I’ve been on a quest to recall a particular description from a cherished childhood book. Though I’ve misplaced the title, the imagery of a nurturing figure tending to a child’s mind—smoothing out the rough edges and highlighting the lovely bits—stayed with me.
Isn’t it ironic how, much like the guardian angel J.M. Barrie mentions in Peter Pan, I now find myself needing to be my own guardian? I’m tasked with polishing my thoughts and tucking away the unpleasant ones since there’s no one else to do it for me anymore.
Recently, there’s been a wave of criticism about how individuals curate their lives on social media, presenting a picture-perfect version for everyone to see. I’ll admit, I’m not one to share unflattering photos or snapshots of chaos; after all, I encounter enough of that daily. It’s easy to accuse me of only showcasing the prettier, more polished moments of my life.
Peter Pan came out in 1911, long before Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter took the stage. People have always highlighted life’s best moments, holding them up for admiration. Why dwell on the mundane when we can showcase the sparkling jewels of our day? Often, we strive to immerse ourselves in these splendid moments, hoping to create more of them.
Just the other day, my daughter’s dance instructor decided to end class on a high note by blowing bubbles while Judy Garland sang “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” As I watched my little girl, no longer a baby, leap and catch the bubbles, tears welled up in my eyes.
Were they tears of joy or sorrow? Mostly, they felt like bittersweet sadness. Meanwhile, my daughter was squealing and jumping around, completely caught up in her own world of fun. I wanted to hold onto that moment, that beautiful yet painful experience, but I didn’t feel the need to capture it with a photo. I knew it would remain etched in my memory.
My thoughts drifted to my lovely mother, who experienced a life-altering brain bleed at the age of 68. Where was she now? Lost in her own mind, while I reminisced about her vibrant youth—taking the subway to perform in How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying.
There’s a chaotic place in the mind where memories and emotions collide; even the most nurturing figure couldn’t tidy up that space. As I wandered through those dark thoughts, I yearned to understand why this moment of joy for my daughter was so intricately tied to my mother’s decline.
I long for my mom to be the woman she once was, sharing her days with her granddaughter. On certain days, my daughter resembles her so closely. I wish for my daughter to know the grandmother I adored. But time has a way of slipping by too quickly, leaving me in tears.
Time is fleeting, and it won’t return. It drips away like sand through my fingers while I write this, echoing the ever-present reminder of Loss, Loss, Loss—unless we choose to embrace its opposite.
When we capture a fleeting moment on camera, we are rebelling against time. Lately, this desire has been met with skepticism from those who dismiss the heartfelt nature that Tennessee Williams once said was “the one success worth having.”
In truth, those lovely photos aren’t about fooling our friends or misrepresenting our lives; they are about attempting to outsmart time itself. Sure, we might not succeed, but that makes the endeavor all the more noble.
I adore photographs; every interesting moment caught on camera brings me joy. But there’s something truly special about the beautiful ones. They’re just as genuine as the messy hair photos or the crumbs on the kitchen floor shots that have become popular. Would we criticize an author for revising their work and only publishing the final draft?
I find myself needing an internal caregiver for my thoughts. I’m weighed down by my mother’s illness and the relentless ticking of Loss, especially as I sit in the quiet hours between when my baby falls asleep and when she calls out “Mama” from her room, a little older with each passing moment.
As she grows in the afternoon sunshine, I remind myself that the best is yet to come, even as I feel the clock racing against me.
“I wonder if you’ve ever tried to map a person’s mind? … It’s a task that becomes quite complex, especially when it’s a child’s mind, which is always spinning. Among all the wonderful places, Neverland is the coziest, most compact. When you play at it during the day, it feels safe, but right before sleep, it becomes almost too real. That’s why we have nightlights.”
An adult’s mind isn’t so different. By day, my Neverland is the world of my young, healthy mother, filled with the lessons she could have shared with her grandchild. By night, I watch my daughter dance with bubbles and cry as if I’m a child lost in a playground.
I need those nightlights. I need to capture the beautiful moments. And every time my child ventures into her Neverland, which will happen more frequently as she grows, I intend to be waiting in the nursery, lit by the glow of a fire, ready to welcome her back.
I understand all too well the void that emerges when a mother is no longer waiting by the fire.
This article was originally published on May 12, 2015.