1993 & the seeds we carry

Little do we know what is really happening on unremarkable nights in dark times

My husband has been writing these little histories. They are snapshots of a certain year as he experienced it, braiding personal stories with links to music and news. When finished, he will email them to the kids and me. This last one was titled 1993, and he considered it a very good year.

The fall of 1993 was the first time we met each other. And, sure enough, after delving into family, friends, work, and music, he got to me. He talked about how beautiful I was and how funny he found me.

Later that morning, he asked if I had read it.

I had.

He wondered if I would add my part of the story.

I paused.

1993 was a dark year for me. I was walking off a bad relationship. I was living in a crummy apartment. I was recovering from a bad case of mono contracted while taking way too many credit hours and working way too many jobs. I was defeated and fairly convinced nothing good would ever happen again.

You know, cheery 20-year-old stuff.

In my defense, it was 1993. The alternative music scene was fantastic for depression, alienation, rumination, and howling at the top of your lungs.

The night I met my husband was unremarkable. We had a mutual friend who lived in the same crummy apartment complex as me. They showed up with another friend, looking to get some dinner. Would I like to join?

I don’t remember what we ate – probably something cheap. I do remember my three companions having a handstand contest in the street.

My first impression of my husband: tall, quiet, nice smile, won the handstand contest.

They left, and I thought nothing more of that night until much later.

Little did I know what the handstand champion would become to me. He was a seed slipping into the dark soil of my life, sprouting quietly before changing my landscape forever.

One of the benefits of pushing 50 is I’ve lived through a few “dark” years, enough to know they do pass. And in each of those seasons, I can recall a seed slipping into my life – a new person who would grow into a dear person, an idea that would sprout into a project, a yearning that would bloom into a calling.

I know my husband wanted a story about the past, but his email has me thinking about the future.

Now is a dark time for me – relocation, midlife, empty nest, perimenopause. The part of me that is closer to 50 sees it as a tender bridge between what was and what will be. The part of me that is closer to 20 sees it as a sign nothing good will ever happen again.

Here’s the thing. Maybe a year or five from now, I will remember a seemingly unremarkable day from this dark season when something slipped into my heart, my head, my world – the seed of the great next place.

How deliciously hopeful to think I might have already lived through this day, that the seed from this person, this idea, this path is already germinating in the dark.

Yes, 1993 was a very good year.

And so is 2023.