I am now 50 years old.
Things have not unfolded the way I planned or would have liked for this “big” birthday. The gifts I am receiving include hard lessons in surrendering control, expectation and entitlement. I see how the values of our smooth, shiny, superficial western modernity have left me wildly ill-equipped to navigate the grief and pain of this world (a world steeped in the very same value-systems, cosmovisions and ontologies). Over the past week, I’ve been offered repeated opportunities to abide with profound sadness and a sense of existential dread that just will not go away. Let’s face it: the fantasies of being separate, individualized cogs in the productivity machine of late-stage capitalism are crumbling; the illusions we’ve been led to believe about what constitutes success and what leads to happiness are rapidly disintegrating. To be passing into menopause and experiencing the emotional and hormonal storms of this life-stage at the same time that the world is facing such violent upheaval, destruction, rage and oppression is almost too much for my system to handle. I’m on the brink of a huge rupture. Or maybe I’m already in it.
There is the lingering sadness that was more alive (or had more room) during the time we were together; our togetherness somehow made Rafa’s absence more present. There are questions about how much I should continue to self-identify first and foremost as a bereaved mother, asking myself if that is healthy or useful. There was space for anger (which I have struggled with letting out). There was this beautiful little one-year-old, Andino. There was also a fuck-ton of laughter and fun and joy! I felt bathed in the light of the community: the light of each person and the glow of our collective power.
In the Name of Rafa 