The last number of weeks have been tough! It seems that the second half of this first year is in some ways more awkward and challenging than the first. Who knows who is still thinking about Nora when they see our family of three, but the grief journey (for better or worse) has transitioned to a more private stage that sometimes carries a bit of loneliness with it. And for a perfectionist like me, it is not always easy to be gentle with myself or know how to ride out my emotions when the many home and work demands make it hard to find time to even sort out my own feelings, let alone know how to share them with those around me who might care about how we are doing. I've also been discovering, or more boldly owning, and exploring the roots of some things in myself that are completely unhelpful in this grief journey (and in life in general): one in particular is that I care way too much about what others think of me. So I hesitate to share my raw thoughts and feelings, particularly about Nora, for fear of how I will be received and what others will think of my needing support when it is now well over six months since she died and by all external accounts our home is "back in order." But my do I miss her these days and sometimes need more than anything the space to "emotionally exhale."
While I claim no particular symbolism to this happening, when we were in West Virginia last month Nora's birthstone that was put in my engagement ring as a Christmas present fell out. It's tiny and I discovered it missing in a moment when I had the impulse I often did for the month or so after Christmas to look at it and think of her. It was such a sinking feeling to instead see a hole in its place, much larger and emptier-looking than the hole that the previous stone had filled. Somehow that event marks, while not being the cause of, a time period in which the hole of Nora's absence has been felt keenly by me in our home.
It's the small things, like last evening when Kali was putting on a play for us and I was sitting by Jason and had the most vivid moment of imagining a toddler clambering around my knees (while I knew full well that likely that little one would have been trying to be part of Kali's play).
Or our first meal at the new dining room table Jason just finished when Kali asked who the fourth chair was for. Three chairs just looked silly to me and clearly it was a design that works just fine for three but beautifully for the four we had hoped to have seated regularly around it.
But most striking was Jason's voicemail to me today (an unusual occurrence in my work day) announcing the presence of the first three yellow flowers blooming in our yard. That had been Kali's chosen sign for the time when we could take Nora outside with us- a symbol of hope, of Springtime, of warmth and change.
Recently I chose to check back in on our blog because sometimes the details of last Spring are all mixed together yet I wondered why I was feeling so emotional of late. It was almost exactly a year ago from the time when Nora plateaued in her weight. It's like our bodies know things our minds can almost not bring to consciousness. I remember in the Fall how walking outside would take me back to going into the NICU with Nora. It seems that this Spring there are other things about this time of year that make all my senses travel back to the previous year. I can only imagine this is par for the course this first year and in many ways I welcome it. The challenge is choosing, prioritizing, carving out the space to be present to those moments and to allow them to become part of the healing journey we are on.
It was one of the reasons church, which has often been a difficult place for me to be lately, was very meaningful for me this Sunday. Kali was happy with the kids, allowing me to be fully present to myself. It was music Sunday and the final song of the morning was
Nothing is Lost on the Breath of God, a song we first heard sung at Nora's memorial service, though the words were shared with us prior to that day. It will always be associated for me (and possibly a good number of others at our church) with Nora's life and death, and is a powerful evoker of emotions in me:
Nothing is lost on the breath of God,
nothing is lost for ever;
God's breath is love, and that love will remain,
holding the world for ever.
No feather too light, no hair too fine,
no flower too brief in its glory;
no drop in the ocean, no dust in the air,
but is counted and told in God's story.
Nothing is lost to the eyes of God,
nothing is lost for ever;
God sees with love and that love will remain,
holding the world for ever.
No journey too far, no distance too great,
no valley of darkness too blinding;
no creature too humble, no child too small
for God to be seeking, and finding.
Nothing is lost to the heart of God,
nothing is lost for ever;
God's heart is love, and that love will remain,
holding the world for ever.
No impulse of love, no office of care,
no moment of life in its fulness;
no beginning too late, no ending too soon,
but is gathered and known in God's goodness.
words and music © Colin Gibson 1994
The tears this time were mostly tears of yearning and of loss. While the music is comforting, particularly when sung by a community of people I care about and who have expressed care for us, the ending felt way too soon...
If someone had told me two years ago that one day donating blood would be a healing ritual for me I would have wondered what turns life would take to bring me to that place. And that is where I find myself. Sweaty palms, shaking cold hands and all, I find myself dreading and eager to partake in this simple yet profound ritual of facing this relatively small fear in honor of a little person who so greatly impacted my life. I wore orange for her today, and it seemed fitting that Kali got to choose the purple bandage for me at the end (and Kali was a charmer and was gifted a role of purple bandaging to bring home to take care of her stuffed animals). Jason joined me in giving blood today as well.
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