Ash Wednesday

This morning may have been my last physical therapy appointment!

Exactly 14 weeks after my unspectacular fall at the Louvre and my over-dramatic exit via the glass pyramid of the same, I have been cleared to do almost anything (like hike or wear cute shoes). I have my list of exercises that should enable me to start jogging soon. I can (must) walk on the beach.

The only restriction is No Running On Soccer Fields, which means no Sporty Sports. Yet. (Oh, Sporty Sports! The inaugural day was documented here, but it was the first of many in Europe and we have even had a couple since returning.)

Sporty Sports has almost nothing to do with today, except that I wanted to pass along the news of my almost complete recovery.

As I drove home today from physical therapy, Meg and I listened to music gifted to the children from the amazing Maddie during a visit last weekend. She said it was music that they enjoyed together last fall.

I know that in Europe there was much music and happiness. Last fall I listened  2-year-old Meg sing T-Swift's "Trouble" and heard more times than I can count how "This Girl is on Fire." And it was very dear today to hear her squeal, "Miss Maddie learned this one!!" (meaning she taught me this one) as one song after another took us back to the little apartment in Athens, or the bus on the way to anywhere. As we listened, though, I was increasingly aware of how I knew of those things going on but actually had very little idea of what the days looked like for Maddie and the kids while I was teaching or grading or touring. I knew what they did, but I didn't get to experience, to see, to laugh and dance to the same things.

And then I felt a little left out.

Even though I know there was no way for me to be in all of the places at once, I felt a little pained about missing some beautiful moments. As if anyone could ever have all of the beautiful moments in the world.

And then this song came on:

It's from the end credits of the film Prince Caspian, which the kids watched a lot in Athens. On the last night there, as we packed up to move westward, Charlie sat on our balcony singing this song and crying. The following morning a yet-five-years-old William came to me with tears rolling down his cheeks, saying he had said goodbye and sung this song out to Athens for the last time. It has been incredibly poignant for the children (and therefore to me) as we repeatedly pulled up stakes from places we had come to love and had little reason to suppose we'd ever see again.

Anyway, the song came on and I got a little weepy. But not over Athens, not exactly. I think I was surprised that this particular song was part of Maddie's repertoire with the kids, although of course that makes sense. Mainly I felt overwhelmed by how many perspectives were possible to a single experience, and was wishing hard that I could have experienced more than only mine. It's like when you take a video of a piano recital or talent show, and that IS the talent show to you. Your perspective is the only one you have...until you later the see the video of the same event taken from someone else's seat. And you see so many things that you may have missed.

It is good to learn to see other perspectives. But I was not sad about not understanding someone else better. I am pretty sure I was sad that I missed experiencing everything. I am pretty sure that the sadness  was related to the snatches of eternity I've talked about before. Specifically, I think it is the flipside: instead of the delight of getting to experience and enjoy the past along with the present--and with the hope that in the future we'll be doing just the same with the days that are here now, like so many petals on a flower--there is the pain of knowing the absence of experiences. Of having missed something beautiful, and of feeling as though it will never be, but will only always be a loss.

It seems strange to speak of missing experiences when we are freshly back from Europe. But everything I did not do there is like a permanent loss, as I can't go back and buy the kids a dessert crepe in Paris, or get to their beloved Luxembourg Gardens with them before I tear up my ankle and can barely get anywhere. It did not happen, and it will never have happened, and that is that.  (At least here at home there is the illusion that I can get up and do something tomorrow instead, while the truth is that we are only given each day once. This side of eternity.)

When I started typing out this blog, I didn't know what I would say in the middle but I planned to get to the end and say that in essence I am sad that I am not god (omnipresent and all), and would really really like to be, and that crashing up against my finitude is as good a place as any to be on Ash Wednesday. And there is, to be sure, some Veruca Salt in me:

"I want the world! I want the whole world! I want to lock it all up in my pocket--it's my bar of chocolate--give it to me now!"

And maybe that's what the sadness is, and maybe there's more going on. I am grateful for this season we're embarking on and hope for time to reflect, sort things out, and keep or start walking in the right direction.