Births, Marriages, and Deaths
“The three most important events of human life are equally devoid of reason: birth, marriage and death.”
Austin O’Malley
Within a period of roughly ten days, whilst the world continued in its chaos, three events coincided: a birth, a marriage, and a death. At a time when our day-to-day often feels so impossibly dictated by the actions of people far away from us, or by a planet struggling against the destruction we ourselves have caused, it was a reminder of how life continues on. This progression of events that have happened for centuries, and will continue to happen, amidst whatever else might occur.
I travel to the wedding with my parents. They are, themselves, getting older: some things are a little more difficult than they once were, or require a little more time. A little more patience. The recent death was a friend of theirs; another in what has become a relatively steady stream amongst their peers. Each one reminds my mother, at least, of her own mortality. It reminds me of it, too.
But that weekend is one for celebration, surrounded by close friends and old friends alike. It is a wedding of generations, several of them. The youngest is scarcely 11 days old—the recent birth, that completes the trio of events.
The deaths are becoming a more regular occurrence within my parents’ social circles, as are the births and marriages in mine. If I was to go back and ask my younger self if she thought I would be among that contingent, she wouldn’t have hesitated. If anything, she’d likely be appalled to watch me at another wedding, still single, still childless, on the verge of turning 32 years old.
A year ago, I might have agreed with her. It’s hard to explain exactly what happened to that thinking over the course of a year, but I started to reframe the idea in my mind. To move away from lying in wait for this mythical husband-and-child I was supposed to be finding, and to appreciate my life for how rich it already is. To treat that as a possible future accompaniment—un velouté, if you will—as opposed to a missing component to the main meal.
When the dancing begun at that wedding, an old schoolfriend—one of the few other single women at this event—called to me, and asked me to dance.
“The first dance is the worst part of a wedding as a single person,” she commented.
I nodded in agreement. It was a small gesture, but an infinitely kind one—especially as we’d never been close friends at school.
I return the favour at the next wedding I attend, back in my comfortable trio accompanying my newly-married friends. It turns out the woman I ask to dance isn’t single, her partner is just travelling, but it doesn’t really matter. Because it’s not really about the relationship status of the people in the room. It’s about the community we build.
It’s the community around us that sees us through births, marriages, and deaths. Whether we are the one actively participating in those events, or just supporting from the sidelines. Our presence is still noted. It’s still requested. It’s still wanted.
I held my friend’s newborn last week and made that little girl a promise to always be another adult in her life, if and when she needed one. There would always be a spare room in my house for my array of nieces and nephews, both those connected by blood, and the honorary ones.
Just before leaving to attend the most recent wedding, I pulled a tarot card at random—a practice I find comforting, and occasionally informative, whether you may believe in it or not. The card encouraged me to let go of ideas that no longer serve me. To leave them behind, and clear way for a new chapter.
Later that night, I noticed that the coral gemstone from my ring had fallen out. I hadn’t noticed right away, but I was fairly confident it had gone down the drain—not to be recovered. I’d purchased the ring in India last year, after a palm reader encouraged me to wear coral on the ring finger of my right hand in order to bring love into my life.
I stared at the empty space in the silver where the coral had sat and mused on it. Maybe, as I joked to my friends, it meant he was in the room. Or, maybe, it meant the universe had given up on trying to find anyone for me.
Maybe it meant nothing at all, except that the ring had been made in a rush. The gemstone had been coming loose for weeks, and finally given way.
Maybe, it was just a reminder, that I already have plenty of love in my life, in many forms. My parents haven’t quite shaken their need to make small comments about my love life (or lack thereof) at any opportunity—a habit I find increasingly annoying as I get older—but my mother recently added a caveat that she just didn’t want me to be alone.
But I’m not. And I won’t be. Whatever comes next, beyond these days that feel very much like the closing of one chapter and the start of another, I don’t know. But I know I’ll find my way.
