Limits
“‘There must be a way’, said Owl, ‘to be upstairs and to be downstairs at the same time.’”
In Upstairs and Downstairs, Owl is transfixed by his inability to know what it going on with his bedroom (upstairs) when he is in his living room (downstairs), and vice versa. He attempts to be in both places at once by quickly running up and down his staircase. When he realizes that he is still not in both places at once he runs even faster. All evening he tries until, exhausted, he stops and sits to rest on the tenth step in the center of the staircase.
When my wife and I purchased our first home five years ago we didn't know what to do with all the new space. The garage apartment was used for only our washer and dryer and an entire bedroom was devoted to my home office. Seven months ago, before we moved, my desk was cozy in the corner of our bedroom and our newborn son was graciously sharing his changing station with the deep freezer. Same space, different stage.
In this story Owl doesn't face limits on the physical space around him, but instead challenges his internal limits in his ability to occupy these spaces. Same space, different state. He is more bothered by where he isn't than enjoying where he is. Which, of course, leads him to running tirelessly in a journey that will get him nowhere. For there is no escape from this moment.
“Owl ran upstairs and downstairs all evening. But he could not be in both places at once.”
I think we all do this from time to time. Imagining where we might be if we had done things a bit different. Wondering who we might be if we had been born a little earlier, or later, or had grown-up somewhere else. Curious at the endless comparison to those around us. But this might as well be fury up and down the stairs. For you were always you and whatever could have been isn't. Which is why Owl reminds us that we can run up and down the stairs in vain or learn to love our limits.
Despite the term, limits are not there to restrict you, but to provide a firm place to be. Your home, for example, has confinements based on the layout, the size or the shape of your belongings. Now, you could sell your things, buy new stuff and undergo a major remodel — but that would just be changing the limits a bit. No, what we long to do is to ease into the limits of our life in this moment as though we are getting into bed after a long day. To lay our mind down to rest, and feel the support of a pillow. To settle our body, and feel the hug of a mattress and comforter. Pushing against these limits is what wears us out.
“‘When I am up,’ said Owl, ‘I am not down. When I am down I am not up. All I am is very tired!’”
I am an accountant. Which means I am not a doctor, or a lawyer, or a sailor, or an entertainer, or a barista, or a pilot. When I welcome this limitation, of who I am and who I am not, the beginning of each day has more clarity as to who needs my help and how I can help them. Calmly accepting this invitation I can end the day knowing I’ve taken away some anxiety where I can, but that I am unable to take it all away. Fighting this reality will not only have me running up and down the stairs, but missing those moments I can actually help. Similarly, I am a father. Which means I am not a mother, a grandparent, a sibling, or a preschool teacher to my three children. I get to have a role in their lives, an important role too, but still just the one. Meaning that there are moments when my help or instruction is not what they need the most. A hug from mom, or a lesson at school, or playing with each other might be what they need. Loving them is getting out of the way to let other people love them too.
“Owl sat down to rest. He sat on the tenth step because it was a place that was right in the middle.”
Now, as I was re-reading this story I couldn't help but notice something subtle Lobel does at the end of the story. Owl doesn't just resign to his limitation of being in two places at once; he enters liminal space. He sits at the threshold between both places. Right now we all find ourselves on the tenth step like Owl. We’ve been living in a pandemic long enough to be used to it, fed up with it, and yet are not near the end. We’re running out of ways to process our feelings, to meaningfully connect with each other or to get our work done. And yet, my friends, there is a tenth step for you to rest on somewhere. A way for you to grieve the days before, hope for the days to come and still embrace this day.
As the holidays begin, may you find this resting place. May you belong to the boundaries of your life as they belong to you. May you not succumb to frantic running but softly settle into what is yours to do. And may you, in these difficult days, find a way to give thanks for where you are.
All quotes from Owl at Home, Copyright © 1975, by Arnold Lobel