Oh, *that's* why I lost momentum
Tonight I've done a bit of a post-mortem (pun intended)
I just spent some time rifling through the 30 or so drafts I have saved and I’ve gotta say… I was really, really sad as I wrote most of them. And it is hitting me that that is the principle reason why I lost touch with posting in this place—it all felt too heavy.
Some of the drafts are me talking to my mommy when I was so, so confused about Maquel’s cancer.
Some of them are me talking to Maquel after she left us.
Some of them are different points during the next year—moments of deep sadness, much of which I processed in this space, with myself. I hadn’t realized how much I was doing that.
Today I’m going to share one of those random drafts of me processing. I’m proud of myself for finding space to pour out my sadnesses, and for trying to find joy and beauty. Doing that is part of what has allowed me to find my way to this moment, sitting here in my living room, typing, feeling happy, feeling glad to be alive.
Thank you, hurting me, for believing in this future, happier me and for helping us get here.
(This was written on Maquel’s first birthday after having left us, on 8-7-23)
Yesterday on my walk I finally thought to ask Instagram what the beautiful trees with bright orange fruit clusters are. Tamsin was first with the answer: a rowan tree. It has other names as well, as was soon pointed out: mountain ash was another I remember. Apparently it is in the rose family, which I find to be so enchanting.
Last year when I did some important meditations outside in the backyard—ones where I was better getting to know K—the rowan tree across the way featured prominently. I feel like it is a plant with certain symbolism meant for me.
The weekend was good, but yesterday was very hard. I was going through boxes in the garage of Mom’s stuff, and I kept finding things that she intended to give Kelli once Kelli started having kids, and the boys too. Sitting with the stark truth, alone, without mommy there with me, almost broke my heart. I found myself muttering to that former version of her “Kelli died, mommy. She died. Did you know that? Your baby died…” It made no sense that I was saying that, and yet I couldn’t help myself.
Today is her birthday—Kelli’s—and I am filled with both nostalgia and sadness. It’s been six months since she left, is all. My grief for her has been so sporadic, but in the last month or so it has come in very strong. My heart feels broke open by it—by her absence. She would be turning 36 today. That’s how old I was, seven years ago, when mom died. 36. 36 years old. My brain doesn’t know what to do with these compound losses.
What does the word “bespoke” mean again? It keeps coming into my brain. Looked it up and I have no idea why it’s coming to me, but I did expand my knowledge of the word. Apparently, while it used to denote an item that was made to someone’s specifications exactly, now it simply means “hand crafted” or made by hand. That’s why my mind keeps repeating it as an adjective. A bespoke clock. A bespoke garment. A bespoke drum sitting here on my desk that I ordered from Megan Burnside on my birthday.
The drum brings me great joy.
Other things that bring me joy: the rowan tree that I can see standing prominently behind the garage, its orange fruits so bright against its lovely green leaves. Tree, our wonderful Douglas Fir, standing as sentinel there in the backyard as well. The adorable attached garage which houses all of my mommy’s things—her elaborately wrought Christmas decor; her sweetest intentions; all of the record-keeping of her children. The cup of coffee I just drank, and especially the blue ceramic cup I drank it in that says “le creuset” at the bottom. (No idea what that word means, but it sounds bread-y and delicious to me and like something one would eat with a lovely cup of coffee.)
The fact that my mommy used to love coffee—something she never got to express in the realest sense, but that she was always willing to make an exception for in ice-cream, indulgently ordering mocha almond fudge whenever she could. This makes me think of another joyful memory: the ice-cream shop there in Morgan Hill where I remember trying that delicious flavor for the first time. And Morgan Hill itself—that beautiful town there in the Bay Area where mom was raised next to a gorgeous, antediluvian lake whose name I can’t now remember. (Was it Surprise Lake? No, I think it might have been Holiday Lake because I think the neighborhood Grandpa developed was called Holiday Lake Estates?)
So strange that the people inhabiting this planet that know the answers to these questions are getting so on in age. Dad turned 69 this year. [redacted: a discussion of my mom’s remaining siblings and their ages]
Final list of lovely things: that my kids were here for such a wonderful week; that Dad and Laura came to visit, which was nice; that I got to chat a bit with Jenni last night; that Ben and I went on this amazing walk near Snake Lake and saw turtles and birds and some fantastic trees. This beautiful print of a volcanic mountain by Annie Blake that I won in a raffle after her ghost whispered in my ear that I should enter, and that when I won I would know that the message she had given me was real. (I didn’t even know Annie Blake. But she comforted me in a very dark moment, and this gift from her was a very sweet gift from the Universe.)
Off to work I go.
All right, current me here, also signing off. It was kind of fun to take pictures of some of these beloved things to share. I hope anyone reading this has a lovely day, whether they are in a hurting phase or in a phase of less hurt. Hopefully this post can serve as a reminder that things really do get better (and then worse, and then better again… kind of like we are living, breathing waves bobbing higher then lower through time and space.)
With affection,
Joshua
Really, really enjoyed this one! Thanks for the positive energy here. I’ve very much been missing ourKelli lately and this helped!