Life Is Unfolding

This year has taught me a great deal about perspective.

It’s felt at times like watching a movie at double speed. Like an overfilled pan, boiling over.

It’s been overwhelming and difficult to step back from.

In my own life, the worst has happened.

My father passed away at the beginning of the year leaving a gaping hole in the universe.

He had a cunning way of cutting through the noise and providing clarity. It’s something I always admired about his character, the way his mind worked. Problems were smaller after he heard about them. Paths through them, revealed.

I didn’t have a great deal of time to sit still, and be with my grief. Instead, I had to manage as our world was flipped upside down, and I was catapulted into a different crisis. The fear of more people I love dying from a horrible virus nested in my thoughts.

The yardstick of what was normal seemed to be re-measured with every day that passed.

It’s hard to find perspective in all of this chaos. Especially when you’re questioning your own ability to do so.

Yet despite this, I decided to act on my better impulses.

I didn’t drink. I didn’t take drugs. I didn’t run from my rage or hide from my sadness. Instead I did something entirely new to me.

I embraced my feelings. I held them close so I could see their faces, and I sought to understand them better.

A crazy idea, I know.

Quitting drinking helped. My mind was awake for the first time in memory. Energies returned that I assumed I’d killed off long ago. Like writing. I’ve always rather enjoyed writing, but for the longest time, my mind thought differently.

I’ve found myself feeling more connected to life than ever before. Like a crack in reality had opened up and I was suddenly able to peer through.

It’s often when there’s a jolt to the system that it reboots. You check the parts. Inflate the tires, top up the oil, ensure the engine’s running smoothly.

This is the sick trick that life pulls on us. It makes us assume it is insignificant for long periods of time, and then suddenly it becomes monumental.

And it’s happening right now all around us.

As you read this, in a town in Colorado, an eleven-year-old boy just told his parents he prefers boys to girls. His parents are knelt at his side kissing his forehead and telling him they couldn’t be happier. He is wiping away tears and gasping as the anxiety pours out of him like a waterfall.

At a train station in Birmingham, a man with three children is stood at the end of the platform. His shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, his tie squeezed tightly in a ball hanging away from his neck. He is staring into the track waiting for the fast train to pass through, building up the courage to throw himself in front of it.

In Bangalore, a young woman is looking across the table in a restaurant at the man she will marry next week. He is laughing as he plays with his fork. She just realised she is going to spend the rest of her life with him, and her heart is bursting with joy.

In the Parisian suburbs an old man is stood at the vegetable stall he visits every morning, buying whatever happens to be in season. He is holding tomatoes in his hand and admiring them. His wife of fifty years passed away during the night as he held her hand. He has just realised that he only needs to buy four, instead of the usual eight.

In the English Channel, a father wipes the salty water from his daughter’s eyes as their dinghy fills with water. He whispers words of comfort to her, as those around him scream with panic. His voice is calm, but his eyes are desperate with regret. As she looks back at him, a booming horn rings out, silencing the commotion. A volunteer rescue boat has spotted their stricken craft and is speeding to their aid.  

Life is unfolding at such a blistering pace, with tragedy and beauty layered on one another.

Billions of stories, equally happy and sad.

When I was young, my dad got me a telescope. I’d become fascinated by the stars. We would go on holidays to hot places, but although I enjoyed the beach and swimming in the warm sea, it was the night I longed for. The chance to be away from the towns and cities, underneath the blackest of skies.

I’d walk far away from our villa and find a field to setup my telescope. I’d study the surface of the Moon. It’s surprising how quickly it moves out of view.

I’d lay down and stare into the darkness. I’d be utterly lost amongst the stars, and somehow, feel like I was the only one on Earth in that moment who knew they existed.

I think prior to this year, that was the last time I felt like I truly knew myself. I’d found perspective back then. Decades ago. Confronted with the majesty of the universe, it felt like it was us who were empty, and it was sky above that was full. The scale of it had changed me.

This year, I’ve found myself back in that field in France. But this time I’m staring back at myself, somehow with that same sense of perspective.

What I’ve come to understand is that the only question that really matters in times of crisis, the only real say we have in any of this, is what perspective will we choose to take?

When confronted with the vastness of our own private universe, we have to remind ourselves of the things that matter, and the things that don’t.

I will try to hold onto this newfound perspective: that life will always unfold, despite our desire to control it. It is a river of limitless beauty and sadness, in equal measure. 

We shouldn’t wait for the next jolt to the system.