used that handrail for years as we spotted, corrected and cheered him on. “Left, right, left, right.” Gentle cuing to alternate his feet. And after all of this, all of this time… years. He did it. He did it!
I had not thought much about all those years of working to walk up and down the stairs like that until yesterday. When I saw him racing down the stairs alternating his feet before they hit the sand and he ran. All that work, the focus of so much of your life, and then you all but forget about it. You hit the milestone and then head right towards the next one.
Maybe that is how it should be, or at least how life just is? You work and work and work, cheering yourself along the way, and then you get there and you are on to what’s next. That’s progress, how we keep moving forward. But the work and greatest reward are in all the steps to get there, to get to that finish line.
I think this hits me harder now because I still feel so stuck, nearly two years into the pandemic. I deeply grieve the life I used to have. Easy hugs, a cup of coffee, making plans. Going and doing without the worry, the wondering, the risk analysis. I guess I don’t see much progress in these past two years. Just making it through. Day in, day out. Doing what’s best for my family. Ian’s academic and social needs balanced with his medical ones, Joey’s growth into a young man and moving toward the next season of his life, Jason’s balancing of so many responsibilities, me keeping it all afloat. It feels heavy. Or maybe it’s that carrying the same burden feels heavy the longer you carry it.
Here we are, almost two years into all of our lives being upended. No matter your risk tolerance, no one’s life is what it was two years ago. But maybe our progress is in the persevering? In the getting up and doing, day in and day out.
We are all doing the best we can. But oh, how I long for the worries of my old life. Can you imagine when we truly get there? (Because we will get there.) There will be that time, far in the future, when we see ourselves giving hugs and making plans without worry. And just like Ian bounding down those stairs, we will have to remind ourselves of how far we came. That we did it.
In the meantime, when you’re climbing those stairs, take a break in the middle and clap for yourself. Because, for as hard as it is, you’re doing it. We all are.