Redbud

Why We Can't Stop Doom-Scrolling + a Better Way to Bloom

Outside my childhood living room window there was a squatty, gnarled Eastern Redbud tree - my favorite variety, lavender shot through with sky-fire, the color of nostalgia. Now, as they blanket Goshen, I am nine again, watching oxygen fill the capillaries of another long winter. I am nine, scrambling up into the branches of perfume and wonder, crushing buds between my fingertips and rubbing them on my neck. I am incapable of foreseeing a future where I am left untethered in a wobbling world.

Last week, I caught the redbuds in Chicago while in town for the Inhabit conference.¹ Like the blooms themselves, I wanted to preserve the magic of the moment, to marinate in it. For those 3 days, I decided to abstain from the news. That short break was like lifting a trap-door and crawling out, blinking, into the magnificent mess. It was like inhaling clean air after subsisting on fumes. In just a few days, my thoughts were released from the captors of urgency and turmoil. Dramatic, I know! But as I wandered around Lawndale, for just that moment, my biggest concern was my seasonal allergies. Tears streamed down my cheeks whenever I was out with the screaming seagulls and blushing trees. People kept asking if I was okay. “Were you crying?”

Maybe I had been, in a way.

Grief and relief share more than their last three letters.

~

Growing up in the redbud haze, apocalypse never felt far enough away. The End Times were coming, reminders vibrated the floorboards of my youth.

It was spoken of as a distinct event, like a holiday, or a big ol’ church revival with the potluck that followed. The End Times, ominous and exciting all at once. Kids who grew up like me usually have a story of fearing they’d been left behind. Mine involved arriving home to a suspiciously empty house. I called my Grandma, who always picked up on the first or second ring. When I got the answering machine, I knew I was cooked.

What I’m saying is, the terror was real.

Looking back, I don’t see much good from carrying The End Times eschatology through my life. I believe differently now. But I did learn to sniff the air for apocalypse, along the way. I am well versed in the “signs.” Now I’m left wondering if maybe a key word was missing all along? The End of What Times? Civilization? Democracy? Christianity? Empathy? Shared reality?

It sure feels like Times are Ending. And it’s as scary as I was told. Naively, I believed that when it all went down, the ones who had warned me would be the ones holding my hands. I was wrong. Apocalypse bleeds into bloom-time and I feel very alone.