Serial

I grew up with Erica Kane.  I watched her marry, divorce, marry, divorce, marry and divorce yet again.  Seven times over, if I recall correctly.  I remember planting myself on the family room couch at high noon on sunny, summer days, the television tuned into “All My Children”, holding my breath in hopes I could catch the entire episode before my mother shooed me out of the house:  There were better things for a teenaged girl to do with her time than watch Erica maneuver through her scripted life.  At college I loved the semesters with no classes at lunch time, not so I could eat, but so I could eat with Erica.

These were soap operas, we called them “the soaps”, never-ending stories airing religiously every weekday, centered on influential families living in fictional towns.  Terminal illness, infidelity, lies and half-truths, crime and punishment were common themes.  Just when someone secured happiness, life threw a curveball. Us viewers, we felt like we knew Erica and her constituents personally.  The writers made us privy to their secrets, we understood their motives, we rooted for these characters in spite of their obvious flaws; we talked about them as if they were part of our own lives.

I followed Erica pretty faithfully from my middle school days through college.  It was only when I joined the working world that I finally severed our relationship for good.  Of course when we were still together spans of time passed, particularly during the school year, when I couldn’t keep up with her trials and tribulations.  These were the days before Tivo and DVR. With no opportunity to catch up, I would quickly lose track of her escapades.

I recall this circumstance now as I think about the world turning in my own home.  The nest is showing signs of wear; its occupants stuck in “the awkward”, each of us bulls in this china shop, bungling transitions into new phases of life. Our conversations, for lack of a better word, revolve around syncing up work schedules, understanding who might be home for dinner and lining up dependent coverage for the dog.  Our sense of community has given way to a transactional existence. No one owns the caretaking of our home because it’s ceased to be one.

Let me start by saying nothing about this turn of events is acceptable to me.  I’m also somewhat surprised, especially after watching my marriage erode in a similar fashion and subsequently examining the cause and effect with intense scrutiny, that here I am caught off-guard yet again, finding myself victim of another invisible ebbing of my family life. I’m supposed to be enlightened.

I feel sometimes like my boys and I hardly know each other, we’ve become roommates sharing a giant, smelly storage locker housing our stuff. I don’t know what questions to ask because I’m so far removed from their daily existence.  I watch my two boys who work together for the same employer light up in animation when they share the details of their shifts with each other.  They both know all of the characters intimately; they partake in and witness the action, blow by blow. I desperately want to be part of their world, but I feel like I’ve missed too many episodes and it’s too burdensome for someone to catch me up. And if I’m really being honest, I haven’t allowed them enough access to the characters in my world, either.

And this, I decide, is part of the reason relationships fall apart:  We step out of the story line. As I learned with Erica, the world continues to turn, whether we are watching or not.  We tune back in to discover she’s had two husbands and a child since we last spent any quality time with her.  Her story is too involved to recount, isn’t it?  How will we ever get back up to speed? 

The solution is fairly obvious, I believe.  We need to start watching again.  It was amazing how quickly I could jump back into Erica’s world when I chose to become a regular viewer.  I needed to make the commitment to show up at noon every day.  And this practice, I’ve decided, is needed to resurrect our family life. I’m starting small, dinner on Monday nights.  No exceptions.  The entire cast, including me, is required on set, committed to keeping this time sacred.  Guest stars are not only welcome, but encouraged. I want all of us to know intimately those who matter to each of us.  It’s not important what or where we eat, what brings us together is sharing the days of our lives.

Transitions are difficult. And even when we are stuck, seemingly immobile, life moves quickly.  We find ourselves at times in a tug-of-war, our past lives pulling on one side, our future lives on the other.  How does everyone get to where they need to be without ending up in the mud?  The answer is not in pulling farther apart, but in coming together regularly and talking about where we are in the moment. These conversations fuel us, giving us the strength, not to pull more tightly on the rope, but to loosen our grip, to let go, creating a new and different future.

I believe in the power of showing up. Stay tuned.