The Path
Written by Georgina
“If we find ourselves in what seems like a rotten or painful situation and we think, “well, how is this enlightenment?” We can just remember this notion of the path, that what seems undesirable in our lives doesn’t have to put us to sleep. What seems undesirable in our lives doesn’t have to trigger our habitual reactions. We can let it show us where we’re at and let it remind us that the teachings encourage precision and gentleness, with loving-kindness toward every moment. When we live this way, we feel frequently-maybe continuously-at crossroads, never knowing what’s ahead.” Pema Chrodon. When Things Fall Apart.
Well Pema, in the spirit of never knowing what’s ahead, here goes.
Life has become different. Covid19. Exhausting. Challenging. Quiet. Random. And that’s just for the dog. Stage this and stage that, stage exit to Italy is what I want.
Everyone is home. Like ALL the time.
My introverted son in his second year of university is thriving, receiving his first distinction. Hold off congratulations. Every other mark has been a high distinction. He blames group projects, see a true introvert. He’s on his OWN path.
The three girls have been dying their hair pink, cutting their own do, with the odd body piercing. Now one has turned 18, she’s drinking Baileys with her brother and chasing down a tattoo.
I’ve been down THAT path, it belongs to them now.
Harassed to buy a Javelin to practice her throw, Ms 16 is relentless. Big no. She has dyspraxia, combine poor perceptual awareness and a mighty throw. Ouch. The school has insurance for that, we don’t.
This IS NOT the path.
The teacher calls, Ms 14 is on the House Party app more than school. She texts me an article, 5 reasons why having friends at work is good for your career. “First 4 reasons solid”, she says. I suggest she talks to me when she actually has a job.
This is a crooked path but still THE path.
Forced to have the Bachelor on television, I’m compelled to make smart comments each time I pass. Sometimes they can’t hide their giggles as they know their Mama is funny and right.
Well THE path runs right through my living room.
Undertaking my second master’s degree with a possible dissertation pathway, the kids now think they’re funny calling me doctor. A little presumptuous given I may not be in the country for that many years. Rumour is I’m going to Italy when they’re finished school.
This IS the desired path.
Perimenopausal, things are awry. Bone tired. Compassion fatigued. The conditioning to put others first, slipping away. And I don’t care. I do, but not in that way. The doctor says I don’t have to live this way. Please, just give me the hormone replacement therapy.
This is the HOT path.
My Coach says I’m scaring him with my high heart rate whilst riding. Don’t worry coach I’m terrifying myself in a different heart way. The Cardiologist reports a very fit heart after an ultrasound running on a treadmill without a bra. Glamorous sporting moments. I can chase a fella over the virtual finishing line yelling at 196 beats per minute.
Cycling IS the path people.
Add in the new rescue kitten, Picco, running amok. Lounges covered in blankets, essential oils in the plants, the dog’s gone nuts. We get another in a few weeks. This might be OFF the path.
And just when I think there is enough enlightenment, my partner flicks a message, he’s sending a truck to pick up his belongings. No conversation. Were we even on the SAME path?
Not living together, the truck represented a little drama. I paused. Do we roll into another cycle of this?
The path has forks, and circles if I want it. My head spins.
My kids are watching my life. Enough.
Back that truck up THE path.
I can’t tell if poor sleep is perimenopause or a broken heart. The cardiologist can determine health, but only I can measure what it takes to love, with the incongruity of my heart pounding with life and loss at 196. Maybe that's true fitness.
Let it all blur and ache and be.
The path, THE path, THE PATH.
Ms 16 comes home to her room smelling of cigarettes. No babes I smoked the house with sage, clearing negative energy. Eye rolled, says I’m a witch. I’ve been called worse.
Girls your Mama is on THE path.
Now, they’re now watching Farmers wants a wife. Mum you should go on the show. I remind them I can buy my own farm! They chuckle. Power to us women. That’s walking your OWN path.
I catch a reflection in the mirror. My wild hair, a grey thick streak I’ve named my very own silver lining. Soft wrinkles around my eyes. I smile. Everything has shifted. When one thing transforms everything else realigns.
I wake to my vision board, to Italy. Once I would have felt emptiness in the places he used to be, instead a sober lightness, the calm in a passing storm.
Quite possibly I’m stoned on sage. That is the HIGH path.
I message my daughters for the supermarket run. The list comes back, salami, avocado, mandarins and wait for it, a life. I laugh, hard.
The golden path, FAMILY.
And this life, 196 beats per minute and everything in-between, in moments it both delivers and sweeps away. I hear the reversing sound of the truck, I welcome it all in and I let it all go.