Last weekend, I was babysitting my grandson, and, as I was sitting on the couch, he laid his little head down on my thigh, and sighed, and said “my Gigi”.

Oh, to be claimed liked that.

It was one of those sweet grandparenting moments. One of those times where you feel special, you are singled out, receiving love that is neither asked for nor expected – it is just a gift.

This whole grandparent trip has been like this. I never expected to love him like this, to delight in his every expression and mood.

Or to have him reciprocate.

He sometimes cries when I have to leave him, and my heart just aches.

I get it, I am just as sad to say goodbye.

Grandchildren are not ours to train up, or spoil, they are here to teach us the lesson of time:

That we only have these brief moments to experience what they have to offer us.

My grandson will only be 18 months old for a short time. And he won’t want to rest his cheek on mine for much longer.

He won’t light up when he spots me across the room.

He will eventually reach an age where I am mostly irrelevent, even an embarassment, and that is how it is.

Our years of striving to be perfect parents are over, now we can rest in the ease of acceptance and know: we are enough.

And for now, I am a hand to hold while navigating the sidewalk curb, a push of the little trike over the grass.

I am the reader of the book with all of the animal sounds, over and over again.

I am a witness to his first sentences, like “high up in the sky” as he points to the airplane above our heads.

And I think to myself, how, like the plane, he too will travel, far away from me, as the years pass.

And my heart breaks a little.

I think of this time in my life like the transition from afternoon to sunset – the gloaming – that tiny, magical moment when the sky casts a shimmery, otherworldly aspect.

I think of this time in my life like the transition from afternoon to sunset – the gloaming – that brief, magical moment when the sky casts a shimmery aspect.

So breathtaking, so transformative, so brief.

And while our daughter and son-in-law are doing the everyday hard stuff, we can glory in the joy of this special view.

And tonight, I think about his little sticky fingers grabbing at my shirt, willing me not to go.

How his tiny grip is surprisingly strong.

And how lucky I am.

I am necessary, I am loved, I am claimed, even for just a moment.

There is the term “third space” that’s been circulating around for awhile.

The definition describes home as the first place and work as the second.

And the third is a place where we find a loose community, or a kind of neutral territory – it could be a coffeeshop, or a library, or a church.

It’s a place where we might come and go as we please, to participate at any level we choose, or a place where we can simply observe.

It is not purpose driven, or too highly structured and it could be intimate or remote.

A third space might be a place to seek out inspiration.

But mostly it houses a feeling of connection and belonging.

Anyway, I kind of see this place, this blog, as a third space, for me.

And you, you are in this third space with me(if you choose).

And when I write, I open myself up in ways I wouldn’t in a workplace.

And in this forum, I try to be honest.

And yes, lately it has been pretty depressing. (Obviously, you don’t have to go there with me – skip it, please).

But these writings have helped pass the time, and helped with the healing.

This has just been a helpful spot where I’ve been working out my mental health.

And it’s been a space to vent.

It’s been the physical process that has allowed me to listen to my brain.

It’s been a creative space.

A place to try not to judge myself.

We writers always want to tackle something new. We want to advance the plot in some way.

But life doesn’t work that way, and the lessons I’ve learned have been re-learned many times over.

But the good thing is, that when I’m scrolling back through my blogs, and I think it’s all been the same old shit, I run across a stunning photograph of say, the Swiss Alps.

And then I remember that day, and my son’s smile after his first run down the mountain.

And I remember just how peaceful I felt. How I watched him grow smaller and smaller as he traversed away from me.

And in that moment, I saw his 5 year-old self magically overlaid on his adult body.

And, up high, with the sun’s bright reflection, and my tears, making me dizzy – it felt like time was inverted that way.

And I just needed to get it down on paper.

Yes, there were the good days – many, many good days.

Still, depression will tell you they don’t exist, that they never existed, but it is a lie.

The truth is that there have been many, many more great moments than bad ones.

So, I’m grateful for this space we inhabit – this spot where the lousy and the picturesque can co-exist.

Sharing it has been such an unexpected joy.

A few years ago, my husband, son and I went to France for a vacation, to the beautiful French Riviera.

And I got lost.

Well and truly lost.

Lost in the way that I just knew I would never be found, and that I might even die.

Hours and hours alone, not knowing how to find my way back home.

Dehydration and irrational thinking and the existential feeling that maybe only those who are near death face.

Well, I thought I was near death anyway.

Basically, my son and husband had taken a day trip to Monaco and I’d stayed back to spend the day at the beach.

And then, late afternoon, I headed back to the villa, and I couldn’t find my bearings.

I had no cell phone, no key, no ID even.

The streets of the village were serpentine and every doorway looked identical to the all the others along the cobblestone street.

So I backtracked and retraced my steps at each turn, over and over – for several hours

By early evening, my irritation grew into apprehension. And then nervousness. And the temperature was slipping fast, I was getting cold.

Does this look right? Is this familiar?

I tried to tamp down the panic. I thought I was sensible; I’d found where our rental car was parked, figuring that the guys would eventually make their way to it.

Or so I reasoned.

Finally, still in my damp bathing suit, I sat with my legs stretched out under the car’s wheel well, to catch the residue of the engine’s warmth.

My teeth were chattering.

This wasn’t looking good.

And then, close to midnight, my son emerged from the dark.

And when I saw him across the road, I starting crying uncontrollably; I was so ashamed.

I felt pitiful: I was a clueless, middle-aged tourist with no sense of direction.

The shame filled my frigid body, down to my frozen feet.

In the end, my body eclipsed all reason. Everything felt disconnected.

It’s been years since that event happened, but occasionally the memory pricks at me.

This past February, I got Covid (finally) and the virus triggered a haze of depression that I am just now coming out of.

I am surfacing from the dark.

I’ve started taking short walks in our new neighborhood, but I feel like an invalid with little endurance. I lift my heavy legs and try to feel my muscles.

I try to connect my body to my brain. Both are sluggish and out of sync.

But I have started to feel stonger.

Even so, when I look down at my shoes, there is the worn, near colorless grey of the sidewalk. It is like the grey that swirls in my mind.

At times I am dull and numb and I can’t remember my sense of humor, or any particularly positive thing about myself.

And lately I’ve thought about being lost, both in France, and at home.

And the memory comes back to me, of shivering on that cold night, how alone I felt.

It occurred to me how disappointed I was that my family couldn’t somehow read my mind to locate me. Like a mental GPS.

But not many people know us well enough to always offer a lifesaving rope when we’re clinging on the precipice.

And no one ever completely understands what we are going through, what is swirling around in our brains.

And that brings me back to today, and the fact that I have struggled to write about the past few months.

I have given up and given in to the idea that none of this is worth writing about.

But then I think about the fact that at the end of the story, it was okay.

So I’m holding out some hope that what I say and how I try to describe myself will resonate with you.

And I hope to keep on writing even in these grey spaces.

It feels dull and boring, but it makes the healing time go faster.

And it makes me feel a little bit better as I go.