A life I love enough to break my heart

The sunshine was so unexpected this afternoon. The forecast called for rain, but when Suzannah and I walked out of gymnastics the sun had turned everything golden. Back at home Matt mowed the lawn and the kids kicked a soccer ball around the yard, managing, for the most part, not to fight over it. When we left for Seattle I found myself reaching for my sunglasses, the light bright in my eyes as we drove along Puget Sound. Some moments are so perfect, for no reason at all. What, exactly, is so special about an ordinary Saturday in our little corner of the world? What could be beautiful about driving past the little strip malls with the random teriyaki joints, nail salons, tattoo parlors, furniture stores? The Pole Fitness place, the “For Lease” sign in the window of the pizza place we never got around to trying before it closed? Simply this: The expanse of Puget Sound on the other side of the highway, the mountains rising behind it. The fact that this, every day, is my view on my way to work. The fact that this, nearly every Saturday, is where we drive on our way to Seattle. To the Pacific Science Center, to the aquarium, to Discovery Park, to the Elliott Bay Book Company. We leave the winding tree-lined road that leads from our house to Pacific Highway, and sometime between Pacific Highway and I-5 my son nods off in the back seat. At age four, Suzannah had long since abandoned even the pretense of taking a nap, but Isaac -- though not required to take one on Saturdays -- will reliably conk right out at three o’clock in the afternoon. (Sometimes I wonder if that’s why we plan these afternoon trips to Seattle, just to give him that little space to fall asleep when he would resist so hard at home.)

And there is this: Every morning, on the way back to Suzannah’s school after dropping off her brother, we stop at the top of a hill at a particular stop light. It’s just that: a moment at a stoplight, on an ordinary street, in our ordinary little suburb. But in the fall, the trees along this street burst with gold and red leaves, and for a moment I am blessed with the sight of the leaves falling on the sidewalk, lit by the morning sun or golden against a cloudy sky, as far as I can see.

The light changes. We drive on. But that one still, golden moment fills my heart. It hurts a bit, in the way only autumn can.

It has been a rough few weeks. I’ve dealt with one of the most upsetting situations of my career, but a.) I can’t really write about it here and b.) it’s been more or less resolved. I’ve had a couple of students break my heart. I made three kids I love cry within a single, terrible hour. I hatched a hopeful and idealistic and possibly really stupid plan to help a teenager who completely and utterly exhausts me. (In essence, I volunteered to spend twice as much time with her, and yet I relax when she skips my class. What am I thinking?) I’ve felt tired, and sad, and lonely. I’ve felt that I cannot possibly be enough as a teacher. I’ve felt that I cannot possibly be enough as a mother. That tired old pull.

But, as always, the cracks let in the light: a perfectly-timed e-mail from a friend who knows the words I need to read. A dinner and long conversation with another friend who knows my heart more than just about anyone else I’ve known in my adult life. A hug from someone I work with. Talks with my parents, because even at thirty-five, I still need them. The reminders that I am not nearly as alone as I sometimes feel. The unexpected sunshine.

This, I suppose, is October. It’s the beginning of my favorite season in the Pacific Northwest: the rain, the storms, the darkness. The golden leaves falling over the sidewalks. It is also when I feel unmoored, stressed, and prone to fits of doubt and sadness. The crazy thing, though, is that I also feel deeply happy with so many aspects of my life. My children are blessedly healthy. My daughter sits cross-legged on her bed, wrapped in her Star Wars blanket, and reads my old Nancy Drew books. My son stands on a chair in the kitchen and helps me make dinner. My husband comes home from work and kisses me until our daughter protests. Our old dog is blind and deaf but she is in relatively good shape; I sit with her awhile before bed, to calm her anxiety. She snores against my thigh in our big recliner in the living room while I read.

These small moments are the ones that sustain me. The bigger things I can’t control -- the kids whose lives I can’t fix -- well, they’re the reasons I come home and need a run, or need a hug, or need my husband to pick up a pizza because I can’t do anything except sit on the family room floor and watch cartoons with the kids while we play with their puzzles or play brownie mixes or ice cream sets. They’re also the reason I care so damn much. They break my heart.

I wouldn’t trade any of it. I know this on a cellular level, even when I imagine all the alternate lives I could be leading. A life I love enough to break my heart is the life I want.