but isn't it nice when we're all afraid at the same time?

Waking in the wee hours to news of another death, and not even one of mine. Following it down in a winding spiral to a song from AFP. Ten minutes of beauty. Ten minutes of devastation. Five minutes of tears that I fought against shedding, because this loss, on top of other losses, too many deaths in this year already, and the year before, and the year before that...

everyone's too scared to open their eyes up
but everyone's too scared to close them

And what do I have to top that, really? A changed body, a changed brain, a changed perspective. Growing fearful where before I was--well, if not fearless, then certainly stoic, and still looking forward instead of back.



"And it's a ride," Amanda sings. "It's just a ride..." That it is. Life, experience, love, that's all it is. Partnering so we have someone's hand to hold, teetering at the crest. Sitting with family, created, acquired, growing, introducing them to the concept of safe fear, because we know it will help them process real fear, later.

Same principle behind horror media, really.

everyone's reading the rules of engagement
and everyone's starting to doubt them
everyone's reaching to put on a seatbelt
but this kind of ride comes without them

I'm remembering one episode of Mr. Roger's Neighborhood, where he came in from Outside, removing his work coat and his work shoes, exchanging them for his softer cardigan, slipping his feet into more comfortable sneakers, and preparing the lesson for the day. All the little routines viewers had become accustomed to--the door opening, his easy, guileless smile, the short walk down the short stairs. It was ritual, in a way, practiced to give his audience time to unwind with him, become open to his next words.



The episode I'm thinking of, though, is sadly one they no longer run in syndication. Because in this one, near the end of all the calm routines, when he raises the top of the aquarium to feed the fish--he finds one of the fish has passed. Floating belly-up, its small fins no longer moving, its gold-scaled body no longer swimming in idle loops around the tank.

And it's a small, quick moment, expressed in microcosm: his eyes subtly shifting, his shoulders tensing, then relaxing. Nothing a child viewer would catch, even, though rewatching that episode as an adult, I see the signs more clearly. Thrown--just for a moment, a handful of quick seconds--before he pulls back to teacher mode. Finding the best path to turn this into education, pitched in ways his viewers would best understand. And whatever the lesson was going to be, it was set aside for the lesson he had on hand: telling children across the country about what death is, what death really means. That it's nothing to fear; that it's okay to feel things about it. That our emotions, as children, sometimes feel very big, and very scary, but that that was okay, too. Death was just a thing that happened, to all of us. Death was a natural departure in this case, and accepting that was part of life, too.

It's just a ride. And we've got the choice to get off any time that we like...



It is the great equalizer, after all. The commonality of death. The universal experience we'll all have at some point.

Right?

everyone's trying to stay on the side
where the water's just boiling more slowly
frogs in a pot, well that's one thing I've got
at least some of the frogs in here know me

It's not a comforting song. It wavers, ever so slightly, an off-balance calliope, making music for whomever's listening in the shadows...or maybe for the shadows themselves. Her voice breaks at times, the pain in the chords palpable.

And it's not the first time I've heard it, I've had this album, There Will Be No Intermission, for years now. But reading on her latest loss, while listening to this song...it sank deeper this morning. The lightest touch of midnight's chill gracing air already warming, the beginning days of May already lurching towards summer's thick, leaden heat, and I'm reminded yet again of the cyclical nature of loss.

I want you to think of me sitting and singing beside you
the chain pulls us up and we know that we're all gonna dive

And stupidly, pointlessly, thinking on my own. Because it's not in the same league, is it? I'm alive. The world hasn't done me in, yet. That's acres away from mourning an entire person. And yet...ringing the changes. Because there *have* been changes. Six hundred and fifty-plus days, now, with the headache that never leaves me. I'm less sure, now, on the other side of that. Less brave on the other side of that. Definitely, after these months, cascading through a year and still going, less stable on the other side of that...

Possibly more stubborn. But at this point stubbornness is a feature, not a bug.

But we all go down, yes, and we all go down...and see what the ride's made us into, this time.

I want you to think of me sitting and singing beside you
I wish we could meet all the people who got left behind
the ride is so loud it can make you think no one is listening
but isn't it nice when we all can cry at the same time?

But what else do we have, really? What choice do we have? Isolate, or integrate; pull back or push forward. Strengthen our relationships, or let them slip away.

and as we switch from side to side
everything is gonna be just fine
everyone you love is gonna die...

Yeah. Whether you believe in heaven, or reincarnation, in nothingness or continuation, this is all we have. This, right here, right now. Ride's gonna stop sometime, so until then, we make the best of the ups and downs, the scary descents and the link-by-link ennui of elevation. And we can make the choice to be happy in those around us, knowing that they're in the same place, in cars ahead or cars behind. Maybe we'll walk out with them hand in hand. Maybe we'll never see them again.

It's up to us to do the good in the world that we can, because everyone's just trying to hang on for the next drop.

the alternative's nothingness
might as well give it a try...

What have we got to lose, after all? It's just a ride.