I have a memory that constantly disappoints. I know there is nothing particularly special about this problem. I also know a slowly eroding memory is a fact of life. Neither of these truths bring me much comfort. While, ironically, I have a great brain for trivia--facts and tidbits that are, by definition, useless--the things I truly want to hold onto, the sound of a loved one’s laugh, the moments of truth and joy and love that make a life significant, slip away from me like sand between my fingers. Maybe it’s because, unlike trivia, those truly significant things are significant because they touch something beyond the concrete. Brushing up against these raw and eternal forces gives us a glimpse of what feels like capital-T Truth, but they elude being tied up into a tidy box for convenient recall.
I think this is why I’m really into quotes. A good quote can capture the essence of those special moments, and can carry so much weight on the frame of a few words. They aren’t memories, but they can serve as an anchor that brings me back to inhabit specific moments that “rhyme with God,” when things feel real and true. A bite-sized antidote to my leaky memory.
I’m sitting in a hospital room when I come across this one from the poet Mary Oliver:
“Ten times a day something happens to me like this - some strengthening throb of amazement - some good sweet empathic ping and swell. This is the first, the wildest, and the wisest thing I know: that the soul exists, and is built entirely out of attentiveness.”
I am in a hospital room because my wife is about to give birth to our son. I have time to read and discover that quote because she has just been induced and we are blissfully unaware of how painfully early in the birth process we actually are. I even have time to text the quote to my sister.
I am not as dumb as I look, so I will not complain about how hard the birth of our child is for little old non-uterus-having me. Except maybe one thing: I have never felt so profoundly inadequate as a human being as I do at my wife’s side during the birth of our son. There are certainly things you can do wrong as the father at the bedside, like describing anything you’re witnessing as either “easy” or “gross.” There is very little you can do right. You are there, but this is not your show. At best, your presence is noted and appreciated. So in between fetching cups of vegetable broth or half-heartedly trying to distract Sarah with the crappy crossword book that I bought from the hospital gift shop (which unforgivably reused clues from puzzle to puzzle, and maybe I’m still salty about that), I have little to do but be attentive. Attentive to the woman who had already done so much, and is now wringing every ounce of strength from her body to bring a new life into the world. Attentive to the fear in her eyes as we try to navigate confusing conversations with a rotating cast of medical professionals. To her determination as she just keeps going, somewhere past exhaustion and despair. And eventually, 40 (!!!) hours later, to the tiny, amazing, oh-so-nerve-wrackingly fragile creature that is our son. Hi, Paul.
The trials and exhaustion of new parenthood make attentiveness feel like an unattainable luxury. Like the New Year’s resolution I once made to run a mile in under six minutes, the idea quickly gets placed on the shelf where I keep my other naive aspirations.I grow to accept the paradox of being bombarded with profoundly amazing moments but being uniquely unable to appreciate them between diaper blowouts and “are you sure he’s eating enough?” After days spent just trying to keep the dang boy alive, and nights of waking up every 30 minutes to obsessively check his breathing, I have little motivation to reflect and steep in amazement. Maybe I should be writing poetry, but instead I appreciate the rare minutes I can steal to zone out next to Sarah on the couch, both of us flipping through our phones.
And then one night, a few months in, after another long day, I watch Sarah rock our son to sleep in her arms. Tightly swaddled and snug in her arms, he begins to drift off. I am extremely ready for him to fall asleep. With his bedtime would come our roughly 30-minute window to approximate relaxation and feign normalcy before we crashed ourselves. But going down quickly is not part of his plan. Just as his eyelids start sliding downward, he glances up and seems to suddenly remember where he is. Seeing the beautiful, enraptured face of his mom staring down at him, the realization dawns on him: “Wow! Mom’s here!” His eyes pop open, followed closely by a broad toothless smile unfurling across his face. Not ready for bed yet. Mom’s here. After this burst of excitement, drowsiness creeps in again, eyelids droop, his face relaxes….oh wait! Mom’s here! Wow! And the eyes pop open and the smile unfurls and here we go again.
And so they go for several minutes, mother and son lost in each other’s eyes, love drunk. Both tired, but not so tired that they are willing to take their eyes off each other. Sleep can wait. This mom, who had given so much, who wasn’t sure she was ready to be a mom, who is such a mom, smiling down at our son as tears stream down her face. Right there.
And I feel a good sweet emphatic ping and swell--and know, in a way I have never known before, that the soul exists, and is built entirely out of attentiveness.
