These days

Last week it occurred to me that this is the rest of my life. That it won’t really get better from here anymore, and I can’t even see all the ways it could get worse. But even as I type that, I think of the words I’ve read in these last few weeks, and I think: who knows anything at all? Maybe all we need is just the possibility of something—curiosity enough to want to know how it will all unfold, to see what else could happen yet. Maybe that is enough to go on with.

And I’m also thinking about Yi Yun Li’s writing on radical acceptance, and not dwelling on wishes and what-ifs, because that is the territory of fiction. And then I think, if we could just keep the facts in mind, then it’s probably a matter of finding ways to see things so that I am not drowning. To just be able to catch a glimpse of light somewhere, somehow, even if in the little excitement of a book or a song. And as M said—nothing is too little to be excited about, and no feeling of excitement is too small.

Maybe we can only think about what we can think about, and let go of what we can no longer hold on to. Somewhere, somehow, maybe somebody will catch us.