Where Darkness & Light Meet

Brooke’s hair glowed in the flickering streetlights as we pedaled our bikes down West Canal Street. The lights gave off a buzzing sound, and their burning tint made her long, blonde hair looked like it was on fire. It was the middle of June, or maybe it was July. It could’ve been August for all I know. When you’re 16 and out of school, all of the days merge into one – like an orchestra of instruments, each playing its tiny role in one elaborate symphony.

The sticky summer air was no match for the breeze we created when we rode our bikes at full speed right in the heart of our little town. There’s a magic that comes with knowing these same streets are lined with cars during the day, but at midnight, they belonged to us.

Music blared from my iPod as we belted the lyrics to cheesy songs about staying young forever. At the time, we believed it. We believed with all of our hearts we would never grow up.

Lately, life has felt a lot like summer break. I spend half the day completely oblivious to the time. (I made coffee at 3 p.m. the other day, thinking it was still morning). I don’t wear makeup or a bra for days on end. My meals are thrown together with whatever I can find. Pretzels, an avocado, and ice cream? Sounds like lunch to me! I go for afternoon walks or evening runs or sometimes both if the weather allows. I swing on the porch and stay up reading late into the night. I get wild ideas like maybe Tyler and I should cut each other’s hair (we did) and think it will work out fine (it did not). The normal routines and rhythm of life no longer apply because in summer, there are no rules.

Friday evening, Tyler, Wren and I want for a long walk through our neighborhood. When we got home, it was still light out, so we hung our hammock in the backyard and Wren and I rocked back and forth watching Tyler chip golf balls. We laughed as we played with the dog and let the week’s final rays of sunshine warm our shoulders, and for a moment I forgot the world was falling apart.

But two hours before, I was very aware.

It was a hard day – there’s no whimsical way to say it. The monotony of our “summer break” was weighing on me. It’s the same thing every day: washing the same dishes, picking up the same toys, walking the same route, watching the same newscast, staring out the same window, calling the same friends. 

I felt trapped. I wanted deeply to rewind a month or fast-forward three. I longed for the normalcy I didn’t appreciate before – meeting with clients and coworkers face to face, getting a sitter for date night, leaving town for the weekend, happy hour with friends, wearing pants – real pants. I genuinely never thought I’d see the day I missed wearing pants.

I felt tired of perpetually feeling anxious. Worried about my daughter getting sick. Or my Nana. Worried about a recession. Worried about what the world will look like when all of this is over. 

And sad. Broken-hearted for all of the people hurting right now – physically, financially, and emotionally.

I saw a video of people cheering for healthcare workers and I began to cry. And once I started, I couldn’t stop. I cried big, nasty, snotty tears. For the lives that have been lost and the ones who are still to be. For the life we all had before this pandemic and the hunger I have to get back to it.

There’s a profound sadness to this season, but there’s also a treasurable beauty. I can crawl into bed and wholeheartedly weep for the world, and two hours later bask in the most glorious golden-hour, trying with all of my might to freeze time with my family. We are in a strangely sacred place where darkness and light coexist. It is both a burden and a gift, and I believe the heaviness and enjoyment can dwell together.

Let’s make memories and embrace the spontaneity of it all, but allow yourself to feel the sadness too. It doesn’t have to be one or the other. There is a place where the darkness and light meet, and I believe we are all in that place together.