Shifting Gears

Balloon (jeez, is that right? French ruined my spelling, I swear) flowers, a Chinese medicinal and truly blue flower, and weeds.

I started a post for the fourth of July. I had all this clever snarky stuff to say about freedom and what we're really free to do in this country and culture and all the ordinary things we're not free to do unless we're willing to fight our way upstream to our very last breath. Then, things changed.

I have a dear friend named Lisa. (Well, actually, I have two dear friends named Lisa. But I digress.) This Lisa has a beautiful daughter named Chelsea, who turned 17 on the third of this month. She is truly amazing, budding into womanhood. She is now also in critical condition, having survived a very, very serious car accident on the 4th. So far she is doing what could be called "well" under the circumstances: a little pneumonia, liquid foods through a tube, pelvis pinned back together, a ventilator still as her ribs heal. In that moment everything changed. Our group of mommas has pulled together to give her as much support as we can, and it's helpful, I suppose, but none of us can give her that day back, that five-second shift that could have created a divergent path.

Events like this throw things into sharp relief, at least for a while. We are reminded about our mutterings about our priorities and spending more time with loved ones and being nice and all that. We might even remember to be grateful for our blessings, which are countless no matter how meager our existence. But then, after a socially appropriate amount of time, we'll slip back into unconscious complacency again, grumbling about the price of gas and the foibles of our spouses and toys with small parts left within reach of mobile babies. All this long before Chelsea is walking again. I know this is true, because I am living it right now, while she's still on life support, for chrissake. I have been livid at my idiot spouse for staying out late and being too tired to function today, furious with my 5-year-old son for his inability to put caps back on markers and keep them out of the floor away from his baby sister. To what end? Did I change anything for the better with this anger? Have I enjoyed my Sunday, kept company by nothing but my fury, too removed by it from my life to actually experience it? What if one of us has that wreck tomorrow? Will I be happy about how I lived today?