Friday night, my phone blows up with text messages along with social media. RBG dead. Text after text, we're f&^%$#! Already living day after day with that doomed feeling while struggling to be hopeful, another wave of dread sets in.
Before bedtime, N. finds RBG in her Rebel Girls book volume and grabs a pen to mark her death date since it's not indicated on the page. September 18, 2020.
I try to sleep.
Saturday morning, we've planned for a trek on an unfamiliar trail. My eight-year-old reminds me, I thought you were going to wear your RBG tshirt.
That's right! I change from my "I Am Strong" to RBG and "Never underestimate the power of a girl with a book."
During the drive, our family chats about Dump 2020, and I well up wondering how much my girl will remember of this year. Covid, family deaths, distance learning, Dump, RBG. What else? The year's not over yet. We arrive and immerse ourselves in a woodsbath that also winds along a farm with horses, sheep, goats, pigs, chickens, turkeys, peacocks, a bunny and a cat. I'm in search of the small waterfall that I read about online. Barely anyone on the trail, we run into a South Asian elder and ask where the waterfall might be. He shares that he knows of no waterfall, but a quaint clearing up ahead at the end of the stream.
No waterfall?! Disappointment sets in. Again.
No one else is around. We take off our masks and soak in the sound of the stream, the tree oil, and the crisp morning air.
Deep breaths. It's okay. I'm grateful we're healthy and together on a Saturday morning.
Good mourning.
Before I co-teach an afternoon mindfulness session, N. and I watch the RBG documentary. I'm intent on making sure N. knows who RBG is. N. asks, Why are you crying, Mom?
Because RBG was an amazingly smart and strong warrior woman who exuded social justice and had such an impact in our world. Because she is someone you can look up to, N.
