September

On grief, beauty, and everything else. Plus, a poem.

I debated sending this out today (as it’s not Tuesday) but now is when I’ve got the words, so now is when I’ll share them. I have a feeling my writing rhythm might become more regular again soon, but I’ve decided to show up however I can either way.

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My daughter, Sybil, started kindergarten this month. She comes home from school every day and I ask her how it was, what did she learn, what did she eat for lunch, what was her favourite part? I try not to ask all of these at once, to give her space and time to wind down. But I am ravenous for answers. I want to know everything — everything that happens to her, what makes her excited and joyful and what makes her sad or afraid, who she connects with and why — and, of course, she wants to tell me almost nothing.

Photo by Gianluca Cinnante on Unsplash

I had already been noticing in the couple of years before she started pre-k how much she has learned (and so much of it, it seems, without me, despite my being so near most of the time) but this is another level. I'm struck over and over again by the realization of how much of her life I won't be there for. It's happening, already; the pulling away, the growing apart. Eight hours - one third of the day - five days a week that I have no idea what is happening inside her brilliant mind or her little body.

It is moving so quickly.

A few days ago, I realized that our dog, River, who we adopted as a puppy just after we got married, is eight years old already, and her muzzle is slowly being covered in white. After losing my cat, Charlie, early this year, I’ve been noticing even more how different my perception of time is from the reality of it.

It is moving so quickly.

Last week, we learned that my uncle has pancreatic cancer, and there’s still a lot we don’t know about where it goes from here, but I can feel the time slipping away already. And this week, we found out that my husband’s mother will be starting home hospice care after exhausting treatment options for her cancer. We are waiting to hear about a potential visit.

It is moving so quickly.

There is so much grief here, I’m not even sure where to begin sorting through it.

And… I’m catching myself staring out the windows at the leaves again. I’ve always been mesmerized by the colours of autumn, the smell of it.

I’ve got more quiet mornings back since school started, and suddenly I’ve been able to write some poetry again.

When I walk down the hill with my three-year-old, Oren, to wait for the bus to bring his sister home, he has started counting and naming the alphabet with me. When the bus is getting close, the woman whose granddaughter gets off at the same stop lets me know from her place on the corner, so that we can stay safely back from the busy road until it’s time.

My husband and I have been finding more time to be together in the quiet after the kids have fallen asleep, and I’ve noticed how much easier it is to fall asleep with him next to me again. Yesterday, we made banana bread and ordered pizza for dinner and watched a movie together, and then I fell asleep with him breathing next to me.

I think I will spend the rest of my life reconciling how all of these things can exist together. How I can grieve and delight and rage and wonder and fear and dream and despair and hope all at once.

As has often happened this year, one of

Lisa Jensen

’s prompts came at just the right time to help me channel some of my feelings, so I’ll end with the resulting poem.

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September

This time of year I often find myself
staring at the ever-changing leaves, noting
the way that their presence on the ground
changes the way I look at the trees.
I am reminded by the dense morning fog
and the clear blue sky
and the slanting afternoon light
that the world is so very many things
all at once.
I am reminded that I am allowed to feel
so very many things all at once.
I am reminded that I am allowed to breathe
into the quiet,
that there can be beauty
alongside the dying.

I hope you’re able to find some beauty amongst everything you’re holding. I’ll be holding space for you to share any and all of your own current feelings in the comments. And as always, feel free to share if this resonated with you.