I am not now, nor have I ever been, an expert whitewater rafter. But I’ve done my fair share of rafting. On several recent summer vacations, my family convinced me to take on a slightly higher levels of difficulty each year - from a leisurely paddle near Yellowstone, to slightly more excitement in Colorado, to an Oregon river with some serious rapids and a guide who was willing to take some risks. That one was the closest I’ve ever come to involuntarily exiting the raft.
Each time, I had moments of pure joy. I admired the beauty of the river and its surroundings, thrilled at the rapids we went through, and delighted in the laughs and screams of my family. When we were planning a vacation to Wyoming with another family, I didn’t think twice about saying yes to a rafting trip down the Snake River.
By this time, the kids in both families were old enough to have surpassed their parents in rafting ability. I was the weakest link. We decided to try an eight-person raft, just our two families (and a guide). But as the date of the rafting trip got closer, we began to get notifications that snow melt from the north had pushed the river to record levels and that the rafting company was only sending out their larger rafts.
When we arrived to check in on the day of the trip, the rafting company insisted that we all wear wet suits. This had happened once before when we were rafting. I simply explained that we were from Iowa, they let us get away without them. This time, my persuasiveness got me nowhere. The chance of the raft capsizing was high, and the water was cold. Stuffing my 50-year-old body into a wet suit was definitely not one of the moments of joy that day. Looking good in a wetsuit is something that only the young can aspire to.
After taking a bus to the start of the route, a guide got on the bus and told us again that the river was at the highest level of the season. The water was running fast. Two of the rafts that had gone out right before ours had flipped. This was the time to turn back if we were unsure.
I am generally not a risk taker, especially when I have my kids with me. But everyone else on the bus started walking toward the river. I glanced at our friends and gave a small shrug. Then we started walking too. The rafts were big enough that some people had to sit in the middle. The guide asked for volunteers. I felt conflicted, desperately wanting to be as far away from the edge of the raft as possible, but also wanting my kids to be safe. Still in their risk-taking era, they grabbed paddles, and I awkwardly climbed to a middle seat.
As we set out down the river, the guide pointed out nylon straps that I could hold onto. As we went into the first set of rapids, I gripped the straps so tightly that my hands went numb. I braced with my feet as well. Even so, I swear I became airborne at one point, holding my breath until we came out into smooth waters. I repeated this each time the water began to get rough. I couldn’t guarantee that I would stay in the boat, that I would avoid the cold waters that all four boys later jumped into willingly, but I could do my part and hope the rest worked out.
I’ve held many things tightly in my life - a number 2 pencil during the ACT, Mike’s hand during labor, the boys’ hands when they tried to run ahead on busy streets, Mom’s whole body the night that Dad died. I hold tightly to stay safe, to persevere, to love.
But as I’ve been attempting to choose a word for the year - a word to set an intention and guide my actions - I’ve been drawn to the word loosen. Loosen has many meanings to me. I need to regularly do yoga, tai chi, and physical therapy to loosen the rigidity that comes with Parkinson’s. I would like to loosen my grip on norms and expectations that I’ve picked up throughout my life that are no longer serving me. I’ve become interested in the Buddhist ideas of loosening attachments, of surrender, of realizing that there is much that I cannot control.
But although 1/12th of the year is over, I still haven’t fully committed to loosen. Something has been holding me back. I think it is the realization that sometimes we need to hold tight - to our ideals, to the people we love, to the small piece of nylon that may prevent us from falling over the edge.
This week, I find myself holding tightly to moments of tenderness, moments of joy, moments of awe. I’m taking a three-week writing class on Writing Love and Awe with Chloe Yelena Miller through Politics and Prose Bookstore, and it has helped me pay attention to those moments. I have worked to capture the experience of love and awe and joy in words. This week, Matt got accepted into two of the Ph.D. programs he applied to. Ben found a crockpot on sale at Target and tried a new recipe that he promised to make for us. It was warm enough for Mike and Annie to wear themselves out with long walks and nap together on the couch. I sat around a table with friends in what started as a shared meal and ended as a sing along.
These things may seem trivial in the face of all that is happening in the world, but as Ross Gay writes in his book Inciting Joy, joy exists alongside sorrow. He also suggests that “joy is an ember for or precursor to wild and unpredictable and transgressive and unboundaried solidarity.” As my friend Jennifer New reminded me this week, joy can be a form of resistance, providing the strength that we need to hold tightly to our ideals.
Perhaps this is another both/and moment. Perhaps the work of 2025 is to discern when I need to hold tightly and when I need to loosen my grip. Both seem more critical now than ever.
With age it’s a bit clearer …. ”when I need to hold tightly and when I need to loosen my grip“ and finally when I need to let it go.
“I hold tightly to stay safe, to persevere, to love.” I had tears at those words. And don’t we loosen for some of the same reasons.