Everything is ephemeral

Lesson #29 of 40

As I approach 40, I’m embarking on a year-long project to reflect on the lessons I’ve learned in four decades of life. This is lesson #29. You can read the full series here.

So beautiful. So temporary.

It snowed on Friday. The big, fat kind of snowflakes you see in Hallmark movies. For hours, they fell, blanketing our Atlanta neighborhood in white.

I’ve lived in Georgia all my life, save for six years in Florida, where it never snows. Snow days have always been rare enough that even the possibility of a dusting thrills me. On Friday, I woke up like a kid on Christmas morning — up before the sun, trying to stay patient as the rest of my household slept. I watched the snowfall in wonder, anticipating how special the day ahead would be.

And it was. We trudged down the middle of our deserted street, chatted with neighbors we’d never spoken to before, played with friends, and marveled at the beauty of it all. We built two perfectly imperfect snowmen, skidded down a hill in a baby pool turned sled, and later used that pool as a shield in a fierce snowball fight. We warmed up inside with soup and biscuits and played games by a crackling fire. That night, we said goodnight to the snow. We were lucky to wake to it again the next day.

It’s now Tuesday, and almost all of the snow has melted away. I wish I could have held onto it all: the stunning scenery, the silly snowmen, the serene stillness. I wish I’d had more time to write while looking out at a landscape of white, more time to see the wonder of winter through my child’s eyes. But I couldn’t. I didn’t. Snow never lasts. It’s all an exercise in letting go.

As snow fell on the East Coast, fires raged in the West. The wildfires in Los Angeles have been utterly devastating — surreal to watch from afar, impossible to comprehend. I can only imagine what it must feel like to witness up close, to live through it, to escape it, to lose so much. To lose everything. This, too, is an exercise in letting go. A violent one.

It didn’t take long for leaders to say what they always say: We will rebuild. These words, meant to offer comfort, feel increasingly empty to me. They make me sad.

Humans are resilient, and our ability to bounce back from difficult experiences is a beautiful and necessary quality. But resilience requires adapting to change. That’s why I long to hear something more honest. More meaningful. Something that acknowledges the growing seriousness of our climate reality. The change we must adapt to. The impermanence we all must learn to accept.

So beautiful. So temporary.

The morning of the snowfall, as I waited for my family to wake, I listened to a guided meditation about coming to peace with the ephemerality of life. The meditation guide described the mandalas Tibetan Buddhists create — the beautiful, elaborate, painstaking designs that are intentionally destroyed after completion. A reminder of impermanence.

Once the meditation ended, I opened my eyes, looked out at the thick blanket of snow, and sighed.

It's one thing to destroy something you built — a snowman, a sandcastle, or a thousand-piece puzzle. It’s another to helplessly watch as something you built gets destroyed. I know this. The people in Los Angeles who’ve lost everything know this. You probably know this, too.

The night of the snowfall, as I was reading about the wildfires, I learned a relative was undergoing emergency surgery. There had been complications. By morning, he was in a medically induced coma.

Everything is ephemeral. Permanence is an illusion. This might be the hardest lesson of all.

So beautiful. So temporary.

The week before the snowfall, I packed up our Christmas decorations. Everything we’d hauled out — lights, stockings, ornaments, our growing record collection — was stored away for another year. As I carefully wrapped and packed ornaments, I suddenly froze. There, on a box I’ve had for over a decade, was Jamie’s handwriting: Fragile.

The year we got married, Jamie and I started a tradition of exchanging ornaments each Christmas. We were impossibly young — 23 and 24 — and imagined that, after years of gifting thoughtful baubles, our tree would become a story of our relationship. Something we could one day share with our children.

We kept the tradition for nine years: 18 ornaments exchanged. At some point, we acquired a colorful box to house them in. Because they were delicate and meaningful, Jamie wrote that word of caution.

How had I missed it?

It took me a few years to open that box of ornaments after Jamie died. When I finally did, I discovered that I’d already bought his ornament for the following Christmas, a fact I’d completely forgotten. It was goofy: a figurine of Santa Claus riding a manta ray. He would have loved it.

Now, Billy and I keep up that same tradition. We’ve exchanged ornaments for six years so far. He’s especially good at finding unique ones. As I put them away, that word — that warning — stopped me in my tracks. Fragile. It can all so easily break.

Fragile: Handle with care. I want to stamp this on every dear person in my life. On every meaningful thing I own. On the words I write. I want some kind of insurance that it will all last.

So beautiful. So temporary.

The day after the snowfall, I went for a walk alone.

I tried to stay present with it all — the crunch of snow beneath my feet, the delicate icicles on tree branches, the sundry snowmen that made me smile. I waved to neighbors and paid special attention to the birds. I watched my breath fog the air and noticed trees and houses I’d never fully appreciated before.

As I turned back toward home, the clouds parted, revealing a patch of blue and, finally, the sun. The snow dazzled, blinding white. The icicles sparkled and began to drip. And I smiled, knowing it wouldn’t last.

In the end, that’s all we can do.

xoxo
KHG

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If you want to help:
Here are a few ideas. I donated to the Mutual Aid LA Network to support their critical work. The American Red Cross of Greater Los Angeles is providing shelter, food, and emotional support services to wildfire victims and their pets. The Los Angeles Regional Food Bank is also accepting donations. The California Community Foundation's Wildfire Recovery Fund is offering relief to marginalized communities hardest hit by the fires. Finally, here’s a list of verified GoFundMe fundraisers where you can provide direct support to people affected by the wildfires.