Step

"Change has to come for life to struggle forward."

  ~Helen Hollick, The Kingmaking

I wrote, some months ago, about the new reality that can be created in our lives by "hit-and-run" experiences.  In that post, I talked about how the survivors of these experiences must work to get to our feet and walk away, to live in the new "after". The thing that is necessary to do so, I said, is constant forward motion. 

Sometimes that forward motion comes in sudden, drastic jerks and leaps--sometimes in small, subtle increments--but either way, as we put one foot in front of the other, we move farther and farther away from the conditions, relationships, and surroundings of the past, and into a new and changing landscape.

In the wake of life-altering moments, many changes tend to come in rapid succession, and often they are unwelcome, unwanted, and even unpleasant. When this happens, we tend to look for refuge in stability. We neither want, nor make, any unnecessary changes—we have all we can do just to adapt to the ones that have been thrust upon us. And for a time, this resistance provides a good and necessary protection.

The refuge of stability has been my watchword for the last four years. I have kept my house, raised my boys, done my job. I’ve devoted myself to the making of a home, the welfare of my family, and the things that are mine to sustain and care for. I have minded my business. But the present becomes the past with surprising speed, and almost before it seems possible, we survivors can find ourselves living in what we once--seemingly such a short time ago--considered the unknowable future. And in the future, where we are now residents, change must come.

Many of you have asked me, over the last couple of years, about seeing someone new. You have known that I’m not out looking. I’ve told some of you—probably all of you—“I’m too old to date.” You’ve argued with me. (And I love you too, kind people.) But I meant it. To be clear, what I have meant by this is that I am no longer in a season of life where it is appropriate, desirable, or in any way appealing to seek out a stranger, whose character, history, and integrity are unknown to me, for the purpose of starting a relationship. I am not a young woman with my life ahead of me and nothing to lose. Too many of my years have already passed, and the ones that remain are too precious to gamble away in that manner--or maybe I simply understand their value better than I did when I was young. Besides, I am no longer traveling alone. I have my boys, and not only do I no longer have the time or the interest to spend in discovery, but any risk to my traveling companions is an unacceptable one. Any possible new relationship for me has meant someone who would be a known quantity--in character, in faith, in integrity, and as a friend and advocate for both me and my children. But I have believed, in the past four years of living and parenting alone, that in the future there would somehow be room for a new relationship in my life. In some ways, I suppose the future is where I expected it to remain. However, the future, almost without my knowing it, has crept up on me.

Stepping out, however slowly, into change, is a good development. Moving forward is what accomplishes the work of healing. But the work of healing, for all of us, is messy, and even when it brings long-term rewards, they are not without accompanying risks. Confusion, fear, grief, and pain are the companions of the joy, gratitude, and healing that are within reach if we can embrace the change in front of us.

It’s easy to understand, I think, how intimidating the future can sometimes seem. Navigating the unknown is always uncertain, often confusing, and sometimes downright scary. For example, the practical considerations in learning to approach an existing friendship in a new way are puzzling. A lot of odd conversations happen, especially around events of common interest, or with mutual friends, that we are now going to together, but both would have attended separately in any case. (My favorite? “How Will We Know We Are At This Thing Together”. Notice who we are concerned about making it clear to. We just do not know how to do this.) But change creates complexities for everyone, and this means that in addition to the confusion and uncertainty of finding a new path forward for myself, there can be anxiety and even fear when it comes to involving others. There is something intimidating about initiating a change in the way others understand my situation; and I’m discovering it can be even more complicated for friends and family to absorb the shift in an existing relationship than it might be to simply accept the presence of a whole new person in my life. Other people’s reactions to change in our lives can be a scary-seeming unknown that rivals, or even exceeds, our own.

In the face of all this, staying safely in the status quo can seem appealing. But not only would that mean missing out on what the future might have to offer, it’s only in moving forward that we discover the hidden things that have been holding us back. The older I get, the more I learn that approximately 73% of conquering fear is just figuring out what you are afraid of. In my case, I have been both surprised and alarmed to discover how much I have believed that moving into the future would somehow demonstrate proof of a lack of commitment to the past. I remind myself forcibly of someone who has suffered the death of a person close to them, and who fears that letting go of their grief will say to the world—and to themselves—that they never really cared for the one they have lost. I have had to realize, as I find myself waiting with fear for that judgement to come, that it exists only in my own heart. It has been difficult work to learn that, unless I can free myself of its expectation, staying safely sheltered in the sameness of the present is simply a way of making my life a shrine to the past.

And the past—oh, the past. Braving the uncertainty of the future and rejecting the false security of the present can be nothing to facing the pain of the past. Healing from old hurts is difficult enough when they are the only things in view, but they can bring pain in a whole new way when they are thrown into sharp contrast with new experiences. That first confirmation of a reality that has never been yours is like nothing else I know of; little compares to the surprise, the disbelief, and yes, I might even say the wonder--but few things can cause you to realize more deeply the extent of your loss. As a result, every moment of joy that comes with a step forward into the new and good can bring with it deep accompanying sadness over wounds inflicted and time lost; tears of gratitude are often equally mixed with those of grief. And yet, as always, there is no way out of our past but through. Full healing can never come until we have discovered the full extent of our wounds. And often, it's our very woundedness that refines us for the life that follows, deepening our wisdom, and heightening our appreciation.

Long after we have picked ourselves up, dusted ourselves off, and walked away from the wreckage, the promise of what might be requires us to keep moving, forward through struggle, uncertainty, and fear, feeling our way into the unknown, and ready to meet whatever obstacles we find there. If that's to be possible, this is what we have to know--our past doesn't need to define our present, but we can use what it teaches us to work toward our future. And thankfully, we don't have to have it all figured out to take a step.