Baby Energy

When I sit down to write something I should write, I inevitably don’t write it. The beginning of a blog post about our glorious backpacking trip in the Sierra Nevada Mountains replete with 25-foot cliff jumping has been lingering in my open tabs for a week now. I felt a duty to report out on what it was like backpacking with a one-year-old. How starry the starry nights were. How I really did spend most of the trip in a patriotic tube top romper, in salute to Fourth of Julys past. I thought I must declare to the world that I achieved a life fantasy… hiking in 3 miles to swim in what seemed to be a secret lake that no one else knew about (ignoring the fact that there had been an article in the San Francisco Chronicle)—no—this lake was ours. At least for nearly the first two hours we were there. On the day we hiked out, it seemed a small community had decided to transplant there. I couldn’t really blame them. I also felt obliged to share about my own physical challenges. Having not backpacked since before my first ACL knee surgery, it felt good to get back out there. Though, of course only with my big brother by my side. So, yea. That was what I was going to write about.

This:

 And this:

And of course this:

But, now, after a week more of California living and pseudo-parenting, there is something else on my mind. Oliver, my 15-month-old nephew. Or more accurately, lessons learned from Oliver. Or still, to be more precise, a key lesson learned from Oliver. I fear this will be a trite post. One we have read before in wellness magazines with pictures of sunsets. One that comes from the wisdom of the Buddhist tradition that my writing could hardly begin to capture. Or maybe one I have even written before after walking along the Oaxacan coast. Still, learning this lesson from a baby somehow feels more poignant. Here it is.

All that matters, really, is right now.

Last April, a friend of mine at school shared a Native American tale with me that he had learned at his previous job. I am sorry to say I do not recall the exact origin of the idea/story and will likely not do it justice in my retelling, but it went something like this… each generation of people has a unique relationship with energy in this world. And we all need each other. Broken down into four distinct groupings. Infants are particularly good at letting go of energy. They do not hold grudges or hold onto excitement. They experience, may be perturbed for a minute or elated for a prolonged second, and then they move on. Adolescents are particularly good at putting energy into the world—they express and emote and create and go, go, go. Adults are good at holding onto energy. On the positive side, they can harness it into more efficient and effective ways of being. They also can bury it within, building deposits untapped. Elderly people are good at taking energy in. Receiving it from others. And the cycle goes on and on and on. This basic storyline has stuck with me since my friend shared it. And, especially now as I watch Oliver, and learn his way.

I have always been aware that babies get over sadness quickly. They hit their head, cry, and then see something shiny and forget their head was ever hit. But, I have also been caught by how babies also don’t hold on to their extreme excitement. Oliver will be on top of the world, arms flailing, laughter booming, tongue hanging wildly out of his mouth, and the next minute he will be in tears. I find myself frustrated at times that I can’t call on him to remember how just a minute ago we were having the best time of our lives together. That minute no longer matters to him. It has made me realize how much of my life with other adults in this world is built on the capital of shared experiences and nostalgic moments. That, we reminisce while we are in the moment, “We are having the best time right now, I can’t wait to post pictures of it on Facebook.” As if we experience the now in anticipation of our future feelings about this moment. Countless times I have thought about how great it will be to tell my children someday about the time I [backpacked around Europe, studied abroad, quit my job, fell in love, lived in California for the summer…]—never mind that I am not even in a relationship.

I am not advocating that we are wrong for holding on to the good so fiercely. But, I also know that we often discuss letting go of the bad, without realizing that maybe that skill of not holding on to the bad is the same skill of not being too attached to the good. That it is all about us controlling the now, taking it in and adding it to our life story—the narrative of the then, now, and future. I don’t think it is realistic to abandon that tendency. There is a lot of good that comes from the stories we create, the memories we make and hold on to and the warning signs we have come to know, understand and avoid. But, I also watch Oliver intently and see that there is something important that he knows and we all once knew. That presence. That surrender. That lack of worry about what your face looks like when you are just too happy or how dirty your knees get upon diving headfirst into a muddy puddle. That being over becoming. 

When I first arrived to California, I think I came with an expectation that Oliver and I would build so many great memories. That I would become his besssst friend. That each day would be more miraculous then the next. Then I realized, he is a baby. And, thus, all we have is the now, together. And some days he will pull in my face and give me a kiss, but it is best not to hold on too tightly to this as the new norm. Because shortly after he will be yanking my hair and then he probably will forget I exist. And all of that is just as it should be.

Because in Oliver’s world…all that matters, really, is now. Thanks for sharing your wisdom, little guy.