unknown.

I have been on my Christmas break for roughly 10 days, and have already read two books, the kind I like best: nonfiction, sad, challenging. Everything Happens for a Reason: And Other Lies I've Loved by Kate Bowler and The Middle Place by Kelly Corrigan are both memoirs by women in their 30s (like me), with young children (like me), who were diagnosed with cancer (please please never like me please). They write beautifully about their journeys: knowing something was wrong, receiving a diagnosis, rounds upon rounds of chemo, tentatively celebrating the next clean scan.

But the most searing part of each book was how these mothers wrote about their children. The tantrums over who hit who, the snuggling up with books before bed, the strewn about toys just waiting to be stepped on, the magical way that children see time, the devastation of knowing how much will be missed if cancer wins.

Selfless maternal love wishes desperately that Jolene will not become a child who loses her mom too young, while selfish, ever-hungry-for-more maternal love refuses the possibility that I could love something on a scale bigger than galaxies, only to get short-changed on the rest of her life.

I try to imagine, because I am reading these books and need to know how these things feel. Early in my imagining, my eyes brim and my chest pounds and my brain becomes overwhelmed and says, "No, we will not do this."

The thought alone is too much to bear. And yet, so many must.

*

On New Year's Eve, with our 3-year-old sleeping soundly, I settle into the couch with a few of my favorite things: a glass of wine, a laughably big bowl of popcorn, and my husband. We scroll through Netflix, the way you do, wondering if we should watch something new or keep re-watching The Office and Parks and Recreation. The scrolling stops on the movie Her, which neither of us has seen. We watch. The movie tells the story of a lonely divorced man who falls in love with his computer OS (operating system), only to have his heart broken when the OS leaves him because it has advanced beyond human understanding, emotion, and intellect.

It is beautiful. It is really weird. It is long. And it has me feeling pretty anxious.

"Is this what the world is going to be like for Jolene?" I ask. "Will there really be no boundary between what's real and what's not?"

"I think so."

*

It is New Year's Day, and we have scored the coveted Grandparent Sleepover Night, in which we kiss and kiss and kiss our sweet daughter and then gleefully send her off to sleep at Grammy and Papa's. We have movie gift cards. We are giddy.

I scroll through movies online. We both really want to see Bohemian Rhapsody, but good gracious, it isn't playing until 9:30. We are also interested in Welcome to Marwen so I do a little research. And then sigh in defeat and say, "You know, we rang in the new year with Her, which was really intense and mind-bending. I think I want to spend the first day of the year a little lighter." Mary Poppins Returns is playing at the perfect time of 6:50, and so it is settled.

As a mixed bag of people trickle in to the theater, a 20-something guy in a sweatshirt and knit hat wanders in alone. He seems out of it, like he is high or has just woken up. Definitely not the expected Mary Poppins type.

My heart races. I can't stop staring at him as he settles into his seat. Is his left hand in his pocket? Is he holding on to something? The previews start.

I turn to Kevin. "I hate that I'm saying this, but that guy is here alone and seems a little weird and now I feel anxious. What if he's a shooter? That's nuts, I know it's nuts, but I can't help it."

I force myself to take deep breaths, to calm down. Kevin gently asks, "Do you want to take a break? We can leave for a minute."

"That's ok," I say. "I can't go through life like that, in fear. I'm sorry I'm so weird."

"You're not weird," he says. "This is just the new normal."

My heart breaks for my daughter, growing up in this normal.

*

In the final scene of Mary Poppins Returns, everyone is floating into the sky holding on to bright balloons (this can't possibly count as a spoiler). The sky is "bluebird blue" as the cast sings, smiles, dances, and laughs. They cheerily sing:

The past is the past
It lives on as history
And that's an important thing
The future comes fast
Each second a mystery
For nobody knows what
Tomorrow may bring
...There's nowhere to go but up!

*

I want to have a clear vision for the year. I like resolutions and goals and focus words and phrases. They give me the sense that I know where I'm going, that if I get lost I can turn back to them like giant highway signs to ensure that I'm on course.

But I'm realizing how hard the world is to predict. We all know intellectually we can't control the future, but we do an awfully good job of hiding that fact with our confidence and our plans. Will technology and real life become indistinguishable, or will technology wonderfully enhance our human connections? Will my daughter's normal be to expect that at some point she'll be affected in some way by a mass shooting, or will the tireless efforts of gun control advocacy groups turn the tide and change the future? Will I receive some impossible-seeming diagnosis too young, or will I live heartily into my 90s, as my family history suggests?

I don't know. None of us knows, try as we might.

*

This makes it seem fruitless to over-plan, over-goal. So I will keep it simple. As for goals, I want to do well in school, be kinder to people, and continue my frustratingly slow quest to be less judgmental. I also want to be brave.

And for a word, the best possible choice seems to be Unknown. If I fall down a rabbit hole of fears, worries, and what-ifs about cancer, shootings, and artificial intelligence, I can try to remember that the future is unknown, and no amount of worrying will make it known.

Tomorrow is unknown. The rest of the year is unknown. So I will try to remain grateful for what is known: today, I am here, I am healthy, I am loved. Today, my husband and daughter are sleeping soundly. Today was a gift, and it was good.

Mary Poppins knew best, as always.

The future comes fast. Each second a mystery. Nobody knows what tomorrow may bring.

And there's nowhere to go but up.