Something Epic

A personal essay by Jena Schwartz about the everyday beauty in our most important midlife relationships

I’ve been in the same online world of writers with Jena for years. I know several writers who have worked with her as their writing coach and instructor, and they all say the same things that I’ve gleaned from being in her orbit: she has a gift for not only crafting beauty with words but also for inspiring fearlessness and insight from writers.

I know you will get a sense of these rare gifts from this essay. — Jessica

---

for Aviva Lou

We're on our way to the Victory 8’s final jam of the semester – and Aviva’s final a cappella concert of her undergraduate career. 

My dad's sitting in the passenger seat, my mom in the back on the towel we keep there as a dog-fur barrier. He asks if I'd like to go see a film the next morning about Leonard Bernstein. I tell him I'm not sure yet if I’ll be free because I might be going with my stepdaughter to a crafts fair in Northampton.

A moment later, he asks, "Where are you going for pap smears?"

"What?" I ask, unable to place why he is asking me this.

"Pap smears. Where are you going for that?" he repeats, with no hint of irony.

"Pap smears? What? Why are you asking about pap smears?" He looks unsure. And then it dawns on me.

"Oh my God, Dad. Crafts fair! We might go to a CRAFTS FAIR."

We both begin to laugh.

My mom chimes in from the backseat, asking what is so funny. When I tell her, she starts laughing, too. We all welcome the levity and absurdity as an interruption of the dominant mood of late.

I make a mental note to remind my dad to get his hearing aid checked.

***

The concert is wonderful. I get to chat with some of Aviva's friends who graduated already, as well as her middle school teacher who happens to be a Mount Holyoke alumna and with whom Aviva has stayed in touch. The group sounds better than ever, and, because Aviva is a December grad, she has a solo AND the group sings a surprise song for her. When she cries, I feel like crying, too, knowing what a moment this is for her, what an epic passage from one chapter to another.

She looks so beautiful on the stage in her sparkly, sheer black top and black jumper. I sit there beaming with unadulterated awe that this is the same person who would read an enormous pile of books before bed – after her dad or I had read to her. Whose idols were Meryl Streep and later Babs. Who was one of the earliest and youngest OG Taylor Swift fans. Who sang in musical after musical and got her first guitar for her 8th birthday. Who busked in Harvard Square and whose voice turned heads, mine included. 

***

On a recent Saturday morning, I get a text from her. 

"Guess what era I'm entering?" 

I call after leaving synagogue.

"Your barista era?!"

She has gotten a job at a local bakery, starting right after the new year. The vibe is perfect for her, and her coworkers will be 20-somethings. I am so happy for how happy she is about it.

One of my favorite jobs to date was being a barista myself, two different stints, one during college and one after. The customer banter, the drink making itself, the yummy pastries and getting to know the regulars, the simplicity of leaving work at work – I loved all of it. 

She'll spend six months doing that as well as nannying for a toddler who adores her, before heading off to work at Eden Village, the camp she and her cousins went to for many summers, which we call "Jewish hippie camp." 

She is on her path. This is her life. I watch and marvel.

***

My parents leave for warmer climes in a couple of weeks for part of the winter. Next week, I will help my mom pack. A few days later, I will help Aviva move out of her dorm room, the one she made into a home so quickly. She does that – she makes herself a home wherever she goes.

She does it with her books, her art, her music, her twinkle lights, her bedding, her most cherished tchotchkes, her photographs, her postcards from the various eras of her 21 years, all combined with the je ne sais quoi that is simply, herself.

***

She is working on the finishing touches of her capstone project, an in-depth sociological study about how the need for queer spaces has evolved and changed over time. 

We're on our way to her final jam. My dad has just started reading Aviva's paper. 

"I need to talk to her about time and space," he says. "Because actually, she is writing about quantum physics. In fact, Einstein said..." 

He is off and running.

My mom, not realizing my dad is still talking because his voice is so quiet, is chiming in from the back. 

"And energy! That's dance! Those are the elements of dance – time, space, and energy!"

I am listening to both of them and driving in the dark over the Notch, part of the Mt. Holyoke Range State Park; neither realizes the other is talking and I'm wondering if Aviva will incorporate Einstein into her paper. I'm guessing not but I could be wrong. 

I think about our many conversations about time and space, seasons and cycles, memories and where we were when and where we'll be when and where we are right now, which is always my favorite, even when it's hard or confusing or bittersweet because all of these, all of these suddenly feel so incredibly beautiful to me that I want to run up on stage, hug her tightly, lower the mic to my height and say for all in Blanch Hall to hear: This one! This one is mine! 

But of course, she is not mine. She never was. And, she always will be. 

All of these things can be true, in the most wonderful Whitmanesque claiming of contradiction as a birthright, as the pillar of our people, our people who argue and wrestle and question and talk over each other (even though I am always working on this), our people who are in conversation with each other over the darkest roads and the brightest rooms, across space and time, the milestones and the defining moments and the million forgotten ones that still, somehow, somewhere, live inside of our psyches and cells.

I hope they know. I hope they know how much I love them.

I hope she knows. 

I hope she knows how much I love her.  

***

I give her the flowers and the time-space continuum swirls us up in a ribbony embrace where each petal is a Friday morning at the library getting more books for bedtime and every twinkle in my eye is reflected to me in her eyes and we say, we love you! We say, we're so proud of you! We say, don't forget to get a pap smear! We say, haha crafts fair! We say, may you always find your way. I am a hopeless mush of a mother. We say, goodnight, see you soon! 

And we walk to the car in the night as my mom exclaims about how they write all of their own songs, which they don't, but it doesn't matter, because she is so happy, and correction can be so overrated. And my dad's new compression socks are really helping, and we drive home quietly, right to their door, the same side door I have walked through in every era since I was 10, back when I ambled down the hill at night singing Patsy Cline songs out loud, crazy, crazy for feeling so lonely, feeling like my life was a movie, waiting, waiting for something epic to happen. 

And it did. 

---

Jena Schwartz is a poet, essayist, and Jewish mother who has been coaching for over 20 years and facilitating writing groups since 2014. She is known for her fierce encouragement, smiling eyes, and belief in creative process and practice. Learn more about her work at www.jenaschwartz.com or find her Dispatches from Daily Life on Substack.

There just so happens to be ONE spot left in Jena’s 2024 Sound of Real Life Happening group, which begins today, January 11th! In this practice, a small cohort of wonderful humans comes together seasonally to write what Jena calls "11s," a simple but magical writing practice that helps us notice what we're noticing with curiosity and self-compassion. Click here to learn more and go to her website to learn more about her writing groups, coaching, and editing services.