THE DIVINE IN THE DETAILS

by CARA MCDONALD

Whenever i’m tempted to be amusing, superficially profound, clever or glib, I think of the mantra a longtime writer friend of mine lives by when she creates: “No bloodless art.”

That means not leaving out the embarrassment, the gritty parts, not skimming over the shameful, not dancing around the tough stuff—grief, resentment, envy, sex, longing.

A great writer is a trusted guide and their work is a confessional, where we can meet in private and admit that we’ve struggled the same way, seen the same dark corners.

Anne-Marie Oomen’s “As Long As I Know You” is one of those confessionals. We’re lucky to be sharing an excerpt from her beautiful new book in this issue, and let me tell you that more than one editor working on this month’s feature admitted to being sideswiped by emotion to the point of tears. It’s that good.

In it, the beloved Northern Michigan author chronicles her complex relationship with her mother, who is succumbing slowly to dementia and brought to live in a full-scale care facility. Oomen asks, “What makes her daily life worth living?... We made her safe, so she could stay alive, but what makes her want to stay alive?”

What a breathtaking question. Not just for old age, but for any of us. Oomen is careful, here: not life worth living, but daily life. To me, this weeds out the large-scale declarations: Family. Friends. Work. Faith.

Instead, she reflects on the moments that make up a day, these overlooked puzzle pieces that together add up to a much more meaningful picture.

I think it’s a question we have all been forced to grapple with since Covid-19 came to stay. The fabrics of our daily lives were stretched, worn and torn to the point of fraying, fibers unraveled, holes impossible to ignore. We lost so much and yet found it, too—in singing from balconies, adopting homeless dogs, rereading old books, reckoning with our children’s daily education (or not), savoring connections through windows or across outdoor patios. We were forced to regroup and honor the lost interactions at the lunch counter, in the church pew, at the holiday table.

I think about what makes my daily life worth living a lot these days. If you’re like me, the words “gratitude practice” and “journaling” invoke a self-conscious shudder; I hate performative self-improvement and scripted making-things-okay. But the non-bloodless truth is when you are navigating loss or reeling from change and begging the universe for more rope to hang onto, sometimes all you get is the strength to tie a knot so you don’t slip farther. Those knots are the want-to-stay-alive dailylife things.

For me, coming out of that dark chapter included working up the courage to leave what I had built to return somewhere I’d ghost-walked in my heart for years.

The first thing I did when I got the keys to my new (old) house was drag a turquoise plastic lawn chair around to the front porch and sit to take it all in. I reveled in the sound of seagulls squabbling overhead, the distant pock pock of a basketball. Dogs paused to wag and touch noses on the sidewalk. As the wind gusted to show the silver underside of the maple leaves, warning of coming rain, the honey-vanilla smell of hydrangea rose in the air. I suddenly felt both the electricity of novelty and a joyous recognition.

What makes her want to stay alive?

My boys high-stepping into the waves. The muffled quiet of early-morning snow. Black coffee in a thrift-store mug. Stillwarm peanut butter cookies. A dinner-plate dahlia in a mason jar. Cheeks red from the wind. My heart beating out of my chest on an uphill climb. The sound of hoofbeats on a gravel path. Forsythia against a gray sky. Linking fingers with someone for the first time. Falling asleep with a book. Helpless laughter and inside jokes. Dancing close to the band. A coffee shop bulletin board. Standing ovations. An olive branch buried in a onesentence text.

Spring erupts with wild swings of possibility and promises alongside the fading reminders of winter, and we bloom where we are planted. This place is what knots my rope. I hope it does for you, too.

Cara McDonald Executive Editor cara@mynorth.com