Breathe

“Nothing ever repeats. Each breath is a new suck at the atmosphere, a gasp for life. A hope for experience. Feel that and go on.”  Kim Stanley Robinson, in 2312

Several people who have earned my love and trust are going through rough times just now. A daughter, a trusted and valued colleague, a friend of many years whose well-being feels necessary to my own. Others less close but no less cared for. One can’t talk, one can’t stop talking, one is straightforward and hiding the hurt – the ways they try to cope are as varied and variably effective as are their personalities and life experiences.

The list of things about which I worry is long and diverse. I have always been a worrier. It is one of my skills, second only to noticing and helping to raise daughters. (Okay, so third, it’s maybe third on my skills list.) I worry about things I can and should remedy, such as my overweight condition and about things I can’t touch, such as chunks of space junk that might bonk me on the head at a zillion miles per hour, having failed to be consumed through frictional ablation as they fall through the atmosphere.

These two categories – conditions I can or cannot personally affect – contribute to my worry quotient but these are not the main drivers of my discomfort. The category of worrisome things that keep me awake nights lies in the middle ground, sort of.

I worry about the problems that I can’t resolve or even help to resolve but that I feel deep in my soul I should be able to… well, do something useful, anyway. I worry about the hurts of people whose presence in the world enhances my life and the lives of others. I want them to have the wherewithal to weather the storms, some of which I admit are blowing at least at gale force, and to sail out the other side, repair their rigging and sail on.

One of the down sides of being a Dad is that over the years you develop this sense that you should be able to soothe all hurts, repair all damage, even as you encounter with mounting dread the horrid truth that this ain’t never gonna happen. I won’t ever be that guy, at least not always and not to everyone about whom I care and that feels like failure.

What I can do is be here for them in their time of need, even though my presence may be neither protective nor restorative.  So, I guess the message of this missive is a simple one. Not particularly profound but certainly, I promise, heartfelt and true. It’s this:

I, bolstered by the virtual but no less real presence of others who are reading these words and nodding, am here for you. We love and care for you and wish you peace.

Still. And always.

Keep breathing.