Future Echos

"Now I see this place was here all along
The more it changed shape
You pull it close
Please pull me closer
Don't fear the move out of the past
Let time take your hand and guide you
It's time to move
Into the blue once again"
- Into The Blue, by The Joy Formidable 

 

The words "bomb threat" carried from the television speaker into the bedroom, where I was putting on my makeup. The newscaster's voice shared how it wasn't the first threat at that particular college, detailing the usual following events of evacuation and investigation. I turned on my blowdryer, drowning out the news, yet my thoughts lingered along the somber narrative. 

Remember the part of 2020 when bomb threats and mass shootings at schools and other public places ceased? There was enough to worry about, but at least those things took a break for awhile. It was too short of a break. 

Already, I can hear the future echo of my son's many questions, inevitable because they are so universally human: why? Why do people use guns and bombs to hurt others? Why do people do bad things? Why is there pain and death? Why can't it be stopped? 

I ache to think of having things such as active shooter drills explained to him, of the possibility of bullies and losses and of him learning what it means to feel unsafe, afraid, lonely, and heartbroken. 

It can feel as though the world only grows more corrupt and dangerous, so before I despair over the changes which are more ominous (including navigating an increasingly complicated digital landscape, and the warning flares of climate change), I have to remind myself of all the wonders, too. Our son will have access to music and art from all over the world, a wealth of culture and history blooming on every screen. He will come into a time when world-wide travel is more accessible, and where trips to space by trained astronauts and others are a more regular occurrence. 

I will teach him about flora and fauna from books I've read, about the intelligence of octopi, and about the importance of being courageous and kind. I will read him the poems my mother loved and tell him stories from my father. I will delight to see if he has any of my thrill-seeker streak or of Andy's caution and care. I will want him to gather up life's goodness with both hands. 

Maybe, one day, I will tell him that before he was born I had to decide between choosing anxiety and sadness or hope and joy, and that I vowed to let the latter win. 

As he grows, I can feel his kicks and movements more and more; little flutters which come at any time. Dear baby, if I could prepare the world for you, it would look vastly different in some ways, and unchanged in others. May your father and I lead you well into your discovery of life, and may we answer your million why's as best we can. May you have curiosity all your days. May you choose hope and joy in abundance, even, or especially, when doing so is hardest.