A Fresno writer prepares anew for life’s journey — and joy of holding the grandkids
It’s been ages since I sat at my desk to craft a column, but this morning something tugs at me while the wind howls, a pair of palm trees dance despite the dreary forecast, and Mother Nature’s tears fall outside my window — a kaleidoscopic trio of sights and sounds somehow mirroring life’s mystery, wonder, and the vast contrasts we live day-by-day, moment-to-moment.
As a writer, I love deep diving into our human condition. None of it makes sense and yet, the older I get, I find myself aching for more — holding out for new unwritten chapters, hoping some will exceed my wildest dreams yet knowing full well others are bound to hurt and test everything I’m made of.
As if 2022 didn’t do enough of that.
The never-ending toll of COVID and soaring Omicron infection rates saw the return of hospitals bulging at the seams. There were wildfires, hurricanes and blizzards. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. The Robb Elementary and Buffalo, New York supermarket shootings. The death of Queen Elizabeth and now Barbara Walters. Sheesh.
While temperatures dropped and we bundled up with scarves and puffy coats, it was impossible to blanket ourselves completely and “unhide” from whatever life had in store for us: unthinkable cold fronts and downpours, breaking newscasts, and dreaded phone calls delivering bad news.
Pausing this morning, I revisit that sacred place where ancient memories return to life, not to haunt but rather begging me to slow down long enough to reflect on each nuance, freeze frame the I can’t believe this is happening part and garner whatever lesson might be learned and remembered, then re-learned once again. In these nanoseconds, I remind myself that life is equal parts beautiful and tragic — sliced, diced, stirred and shaken. In other words, to be human, we must sign on the dotted line agreeing to it all.
A few months ago Dan and I attended a beautiful Armenian wedding overflowing with love and old world traditions. The magical evening gifted guests a much-needed sense of hope and sigh of relief for the future. Saturday’s joy was followed by a memorial luncheon the next afternoon for a dear friend and former work colleague whose life had ended abruptly, unexpectedly — leaving a gaping hole in the hearts of all who knew and loved her. Come to think of it now, it’s taking both hands to tally the number of funerals I attended in 2022.
On a brighter note, one of the year’s personal highlights was participating in Lithop22, a Fresno literary event bringing writers and poets of all ages to the Tower District. To be perfectly honest, my cohort of three women, all of us septuagenarians, was probably the oldest and most heavily seasoned with both years and life experiences. Inspired by a poem written by Ellen Bass, “Relax!” each of us wrote (and read) new works from our journeys so far — with themes of joy and loss, love and laments.
Setting the stage for our audience, we shared that in her poem, Bass relates the Buddhist story of a woman, chased by a tiger, who comes to a cliff. Forced to climb down a vine, she also sees a tiger below and is faced with how to survive this dilemma. She begins: Bad things are going to happen. Your tomatoes will grow a fungus and your cat will get run over. Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream melting in the car and throw your blue cashmere sweater in the dryer.
At 71, I loved discovering this poem and then re-examining the set of choices I’d made in life. From surviving a hijacking to holding newborn grandbabies in my arms, from scorching corneas in Athens to crushing my shoulder in Fresno, from riding waves of grief to authoring my first book, I’m somewhat surprised to still be standing. And although at times exhausted by the seemingly endless list of mishaps and wrong turns taken while navigating life’s journey, I have somehow landed exactly where I want to be. Right here. There is enormous comfort in knowing I can grab the grandkids and take them for frozen yogurt, run into an old classmate at the grocery store and catch up in the frozen food aisle, see my doctor’s wife at a holiday party, or convene an emergency wine-n-whine gathering with girlfriends I’ve known since kindergarten. Given the world we live in, these layers of connectivity serve as constant reminders we are not flying solo over the treacherous terrain of life.
And so this morning, here I am, embracing the new year, and yes — aching for more: more forks in the road, more holy moly moments, maybe one or two Oprah A ha insights, and an occasional adrenalin rush.
I’m also hoping for a little peace and quiet and the kind of mundane stillness that allows me to hear my own heartbeat, gaze up at the moon, and write a few good sentences.
Armen Bacon of Fresno is the author of three books: “Griefland – An Intimate Portrait of Love, Loss, and Unlikely Friendship,” and “My Name is Armen (Volumes I & II). She and co-author Nancy Miller are currently writing a “Griefland” sequel titled “Daring to Breathe.” Contacts: armenbacon@gmail.com or @ArmenBacon
