There are not many things that I am certain of for my future. I don't know what it holds. I have a skeleton of an idea of what I'd like to do and see, but ultimately I'm taking life as it comes. One thing I've felt for a while now, almost for certain, is that I want children of my own someday. Not every woman wants children; I have a friend who turns the other way when a bouncing gurgling baby is in the vicinity and another friend who would melt on the spot. I'm somewhere in between, but closer to the typical mushy what-a-cute-baby type.
I grew up in the heartland of the United States. We were a family with two children, a dog, and a white ranch house. My brother and I had everything we needed (and more), but I wouldn't say we were ever conceited. I knew that bad things happened to people but I guess there was always a safe barrier, if you will, between me and them. The people were always in a different part of the world or a different time. I was always safe. Then I grew up.
I don't know if this is a sign of the times, but I'm just shy of my twenty-first birthday and I've taken pause at just how frail our lives are. The sad events of (what's now two months ago in) Tucson Arizona have me thinking. Thinking about what kind of world I live in. And about the world my own children will live in someday.
I find myself thinking about the life I want for my family someday. I want to live out in the country a bit, with plenty of land to roam. I want sweet, simple things for my children. I want them to grow up enriched with the beauty of nature and a loving family around them. I don't want them to have everything, but rather I want them to have more than they need. I want them to be happy. I want them to live long lives.
I want a lot of the things parents like Christina Taylor Green's parents wanted for their daughter. It's been months, as I mentioned, since the attacks in Arizona and I still feel a sense of grief for Christina's parents. Tears come to my eyes when I recall the interview with them, when her mother described the phone call. She immediately thought it was a car accident. What mother expects to send her third grader to a political meeting at a local grocery store and then hear that she was shot and killed?
Life seems so fragile.
I think about the dreams we have for our lives and for our children, and how they can be so quickly marred by grief and terror. I think about all the things that claim people's lives, from cancer to car accidents, to natural disasters and terrorism. And the threats are everywhere. They're in India, Uganda, Serbia, and Guatemala. They're in the United States, too.
I wonder if other people my age who've known they want kids some day have been so taken aback by such horrific acts of violence that they consider not having children after all. I have. I think about the grief of Christina's parents. And the grief of countless others who've seen the hopes and dreams for their children come crashing down with the smoke of a gun or the invasive cells of cancer. And I wonder again what's worth living for.
My simple answer is love. It might sound cliche, but that's what I come back to again and again and I have no other way to put it. Christina Taylor Green's parents never once said they regretted having Christina, rather they expressed that while she had a tragic beginning (she was born 9/11/01) and end to her life, the years in between were beautiful and full of love.
One of my assorted oddities is how much movie quotes can move me. I quote movies often, in my writing and in everyday jargon. I have this thought on my mind about what's worth living for and a beautiful, heartfelt quote comes to my mind from Where the Heart Is (2000). I thought I'd end on this inspiring note.
"You tell them that our lives can change with every breath we take... and tell 'em to hold on like hell to what they've got...we've all got meanness in us, but we've got goodness too. And the only thing worth living for is the good. And that's why we've got to make sure we pass it on."
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| Rest in peace, Christina Taylor Green September 11, 2001 - January 8, 2011 |
RF
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