What's coming, what's gone

I'm not religious, but I'll be a god-parent by the end of the month, maybe even the end of the week. It's an honor of my life. I can't wait to meet this new person who is growing inside my best friend. They seem imaginary now, like just an idea. But soon they will be out in the world, helpless and tiny and very, very real.

It's 3:30am, and I woke up thinking about the excitement of new life and the grief of a dying world. What is dying? I don't know exactly for sure. Some industries have died. Some illusions of protection. Millions of people have died. But what will be changed forever exactly, for all of us?

When my friend Kameron died the summer before last, I knew what I grieving, all the way through. It was as if every part of him I'd known, every part of me he'd touched, became magnified and ultra present. The essence and experience of our love and the flavor of how we lived together surrounded me completely. I'd learned enough about grief to know that the only way out was through, so I surrendered. I made playlists of our favorite songs, I sobbed and held our memories together like tender tiny flowers. I said at one point “I don't know if I'll ever be happy again.” and meant it.

Now I don't know what I'm grieving. And the denial of what we are collectively experiencing is terrifying. It's easy to be swept along. That phase has its' purpose, no need to rush I suppose.

The first time I met Lulu was at my own wedding, but I don't know if I really remember her or I've just made up a hindsight memory. There was a lot going on that day. But her gift left the biggest impression on me: a handmade pillow with a quote from a zine I made embroidered on the side. It's my favorite thing I own, and I sleep with it every night.

The first time I remember meeting Lulu was months after I met the pillow. She invited my partner and I to stay at her place while we visited Portland. Immediately I identified her as One Of The Easiest People To Be Around, and I knew we'd be friends. That trip was full of long walks, tea and drawing side by side.

A few years later she became our next door neighbor. I wish a friend next door for everyone who is alive. It is the best way to have a friend, when they can walk over in a bathrobe with a hot pot of tea. No plans.

We'd often take slow strolls through the neighborhood and talk about our lives, or walk in a comfortable silence. We would sometimes vent about our partners, or talk about things we're learning. She was a preschool teacher and always has a funny story about something a kid said.

One time she invited me to an owl-watching tour lead by the Audubon Society. The tour began after dark. We trailed behind the group mostly wrapped in our own late summer storytelling world. At one point, in the middle of a dry grassy field, the tour guide said “Did you hear that? That's the sound of a barn owl.” One single far-off screech. I don't know if I heard it or if I made up the memory of the sound later.

We let the tour go ahead, and sat down in the grass and looked up at the stars.

Like with most women friends my age, the conversation would sometimes lead to the fears and desires of potential motherhood. We had respectively supported ourselves with caretaking work. We actually knew how challenging parenthood was, firsthand. We had no romantic illusions, but we still had desire.

Now she's huge. She sends photos of her walking in nature, posing holding her round and awesome belly. She's glowing and beautiful. She's due next week.

I'm not religious, but I pray every day for a safe and healthy birth experience, and for Lulu to feel loved and supported throughout her postpartum. The changes in the world will keep us separate for the first few weeks of the babies life. I pray for a world that is fun and full of easy slow memories for this tiny new person. And maybe when I hold her, I will be able to glimpse it.