Everything

 

I took this photo about six weeks before Waverly died. We were at NIH for a last-minute attempt to fix what we knew was happening. We saw our favorite doctor, ran all of the tests, and left empty-handed. However, in the absence of an answer, we actually did have a clear idea of what was happening. Our little girl was dying and we were unable to stop it. I remember vacillating between an assurance that my intuition was correct and unbelievable rage that I could not stop it.

There was a tenuous balancing act when we included Oliver in her care and also felt like we were exposing him to his future. I remember this feeling being especially clear on this particular day. Yet, he happily leaned on his big sister's bed, sharing the iPad and Mickey Mouse Clubhouse with her. 

Autumn always evokes emotions and memories. As a family, we loved the cooler weather that arrived in October. We often traveled during this time of year. And of course, both of the kids' health took a turn for the worse and we entered the long vigil of anticipating death. This is the time of year when I feel the weight of my grief. It takes the shape of a huge, heavy blanket. I can curl up under it and hide away for a while. 

I am continually amazed by the beauty that arrives at this time of year. So much color. Houses look alive with lamps and candles. I love having the windows open, chilling the house, inviting in the scent of fires, and the sounds of crows. It is the perfect time to bury myself under the weight of my loss. 

I found a dead goldfinch at our backdoor last week. It had flown into our kitchen window. I cried because that is what I do. It brought this poem to mind. Linger. Pause. It could mean something. It could mean everything.

Invitation by Mary Oliver

Oh do you have time
to linger
for just a little while
out of your busy

and very important day
for the goldfinches
that have gathered
in a field of thistles

for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
the highest note,
or the lowest,

or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
Their strong, blunt beaks
drink the air

as they strive
melodiously
not for your sake
and not for mine

and not for the sake of winning
but for sheer delight and gratitude –
believe us, they say,
it is a serious thing

just to be alive
on this fresh morning
in the broken world.
I beg of you,

do not walk by
without pausing
to attend to this
rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
You must change your life.


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