August 23, 2020
(For Petey)
I watched the clouds all day
That day
The day you died
I sat outside
While
Lucy, just five, scootered in the driveway,
And Mike, he mourned with music
That poured from open windows
I gazed, craned my neck
Upward
Onward
Witnessing the clouds
Seeking…
They shift like grief does
And the other shapes of love
Ebb and flow, transform and reform;
Heavy sometimes, or feather-light
Ominously present, or barely there
But there
Always.
And never
the same.
Remember when she was small?
You rocked her to sleep in the quiet heavy dark
You stayed there longer, lingering
Later, you wrote to remind yourself: I sit in these moments. Do my best to, anyway.
Remember
Sit in these moments
Even as they speed up and splinter off and spill over
I can’t keep them
But I can stay there a little while
Linger
And taste know (sigh) every ounce — every ounce! — of love
Remember.
Each time it feels eternal, essential: singular
Because it is
And it isn’t
And that is the good
that is God.
Remember
I’m in the kitchen and I’ve burned the bacon for our sandwiches.
You’re in the next room on your iPad, doing I don’t know what.
Silently, automatically, almost subconsciously, I sink,
repeating the mantra of a programmed white woman:
I’m a bad mom.
Fucked up again.
Not good enough, never good enough.
Must try harder.
Confess, as if they were sins:
I smoke weed
I drink, maybe too much
I get lost in the suffering of this world
I’m distracted
But it’s a lie.
I’m not a bad mom.
And if you ask me (which you won’t),
Why is this bacon burned?
I will tell you the truth: because I care, my love.
I am paying attention.
I am seeing people erased in real time
And I care
And I’m scared
And I love you
And I love them
And I love all of us
And it’s not that hard to do why can’t we just Love?
Stop
Stop killing
Cease
Fire
I’ve burned the bacon
—as if it makes one goddamn bit of difference!
We still will eat tonight.
I’ll take the most charred pieces,
Trying to shield you from life’s disappointments
In this and a thousand other absurdly tiny ways.
Knowing that I can’t protect you
But trying
Because I’m ashamed to face the weight of your pain.
I must face it! and that of all children everywhere
—which is all of us, actually,
in order to stay human.
To transform.
To get free.
The truth is, even if we didn’t eat tonight,
Even if we lost everything,
Even if we lost each other,
I wouldn’t be a bad mom.
There’s no such thing.
There are only bad systems
Promising power
Dishing out poison
And telling us to like it.
I meet God everywhere these days, which is lucky for me, because the devil is hard at work, too. Yesterday God taught me why I love to fold laundry. I don’t care much for the washing and the drying, or the putting away. But I savor the folding, and I think I know why.
I love to categorize
To find patterns
To tidy things into groups and put them in order.
It feels good.
It offers a small sense of control as I cling to this tiny rock, hurtling through a vast universe toward an uncertain future. I do like to feel in control.
So let’s sort the laundry:
These are yours, and those are mine
These are my going-out jeans
And here are my comfy clothes.
These need some extra attention (a missing button, a rip, a stain)
And those have been outgrown and can be donated.
Here are the hard-working towels
And the soft sheets that receive us at our most vulnerable.
Shirts to cover our tops
Pants to cover our bottoms
Underwear to shield our sexuality
Socks to keep our feet warm.
I love the feel of the different fabrics as I fold. I appreciate each piece, and I am grateful I can choose what suits the season, the need, the mood. Different styles and sizes and fabrics and forms. What a privilege to have such variety.
Sometimes I find myself sorting people into groups, too. Mostly I wonder which folks I can trust, and which ones might hurt me or my family. I assume so much, but people constantly surprise me, and my community grows wider every day.
Unlike laundry, we humans have selves and souls, energies and emotions. Thoughts, opinions, myriad interests and experiences. Memory. Trauma. Story. All the things that make us alive. We grow and learn and shift and transform. We resist categorization. Reject it, even. We are far too complex.
And, in all of our glorious, messy complexity—our diversity—we are whole, humanity.
Robust and vibrant
Beautiful and ever-evolving
With infinite possibilities for connection.
I meet God everywhere, but I see the devil, too. The devil tells us to be afraid of the mess.
I’m thinking of those who pull the triggers,
Those who have been taught to turn their fear into hate and their hate into violence.
I’m thinking of the banned books
And the banned history
And the banned art
And the banned identities
And the banned people.
I’m thinking of Brother Jones and Justin Pearson and Zooey Zephyr
I’m thinking of Ralph Yarl
I’m thinking of Elijah McClain.
I’m thinking of Jordan Neely.
I’m thinking of a child who sees an unfamiliar insect and shrieks, “I’m scared! Kill it!”
No. I will not kill what scares me. And I will not kill what scares you. I will not fear what I do not understand. I will not assume that different is a threat to my existence.
I will notice. I will explore. I will learn. I will walk with courage toward justice and with faith toward community.
I will allow my self—and yours—space to breathe, and I will entrust the mess of us to God.
The laundry will be there for me.
My heart is breaking into a million pieces.
One week ago, my family was dealt a tremendous loss. My cousin Petey was the best. So loving and very loved. Hilarious and fun. Compassionate. Earnest. Protective. He was so full of life that he sparkled.
I learned in May that he had been diagnosed with cancer. Four months later, he was gone. He was only 40.
My grief is heavy, and feeling the pain of those closest to him and witnessing the outpouring of love, shock, and support from his friends and family compounds it a thousand times over.
I miss him terribly.
And then I wake up to the anguish of a community mourning the unexpected loss of a real-life superhero to cancer.
And then there’s my own cancer.
And the pandemic.
And Black people getting shot in the back. And in bed. And in cars. And on the street.
And so much fear and hate and staggering hypocrisy.
But also my baby niece was born.
And my own child overflows with health and happiness.
And my marriage is solid after coming close to collapse.
And there’s a movement for justice that is happening and will not be stopped.
And the sun shines and the birds sing and the flowers bloom.
How are we supposed to hold space for all of this? It takes my breath away. I feel raw and exposed, by turns giddy and depressed. I cry often, simply from the overwhelming crush of what it is to be alive right now.
I also feel strangely free, untethered from the limitations of my physical body and cut loose from certainty of what’s good and what’s bad. My rigid expectations of how life is supposed to go are fading. I am unconcerned with other people’s judgments and no longer interested in making many of my own.
I have so much inside of me. Every one of us does. Oceans of pain, joy, suffering, hope, frustration, creativity, darkness, humor, fear, LOVE. Our experiences are unique, but we share in our humanity, in our capacity for big emotions, for resilience, for growth, for curiosity, for transformation. For giving and receiving help. For connection. For empathy.
We have the ability to see each other–and to see ourselves in one another.
I’m done being afraid of who I am. Done pretending to be small. I’m done with being “fine.” I just don’t think I have room for it any more.
I’ve decided that I’m going to let my ocean spill out in waves–the pain, the joy, the suffering, the hope, the frustration, the creativity, the darkness, the humor, the fear, the love. The struggles and the triumphs. The humanity, all of it. Because it’s what’s real in a world of mirages.
I’m going to let my humanity shine, and I promise to honor yours, too. Maybe it’s the way forward–to see and be seen as we are, as human beings who are doing the best we can to navigate the waves of our oceans.
My heart is breaking. But in breaking, it is also expanding.
I am making space for it all.
Several months ago, I quietly celebrated the two-year mark since my metastatic breast cancer diagnosis. I didn’t do anything special, just prepared myself for the waves of emotions and allowed myself to feel them. Allowed myself to feel tremendous gratitude for how far I have come and where I am now. Acknowledged the hard work I have done, as well as all that I have left to do. Remembered how very lucky I am.
Allowed myself to think back to that day, the day I got the call. Allowed myself to grieve.
July 29, 2017, marked the beginning of a new way of life. A shift, a breakdown, an awakening. It was 8:30 a.m., on a Friday. Mike was home, had taken the day off because we had plans to head out to the beach house for the Mettler Classic, our annual family golf tournament and gathering, named for my grandmother, who loved a good party. Lucy lay asleep in bed between us. I was awake, expecting the call.
I’d had a biopsy of a 1.4 cm lesion on my right hip bone earlier in the week, and I was waiting for my oncologist to deliver the results. Several weeks prior, I’d asked for a bone scan because of an odd discomfort in my leg and an unsettling feeling in my gut. I’d been responding well to chemo, the tumor in my breast had shrunk significantly, and I had surgery and radiation scheduled. I was in the home stretch of my treatment. But something didn’t feel right, and so I asked for the scan. I figured if it was clear, it would alleviate my anxiety and help me finish strong. I could get through my last couple of infusions and focus on getting well. I wanted to put my fears to rest.
But the bone scan was not clear. So my doctor ordered a PET scan and a biopsy, and here we were, waiting for the results, hoping, expecting, even, that they would be negative, that the blip was some old injury or a cyst or something that had been there for years. The PET scan showed low metabolic activity in the hip lesion and no additional areas of concern: great news. So we were just waiting on the results of the biopsy.
My phone rang on my bedside table, and I picked it up.
“Good morning, Dr. Kundra, how are you?”
“I’m good, I’m good. So the biopsy…it came back positive, actually.”
“Oh.”
Not good, not good, not good. Panic setting in, heart racing, eyes welling up. What does this mean? I know what it means. A nightmare. Metastasis. Stage 4 cancer. I’m going to die. I have to be on chemo for whatever is left of my forever. I’m never getting my port out. I’ll never be well again. What about my family? What about Lucy? I’ve let everyone down. I’m so sad and so ashamed and so disappointed. And so scared. Oh, my God.
And then, emptiness.
My doctor rattled off some more information, used words I couldn’t process, asked if I had questions.
“Not right now,” I answered.
I hung up. Let it sink in, head down. Breathe. “It’s cancer,” I told Mike. Lucy snoozed away, sprawled out across the bed. My precious, barely two-year-old, girl. What would become of her childhood?
“Huh.” And he held me, hugged me, let me cry.
I got up, called my mom. Asked her to please let my dad and sisters know, because I couldn’t. Cried some more.
We decided not to go to the beach. I didn’t think I could handle being around so many people, not with this huge unknown hanging over me. I didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to darken the weekend of fun. I wanted to stay home, where I felt safe.
Mike got up and went to the store. He came home, inexplicably, with a dozen doughnuts, something we never have. Fuck it, I thought, and ate one. Let Lucy have one all to herself. What difference would it make?
Somehow we got through that day, and the next. Mike and I went to a baseball game that Sunday. The Mariners were playing the New York Mets, and I commented on the strange coincidence of that matchup…my home team battling the Mets while I took on my own personal mets. I took it as a good sign that my boys won that game. Glimmers of humor, of hope, beginning to shine through cracks in the walls of my fear.
In the weeks and months that followed, I researched, read, learned, talked, planned, and moved forward. I advocated for myself. I convinced my doctors to proceed with my full treatment protocol, including surgery, radiation, and reconstruction. I implemented a number of complementary therapies to support my overall health. Somewhere along the way, I found hope again. And, unexpectedly, I began to feel excited and happy and even grateful for the position I was in and the path ahead. I began to believe that I was going to live.
And day by day, I did, and I am. Alive. Living. Some days I barely survive, others I thrive. It’s okay. I struggle with fear. A lot. It makes me anxious and impatient and short-tempered. Sometimes I feel depressed, sometimes I feel explosively angry. Sometimes I feel isolated and so alone. Sometimes the fear makes me lash out at the people I love most. I make a lot of mistakes. But I have a lot of help, and the fear fades. I reflect. I learn. I apologize. I talk about it. I reconnect with my people. And I have moments of utter peace, of complete contentment, of deep joy and wonder for my miraculous life.
I am learning that these big emotions come and go, that we have an unlimited number of chances to pick ourselves up and forgive ourselves and try again. That the people who matter will love us, even through our lowest, most vulnerable moments. That I deserve that love and that I can give that love to myself, too. I guess that’s resilience, though it feels much more awkward in real life, in the thick of it, than it does when you read some sparkly inspirational quote about never giving up.
I was watching Lucy at her swim lessons last week, noticing how she goes rigid when she’s practicing her floats, even though her teacher tells her to relax. Sometimes she panics, kicking and splashing, trying desperately to keep her head above water, forgetting that she’s held, that she’s completely safe. It strikes me how like life her practice is. The more we try to tighten, grasp, and control, the more afraid and anxious we become, and the harder it is to find peace; we sink. But when we relax and trust—even thought we may be scared—we find ourselves carried, cradled by the currents of the universe, by God, by whatever it is that supports us and keeps us afloat.
I’m practicing too, at this very moment, as I heal from my most recent surgery and await my latest scan results. Although I’ve enjoyed good health and no evidence of disease for nearly two years now, I still find myself grappling with fear, with the unknown, with the “what-ifs.” I’m fighting to keep my own head up when deep down I know that I’m protected, buoyed, and propelled by love, hope, and faith.
There is so much beautiful uncertainty in life, and our landscapes are always changing. Maybe the trick is to get comfortable with that truth, to find freedom in it, to let go and float.
About a week ago, Lucy fell asleep with her head on my chest for the first time in nearly a year. I lay there in her little bed, holding her as the old lullabies played, and I cried. I cried with grief and relief and joy, all at the same time. Such a simple moment, but something I have missed so much.
From minutes after she was born, Lucy found the ultimate comfort nestled against my chest, falling asleep there, often sneaking her hand down my shirt to feel the soft warmth of my skin. And I found my way as mother with her at my breast, nursing her on demand for 20 precious months and cradling her against my heart day and night. Cancer ripped that comfort and closeness away from both of us, first when I had to wean her before starting chemotherapy and then again when I underwent a mastectomy to remove as much of my remaining and potentially treacherous breast tissue as possible.
That loss, the premature severance of a physical bond between mother and child, has been the hardest and most painful part of this entire experience. It is the part that makes me cry when I think back over the last year and half. It is the part that feels unfair. It is the part that–I’m ashamed to admit this–brings envy every time I see a pregnant or nursing mother. I am beyond (beyond!) grateful for the months I had with Lucy when she was an infant, and I love her even more now, if that’s possible. Feeling strong and healthy and happy enough to truly enjoy this present time with her is the biggest blessing.
But still. I grieve the loss. It was unexpected and traumatic and it sucked.
My mastectomy was in September of 2017, and the post-op healing process took several weeks. When I was finally able to hold Lucy again, she struggled to be comfortable. Where there had been softness, a natural pillow, there was now barely more than bone covered by a thin layer of skin. She would turn her head this way and that and squirm, never complaining, but not content. I would lie with her at night to help her fall asleep, and she would lie on top of me, wriggling around until she found a soft spot on my belly on which to rest her head. We got used to it, but it always felt a little awkward and sad.
Six weeks ago, I had reconstructive breast surgery. My husband posted a goofy photo to Facebook: me, drugged up, in surgical gown and cap, with a caption about celebration and #tatas. We may think of plastic surgery as a casual choice, even a vanity. Maybe we joke about enhancements and touchups. And while there was certainly a welcome element of that lightheartedness and humor going into my surgery, it was tempered by the gravity of why it was happening and the hope of what it would repair.
I was in the operating room for nearly 12 hours and in recovery for three additional days–by far the longest hospital stay I have ever had. I now have a slash across my abdomen that stretches from hip to hip. This is where the surgeons harvested skin, fat, and blood vessels with which to build new breasts. I have oval-shaped scars outlining my new “girls,” scars from tape blisters, scars from various drains, wires, and tubes. After surgery, I couldn’t stand up straight, raise my arms, or lift, push, or pull anything more than 10 pounds for weeks. Everything hurt.
You might be thinking, “All that for new boobs? Sheesh.”
I get that.
But now clothes fit the way they should, and I feel more confident in the way I present myself to the outside world. When I look in the mirror, I no longer see cancer. I see scars and strength and beauty. And Lucy once again has a place to rest her head. That is what I wanted most of all.
She’s getting so big. And that’s awesome because every day she grows is a day I get to experience and appreciate. But I also want to hold my baby close a little longer, before she’s all grown up and I’m out of chances.
And now I can.
I have been having difficulty finding the appropriate story or recipe with which to come back to this space. It feels like a major announcement, like a really big deal, to share what I want to share, and I want to do it right. But mostly I just want to do it. I want to get it out there so I can move forward. Because, you see, what I need to tell you is not exactly a good thing, at least not at first glance. It’s a really, really scary thing. And it’s hard for me to think about and I don’t want to freak you out. But I need to get beyond it. I need to heal.
So: off with the band-aid.
I have cancer. Or had cancer. I’m not sure yet if it’s gone. I hope so. I’ll know more next month. I found out about it just over a year ago, last January, a few weeks after my 37th birthday. I got thrown into the waves, bobbing, gasping, dog paddling, barely keeping my head up through eleven rounds of chemo and its myriad side effects. And then, in July, I found out I had a metastatic lesion on my right hip bone. Stage 4. I went under.
I thought my life was over. From that first moment in January when I learned that I did, in fact, have breast cancer, I prayed that it was anything but stage 4. I knew that earlier-stage disease could be treated, even cured, but that stage 4 meant chronic, terminal. No. Nonononono.
I was drowning. My doctors, my family, my beautiful little girl, my friends…they surrounded me, lifted me, pulled me back to the surface. I did some research, learned that remission was still possible. Learned that cancer statistics aren’t everything. I read that a small percentage of women with metastatic breast cancer never have a recurrence. I resolved to do everything I could to get myself into that group.
A month after I finished chemo, I had radiation to the hip lesion, followed by a double mastectomy and lymph node surgery. I had radiation treatments to my chest and armpit for 32 days in a row. I am now on hormone therapy and am also getting infusions of Herceptin every three weeks. My hair has come back with a vengeance, and my energy has returned. I have healed from my surgery and the radiation. I marvel at my body’s resilience, at strength I didn’t know I had.
Not long after learning that my cancer was stage 4, I began seeing a naturopath at the treatment center. If I’m going to stick with a nautical metaphor for this experience, she would be the one who steered my lifeboat to shore. She helped me understand that there were things I could do to affect my outcomes. She gave me real hope and practical tools. She empowered me to take back some control of my health and well-being. With her help, I have changed my diet. I practice yoga. I meditate. I see a counselor. I take supplements. I get acupuncture. I breathe. I laugh. I allow myself to be happy.
The hurricane has passed, and I am still here. And though I am not sure if I am through the storm or merely in its center, all that matters today is the blue sky and sunshine. There is so, so much to be grateful for.
I do believe I have many years ahead, and I intend to make them beautiful. I choose joy. I choose courage. I choose love.
I choose to live.
Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. See you soon. XO
On election night, I struggled to sleep. I tossed and turned in bed and was thankful when Lucy awoke at her customary 3 a.m. I changed her and nursed her and sat with her as she drifted off on my lap, cozy in a blanket and secure in my arms. I fell asleep like that, in the yellow armchair with my feet propped on a stool and my nose in her hair. I slept there, holding her, until Mike came in sometime after six, already showered and dressed, to get a sweater from the closet in her room. I didn’t want to let her go.
I had been having nightmares about Trump winning the presidency in the weeks before the election. So I wasn’t altogether surprised when it happened, but, boy, was I sad. I had hoped hard that the bad dreams wouldn’t come true, that my fears would be allayed with a sweeping victory for Hillary Clinton, a victory that would not only give us our first female president but also reassure us, resoundingly, that our country is not lost to hate, ignorance, racism, sexism, and xenophobia. I hoped hard as I waited in line to drop off our ballots. I hoped hard as I played with Lucy at the park under the warm, blue sky. I hoped hard as the results rolled in and the night stretched out, looking bleaker and bleaker. I was ready to celebrate on November 9, to be proud, as a woman with progressive ideals, as a mother to a strong-willed daughter. “That could be you, someday, my love!” is what I wanted to say to her. I wanted to be excited for the future, not scared of it.
But now I am finding it hard to look at her without feeling like I failed her by somehow allowing this ridiculous, terrifying outcome to transpire. I do not want my child to grow up in a country where hate is legitimized and bullies win, a place that is isolated from the world, a place where liberty and freedom and equality are empty promises for most, truly only intended for a privileged few. I don’t know what the next four years will hold, but I am worried. Not just because of the man in office, but because of the ugly truths of this nation that his campaign uncovered. I am worried that people will not be good to one another.
I didn’t want to leave the house yesterday. I had to, though, because we were out of diapers. At the store, I felt distant and floaty, as if I were underwater or had taken a sleeping pill. I pushed the cart slowly, feeling disconnected and yet wondering how many others around me were experiencing the same sadness, the same sense of muted rage. Back home, we went about our day. I stayed away from the news and social media.
After dinner and washing and pajamas, we went outside to say goodnight to the moon. We’ve missed it lately, either because of its newness or the weather or some unnecessary urgency. But last night the moon shone through the window and Lucy beckoned me to the front door to take her outside, into the darkness. I held her up, and she craned and reached toward that glowing rock, joyful and amazed. The world is so magical in her eyes. I need to keep that wonder alive for her as long as I can, to glow for her, reflecting her glory like the moon shines by the sun. She is my sun.
I am uncertain of the future, but what I know is that right now I need to be strong and hopeful–for my sake and for Lucy’s. I need to love her and teach her to love–and to care. We have entered into a strange time, and it is hard not to feel alone and angry and impotent. It doesn’t help, though, feeling like that. It doesn’t make it better.
So her daddy and I will teach her to love. We will teach her to be proud and to believe in herself. We will teach her to look out for those who need help. We will teach her that the world is much bigger than herself.
We will also teach her hard truths, about injustice and prejudice and power. Not to scare or embitter her, but because she needs to know. I don’t want her to be knocked down by somebody else’s blindness or bigotry; knowledge is the best armor we can give her.
Most importantly, we will teach her to see goodness in the world. In people, in nature, in art and music, in experiences: see the good. Reflect it–glow from it–so that others notice, too. Use it as a shield when the world feels menacing.
I hope that this election, which stunned so many, will ignite conversations, actions, and movements that bring healing to communities across the country. I hope that instead of further distancing and alienating ourselves from our neighbors, we seek ways to connect and to fight back, peacefully, for the good we believe in. Perhaps these connections and conversations and actions and movements and fights will be the good that comes out of this mess. We will have to wait and see.
In the meantime, I will watch the moon with Lucy.
The new year brings a strange mix of feelings. There is hope in the freshness, excitement in the not-knowing, and–for for me, always–melancholy in the ending. December closes out warm and cozy and full, and then January comes along feeling underfed and austere. The Christmas lights that glowed cheerily a few weeks ago are left up too long and now look cheap, tacky and forlorn. It rains. You can’t seem to get warm. If you’re like me, your eczema flares up and your hands crack and itch and bleed. We go back to school, to work, to reality, where we are supposed to set goals and get serious. January is not much fun.
There is, however, the whisper of renewal. It sneaks in with a subtlety that makes you wonder if you are imagining it. Each day starts to last just a little bit longer, and the sun feels a touch warmer when it shines. You notice a few more birds in the yard and buds on the lilacs and, in the nick of time, you remember that spring is coming. Spring, with its technicolor yards and cotton-ball clouds. All is not lost!
Each time Lucy does something new I feel the same happy-sadness I do with the coming of a new year. Happy because she is happy. And because she is healthy. Happy because I am so very proud of her. I am hopeful for her future. I am excited to get to know the person she will grow into. Sad, of course, because her babyness is fading. She is growing up so fast and I don’t want to let go or forget.
Mostly happy, though. Really, mostly happy.
Take, for instance, our recent forays into solid foods. As much as I love food and am looking forward to cooking and eating with Lucy, I was a little sad to offer her those first bites of bland rice cereal because they meant she was moving swiftly toward toddlerhood. But she has to grow up. And I was feeling guilty because she would watch Mike and I eat with such obvious interest. So, a few days shy of her half-birthday, we snapped a bib on her, and I mixed up a teensy amount of cereal in a little yellow bowl. She grabbed the spoon, licked it clean, and we were off on a new adventure. One more step forward for her and another small hurdle over for me.
And now we are having some fun. The sad, gruel-like rice cereal didn’t last long; she was not a fan, no matter which delicious puree of fruit or vegetable we added to it. So we have switched to oatmeal, and she laps it up. She loves squash, peas, pears, and prunes. She hasn’t made up her mind about green beans yet–she eats them but always looks unpleasantly surprised when she gets a mouthful. She likes to take a sloppy sip of water from her lion cup in between bites.
I have been using frozen produce for variety, but the most fun is making what I can for her out of the box of produce we get from Klesick Farms every week. So far, I have done roasted squash and steamed pears, each blended and strained after cooking. They come out silky-smooth, with intense color and flavor. I love that my baby will learn to eat what’s in season. I now find it hard to be patient as we introduce foods one at a time and wait the obligatory three days to check for allergic reaction. We have beets, parsnips, and sweet potatoes waiting to be tried. Soon it will be spring and then summer, and she’ll have peaches and spinach and berries and all sorts of good things.
Babies have to grow up. And January has to come. It is okay (I tell myself) to grieve the ending–just don’t get stuck there. Remember and rejoice in the promise of the spring that follows.
pruneandpear 