Posted in Lanscape of Loss, Light, Markers, Return, Spring

Let It Be

It was a quarter of a century ago that I spent SpRiNg Vacation bleeding, assured by technicians & physicians that everything “looked good.” (My progesterone was just low and so they gave me some to take.)

It was this night that I would wake before dawn with a kind of rhythmic cramp that I’d never felt before, on & off, on & off. I thought I had a stomach virus.

By morning, I knew something was wrong and so I woke my husband and we drove an hour to the hospital. The midwife extracted the intact sac from my cervix. At least that’s how I remember it. That’s what I can still feel between my legs all these years later.

April 19th.

I’ve never forgotten the date even though the agony of loss was later overwhelmed by the joy of two sons, but not until I miscarried that fall. We had conceived immediately that time, living in the little ski rental beside the brook above the mill across from the cow pasture, our first place in Vermont.

It was the grief of the first loss, at the end of the first trimester, after a year of trying, that drove us from home–from the sea to the Green Mountains.

I was teaching 3rd & 4th grade in a little school nestled against a mountain just across from the ski place when they called me with the results of the ultrasound. I took the call in the nurse’s office and then went into the bathroom and sobbed before returning to my classroom.

I left that school after a single year. I loved my students, but I had fallen into despair, working 12 hours days, which was never enough, thinking my life would always be like that.

My sister sent me a cassette tape in the mail. “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” I’d always loved bridges even though I’d planned to name both babies after the Beloved who I lost to one. I still have that plastic Easter Egg that I painted this month all those years ago–a small-petaled flower and the name: Lila.

“When you’re weary, feeling small. When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them off.

I’m on your side…”

I never went back to teaching after that, not full time, but next week I’m returning to that school to consider a classroom support position, twenty-five years after I left.

Perhaps there’s a bit of soul retrieval going on behind the scenes with both boys graduating, one from college, the other from high school, and the book about my grandmother rounding its last corner.

Let it be.

That was the other song from the tape that ministered to me,

“Mother Mary comes to me…

Let it be.”

I’m still learning what that means.

Posted in Apprenticeship with my own passing, Lanscape of Loss, Light

Winter Meditations

Decades ago, I came across a quote that spoke of kindness like drops of water filling a vessel until it spills over.

I wonder if it’s the same with hurts. Does everything accumulate? Is there always a tipping point?

Or should there be no accumulation of anything? Should everything flow, pain as well as kindness?

Do I grasp and hold onto injury as much as I do love?

What would come of opening and feeling all of it without holding on?

Instead of weighted and bruised and scabbed, my heart is as soft as a petal.

~

Whenever I have trouble getting the woodstove going, I think about that family when I was a girl in Colorado.

Why did that fire, unwanted, burn so easily?

And then I think of other things, like pregnancy. A single spring at the bloom of 16, one terrifying conception after the other, while a decade later, an entire year of yearning, followed by one heartbreaking miscarriage and then another.

And what about gardens? We work so hard to grow things, while other things grow no matter how hard we labor against them.

Criticism is like that. Sticky.
Compliments… slippery.

People take their lives while others fight to hang on, leaving behind lovers or life’s work or little children and the span of light-filled years expected to unfold…

I don’t like puzzles much, except for the edges. I like the edges of brownies and cookies too. Movies and storybooks run along the edges–the crispy, chewy stuff–without all the soft middles of indigestion & weeding & building the fire & making appointments.

When we do die, I wonder if all the pieces of the puzzle fall into place and look beautiful.

I wonder if we look back and wish for more middles.

~

Sometimes I avoid going to bed because I feel too overwhelmed about climbing the stairs and flossing my teeth. And when I finally do face it, I’m surprised and congratulatory, “Yay, Kelly, you did it,” but then another night comes, and I’m overwhelmed and resistant all over again.

Sometimes I resist going to bed because it’s a little like dying and I don’t want to miss anything.

Sometimes I go to bed just so a new day can come and I can have another cup of tea.

But back to flossing. If I gave it up, I think I’d get more sleep. Less teeth. More sleep.

Posted in Lanscape of Loss

April 19,1993

I remember coveting my sister’s children.

I remember fantasizing about stealing others children.

I remember resenting pregnant women, baby showers, positive pregnancy tests.

I remember peeing on a stick.

I remember waiting.

I remember tucking the stick back inside the wrapper and dropping it into the trashcan.

I remember bleeding.

I remember contractions.

I remember the man vomiting in the bed of the pick up truck ahead of us at the light under the noon day sun.

I remember the feel of the sac eating tugged from between my legs.

I remember the midwife saying it was perfectly intact.

I remember looking toward the specimen tray.

I remember imagining a perfect egg with my daughter inside.

I remember the ultrasound.

I remember wanting to pee more than I wanted to be pregnant.

I remember the technician saying that everything “looks fine.”

I remember knowing that everything was wrong.