Blessing in disguise?
When I was a little girl, we lived in Upper Michigan. Every winter we would make our way to Ludington Park, which was possessed of a large and steep hill (or at least it seemed so to my young eyes; I don’t know if it would seem so now) that made its way down to the beach on Bay de Noc, our little corner of Lake Michigan. We had an old wooden toboggan with ropes along the sides for us to hold on to and a thin leather cushion on the seat that cracked with the cold. That toboggan could hold all 4 of us if we squished, although each passing year required more squishing than the last. My brother, the littlest, would be in front, I would be next, my mom would be behind me, and my dad would bring up the rear, and I believed he held all of us on that sled. With enough squishing his arms indeed would go around all of us, and down the snowy hill we’d go, holding on for dear life, the cold winter wind passing our scarfed faces and stocking-capped ears no match for the warmth of family and the thrill of an escapade that seemed the height of dangerous to my 6-year-old mind. It was particularly hilarious when the steering, (which was always more faith than fact on a toboggan), was sub-optimal, and the entire family spilled off half-way down the hill, our lungs freezing as we laughed so hard we were gasping for the winter air.
The rides down were the best part of the day. The trudging back up the hill (through the snow—no kidding!) wearing half our weight in snow clothes was less than appealing, and I always lagged, whining with every soggy, moon-booted step, dreaming of some mechanism that would get me up the hill with zero effort on my part long before I’d ever heard of a ski lift. But it was, and remains, unlikely that they would install a ski lift in Ludington Park so that whiny six-year-olds didn’t have to drag themselves up the hill.
I would dally so long that my parents would get tired of waiting for me, and it didn’t help that my traitor of a little brother had hustled up the hill on ahead of me so they were all at the top of the hill, staring at me, cajoling and carping to motivate me to move a little faster, because, after all, it was winter in da U.P.. More than once they decided to put the fear of abandonment in me by actually getting into the car and starting the engine. Slightly cruel, but undoubtedly effective, as I’d get moving so as not to be left behind. When you’re a kid, getting lost or left behind is the biggest fear you have, and by the time I got into the car, I’d be crying, both out of the original fear, and anger that my family would seriously consider leaving me behind.
I hadn’t thought about this in years, but this memory came to me Saturday night, out of the blue, as I was reading a book about “awakening from grief,” and it talked about moving through, moving on. And as much as I have resented the world for moving on without me, as much I have been angry at and disappointed with people I thought were my friends for having moved on so much faster than I have been able to, or have felt they should, some part of me that night wondered if they weren’t cajoling and carping from the top of the hill.
It’s not that I think it’s conscious on their part, but rather I began to consider the possibility that the world turns in spite of us, for our benefit, whether we recognize it or not. You can dig in, cross your arms, put out your lower lip, and sit down and say “I’m not going. You can’t make me.” And certainly, I’ve done that, and no doubt will again. But eventually the world gets tired of waiting for you, and it starts the car. And you sit there, dithering, but eventually you get up and get moving, hollering “Wait! Wait for me!” while muttering about the outrage under your breath. And it seems cold and cruel, but is it? I don’t know the definitive answer to that question, or if there is one. But I know I got in the car; shivering, cold, and crying, but I was in the car. And I was on my way home.