As I age, I can feel the quickening pace of time. The seasons fall away as suddenly as they rise and experiences fade one into another, never quite soliciting the strength of emotions I once felt. Am I living? I ask myself constantly when I sense the familiar numbness of uninspired routine, and just as I begin my usual anthem of whine and dissatisfaction, emotion is serendipitously triggered however small and I am reminded of the beauty in being human.
One such event occurred several months ago when I came into possession of a small red envelope — a single, thin sheet of red paper folded in half, sealed on all sides, adorned with gold sketching and two simple characters written in pen, 7A. For the first 28 years of my life, I had received at least one of these each year from my beloved grandmother, PoPo, and ripped it open upon receipt, greedily claiming the bills inside. This time, the sight of the envelope took my breath away; I couldn’t believe I was once again holding this, unsealed, in my hand. Purchased for $.10, containing a bill most likely $5 — perhaps $50 when PoPo saved for months — I could tell this one would be priceless and remain unopened for as long as I possessed it. My mother had found four of these tucked behind some spice jars in a high cabinet as she was spring cleaning. Always the mischievous one, PoPo loved to hide surprise gifts for us — often sneaking candy or money into our pockets while giving that “don’t tell your mom” wink. I have no idea when she hid these envelopes or how long they’d been there, but I know she smiled to herself and suppressed some chuckles as she decided on the hideaway. I also know she knitted her own clothes to be able to fill countless envelopes for us.
PoPo passed away last Christmas Eve after months of complications from a major stroke. She was as strong as a 90-year-old and as brave as a former refugee could be. She was gracious to the end and only concerned about our time and well-being, I think she was actually sorry to be in bad health because of the pain inflicted upon us. I can only hope to ever love something as much as she loved us. When I hold this red envelop in my hand, I feel all that love rushing back — the scallion pancakes, holding our hands walking down the street, her grueling travel to get to our house, kicking her shoe in the air to make us laugh — immediately followed by the intense pain at the loss of all of it and the guilt at having ever taken it for granted. Then in that moment, I know I am lucky. So lucky to have insight into so many layers of what makes us human, and eager to experience more.
Another occurrence took the form of tiny blinking lights amidst cherry blossoms and monuments in our nation’s capital. For two months this spring, the mid-Atlantic suffered continuous rain and heavy cloud cover. Both sun and sky conspired to withhold from us our much-needed Vitamin D which paired with the heartbreaking end of my transglobal romance was nearly too much for me to bear. As I neared the tip of my shattering point, the rainclouds abruptly dried and the sunrays alighted, giving way to the most breathtaking season of fireflies on record (now about here or perhaps before, this passage will begin to really sound cheesy — after all, I am describing my awe of fireflies). Finally able to conduct my evening jog outside, I ambled around the National Mall at dusk that first evening of the break in storms and found myself in a breezy swirl of cherry blossom petals and floating twinkles set against the radiance of a sunset reflected on whitewashed stone. Suffice it to say, this moment was surreal and a reminder to see the little things, in this case, bugs.
