Sometime in early May I crossed the threshold of being out of a difficult relationship longer than I was in it. I jotted down something about it in my work notebook when I realized the date was coming. I texted my best friend when the day arrived. Although that relationship hasn’t had any bearing on my day-to-day life in quite a few years, there was something poignant about the day it officially became a blip. Only one of many life events, the fruit of some long ago decisions. It may as well be a movie I saw or a movie someone else saw and I heard a story about it.
As it turns out, this summer my best friend will be out of her first marriage longer than she was in it. So, this is the BLIPSUMMER.
BLIPSUMMER.
BLIPSUMMER.
BLIPSUMMER.
We texted it back and forth until our phones autocompleted it.
About a year ago I wrote a blog for a client about happiness among seniors. There are studies that show happiness (in the west, at least) bottoms out in one’s 40s, then steadily increases. People over 80 generally are the happiest. They’re happy, the studies say, because with their advanced age, life becomes simpler. They appreciate the little things. Appreciating the small moments means there are more things to be happy about.
While that gives me hope, every time I think about it, I still wonder why. I mean, it makes sense: you get old, you have less time left, you become aware of your mortality, you might as well enjoy the little things, all you have is this moment, etc. That all sounds good… but why does it sound good? Those are all platitudes. Maybe they’re true, but why are they true?
BLIPSUMMER may have delivered the answer. Over time, even the biggest events in life become blips. It doesn’t mean they weren’t painful, traumatic, life-changing, or so glorious as to be bittersweet with their inevitable passing. They are real, and eventually they are all blips. Marriage, blip. That brand new house, blip. Children growing up, blip. Deaths, heartbreaks, laughing, the thing you thought you’d never get over (and maybe you didn’t), that time that everything went right all at once, blip. Hurt, blip. Forgiveness, blip.
All of the things that have happened, the dramas and traumas and blips, it’s not that they don’t matter anymore. They matter. It’s just that they have no bearing on this cup of coffee. No bearing on this breeze. No bearing on this ripe mulberry, warm from the sun.
I still go for walks around the neighborhood a lot (people recognize me as the person who walks) and the mulberry trees in my neighborhood all ripen at different times, depending on which direction they’re facing. I love that I can walk around a city neighborhood and pick fruit off of a tree. The mulberries don’t last long, but I can always tell which tree is next by the mushed, unripe berries on the ground, shaken off the tree by squirrels and storms. The trick is not to pick them before they’re ready. If you have to pull, the fruit will be okay, but a little sour. The ripest berries are the ones that drop into your hand as soon as you touch them. But you have to be ready, or they’ll fall through your fingers and you’ll miss them completely.