I’m a pent-up lion pacing in captivity, waiting for a finger to slip through the iron bars so I can snap it off. Thankfully, my zookeepers—aka me—close the attraction, and I go pick up my laptop. I don’t want to direct my stir-crazy, home-all-day energy at my dear old husband and daughter, so I direct myself to writing to release steam. Or gases. Like when I just now lifted the glass-jarred sourdough starter, seated fireside, that I’m activating to make bread with.
After talking to Kristen, I’m one step closer to my goal of buying and placing extra-large canvas prints on the entryway wall. She reminded me of our Mount Rainier hike—knee-plus-deep in snow, past where any footprints trod, climbing steep inclines that we later slid down on our butts. After hours of a grueling slog, we were rewarded at the top with a thermos of hot cocoa and a too-happy photo of us in front of the mountain.
Kristen mentioned the canvas I gifted her of that moment and how it hangs on her bathroom wall, where she sees it every day. That got me thinking. About the power, overcoming, and companionship that the image conveys, and the I did that pride it makes me feel. I want a picture of Dave, Evelyn, and me that inspires a similar feeling.
But I’m feeling overwhelmed at choosing a handful out of the thousands. Maybe one of Dave and me before Evelyn? Then one when she was a baby. And one more recent of the three of us?
A quick look back at 2017—the year Dave and I met—shows two photos that make me feel something. Happy. Free. Possibility. I can see it in my face, in the way my hand drapes over his leg, in the way my feet dig into the sand. Behind me, two towering rock formations—three school bus lengths tall—stand against the sky. A golden flame flickers at my feet. Rockaway Beach, Oregon, with my family. That was a good trip.
Do I do a photo every other year? This is why I struggle. For the past thirty minutes, I’ve been stuck in 2020, scrolling through picture after picture. Evelyn, ogling at Dave, and vice versa. I get lost in the snail’s pace of that time—her first months, our fascination with her moving a finger or a toe by her own will. The stronghold on our attention, like a hypnotizing fire—ever alluring, ever intoxicating, ever-changing.
I pull myself up for air and recruit Dave. He’ll find photos too. Maybe we’ll make a PowerPoint to pick the best of the best (just kidding, I don’t have time for that). But how about any honorable mentions will still be printed, and they’ll find their place on other walls beyond the entryway.
With upcoming 6 p.m. and 7 p.m. PST (9 p.m. and 10 p.m. my time) counseling sessions, I shake off the feeling of loss—the ache of Evelyn’s younger years slipping further away. I also accept that my sourdough starter doesn’t have enough mass for a loaf, so I’ll have to wait until tomorrow.
For a productivity-seeker like me, the letdown is short-lived. At my office desk, I glance at Evelyn’s drawing—a heart shaded with purple, orange, and green, each of our family’s favorite colors. And a flower in a pot she colored, labeled in her handwriting: Evelyn Mom.
I’m going to be okay. I know that.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 