Fuck the Rainbow

A few days ago, my husband called my son and me to come see a rainbow. My son opened the door, looked outside and acknowledged that yes, there was indeed a rainbow.

Apparently that wasn’t sufficient. He had to go outside and properly appreciate it.

So he stepped outside, turned to come back in, twisted his ankle and hit his knee on the tile floor. He yelled in pain. I immediately went to him, trying to figure out where he was hurt and whether he was okay.

And while I was doing that, my husband was still trying to get my attention. I needed to go outside. I needed to see the rainbow.

And without thinking, I said:

“Fuck the rainbow. I’m worried about our son.”

Not exactly the sort of inspirational quote you expect to find printed over a watercolor sunset at Hobby Lobby. It wasn’t my best Hallmark moment. 

But I’ve thought about that sentence quite a bit since then, because I don’t have anything against rainbows. It wasn’t really about the rainbow. It was about knowing, without hesitation, what mattered most to me in that particular moment.

And lately I’ve been wondering whether that’s something I’m getting better at.

What Deserves a Piece of Me?

We spend an extraordinary amount of our lives being told what deserves our attention.

What we’re supposed to worry about.

What we’re supposed to fix.

What we’re supposed to tolerate.

What should make us happy.

What should make us feel guilty.

What success is supposed to look like.

What our bodies are supposed to look like.

How much money we’re supposed to make.

How clean our houses are supposed to be.

What kind of parent, spouse, daughter, son, sibling, friend or employee we’re supposed to be.

And somewhere in all of that noise, it can become surprisingly difficult to hear one very simple question:

Does this actually matter to me?

I’m beginning to think one of the privileges of getting older is becoming more selective about the answer.

Not selfish.

Selective.

Because our time isn’t unlimited. Neither is our energy. And neither is our emotional bandwidth.

So maybe before handing another piece of ourselves over to something, we’re allowed to ask:

Is this worth my energy?

Is this worth the sacrifice?

Is this mine to carry?

Will this matter tomorrow?

Does this deserve a piece of my life?

Sometimes the answer will absolutely be yes.

And sometimes the answer needs to be:

Fuck the rainbow.

Everybody Has a Rainbow

Maybe yours isn’t a rainbow at all.

-Maybe it’s an argument you’ve been having for fifteen years and suddenly realize you don’t need to win.

-Maybe it’s the family member whose approval you’ve been chasing even though the finish line moves every time you get close.

-Maybe it’s a friendship you’re maintaining that is toxic.

-Maybe it’s a job that has convinced you your availability is more important than your life.

-Maybe it’s keeping the house perfect because somewhere along the way you decided a clean kitchen counter was evidence that you had your life together.

-Maybe it’s attending something because everyone will ask questions if you don’t.

-Maybe it’s saying yes because explaining no feels exhausting.

-Maybe it’s the number on the bathroom scale.

-Maybe it’s an old version of yourself you’ve been trying desperately to become again.

-Maybe you’re still defending a decision to people who aren’t actually entitled to an explanation.

-Maybe you’re carrying somebody else’s disappointment because you’ve mistaken their feelings for your responsibility.

-Maybe you’re trying to fix something that doesn’t want to be fixed.

-Maybe you’re simply tired.

There are so many rainbows.

And sometimes we become so accustomed to chasing them that we don’t stop to ask whether we even want to go outside.

But Some Things Are Worth It

There’s another side to this. Becoming selective about what matters doesn’t mean becoming cynical.

I don’t want to stop caring. Actually, I think I want to care more. I just want to care more deliberately. Because some things are worth our time even when the world doesn’t particularly notice.

A gathering doesn’t have to fill a room to matter.

A painting doesn’t have to sell.

A garden doesn’t need to win an award.

A meal doesn’t need to impress anybody.

A child doesn’t need to remember every small thing you did for him for those things to have mattered.

A friendship doesn’t need an audience.

A story doesn’t need thousands of readers.

Something you create doesn’t have to become profitable to justify the hours you spent creating it.

Sometimes you do something because it brings joy to six people instead of sixty.

Sometimes you show up because one person needs you there.

Sometimes you try something new and discover you’re terrible at it—and the experience was still worth having.

Sometimes you make something beautiful simply because you wanted beauty to exist in that particular place for that particular moment.

We have become very good at measuring things.

Money.

Attendance.

Weight.

Productivity.

Followers.

Grades.

Promotions.

Square footage.

Return on investment.

But I’m not convinced everything valuable can survive a cost-benefit analysis.

Maybe a better question is:

Was I glad I showed up?

The Grace I Give Everybody Else

There’s one more part of this I’m still working on. I can give other people tremendous grace. I can see someone struggling and recognize how hard they’re trying. I can forgive awkwardness. I can understand fear. I can see beauty in someone who doesn’t see it in themselves. I can celebrate another person’s courage even when the attempt doesn’t work out. I can tell someone else that one mistake doesn’t define them. I can remind them that they don’t have to have everything figured out. I can recognize the parts of other people that shine.

And then I can turn around and judge myself by standards I would never impose on anyone I love.

That’s a rainbow too.

Maybe one of the things I need to stop chasing is the imaginary version of myself who finally gets everything right.

She eats perfectly.

Her house is organized.

She never says the wrong thing.

She handles every relationship beautifully.

She makes excellent decisions.

She looks exactly the way she thinks she’s supposed to look.

She never wastes time.

She never disappoints anybody.

And presumably her laundry is folded immediately after the dryer stops.

I don’t know this woman. Frankly, she sounds exhausting. I think I’d rather get to know the imperfect woman who’s actually here. Maybe I can give her some of the grace I’ve been handing out so freely to everybody else.

Choosing Where I Show Up

I don’t want to stop looking at rainbows. I still want to be amazed by things.

I want to notice beauty. I want to laugh loudly.

I want to create things that might never make practical sense. I want to show up for people I love.

I want to remain curious. I want to care deeply.

I want to keep discovering things that make this strange little life more interesting.

I just don’t want everything that calls my name to automatically receive me.

There will always be another demand for my attention.

Another problem inviting me to adopt it. Another expectation I’m supposedly failing to meet. Another opinion I could spend an afternoon defending myself against. Another thing somebody else believes I absolutely must see, do, fix, want, fear or become.

Maybe growing older isn’t about caring less.

Maybe it’s about finally learning where to put the care.

This matters.

This doesn’t.

This person needs me.

This problem isn’t mine.

This is worth the effort.

This isn’t worth another minute.

This brings me joy.

This drains it.

This deserves a piece of my life.

This does not.

And occasionally, when circumstances require greater clarity:

Fuck the rainbow.

May I have the wisdom to know when to stand still and admire the rainbow— and when to turn away from it and take care of what actually matters.