Sunday, December 9, 2012
We're going to be okay
Sleep is nowhere to be seen tonight, as I sift through a mix of emotions ranging from sadness and regret to peacefulness and excitement.
Maybe all it takes to get through the hard moments is one full-fledged venting session, releasing all of our doubts and our fears, and letting the things that cause anxiety fade to the back of our minds. Because today I am feeling much more hopeful about the state of things in general, and I am filled with a holiday spirit that is almost impossible to contain!
A snowy Saturday
The day began in quite the normal way.
I rolled out of bed in a leisurely manner and took my time to get acquainted with the morning, pursuing nothing more than a hot latte before 10 a.m. After taking in that comforting cup of java on the couch while admiring our beautiful Christmas tree, I lept to my feet in with the hope of getting a computer to replace our broken laptop and as many gifts as I could possibly find in one shopping trip.
I'll spare you the details of said shopping trip, as mundane as they are, except to say that after swiftly reaching my first destination, I was sent on a wild goose chase.
Maybe all it takes to get through the hard moments is one full-fledged venting session, releasing all of our doubts and our fears, and letting the things that cause anxiety fade to the back of our minds. Because today I am feeling much more hopeful about the state of things in general, and I am filled with a holiday spirit that is almost impossible to contain!
A snowy Saturday
The day began in quite the normal way.
I rolled out of bed in a leisurely manner and took my time to get acquainted with the morning, pursuing nothing more than a hot latte before 10 a.m. After taking in that comforting cup of java on the couch while admiring our beautiful Christmas tree, I lept to my feet in with the hope of getting a computer to replace our broken laptop and as many gifts as I could possibly find in one shopping trip.
I'll spare you the details of said shopping trip, as mundane as they are, except to say that after swiftly reaching my first destination, I was sent on a wild goose chase.
Friday, December 7, 2012
"Missinia"
When I was growing up in London, Ohio, we had a saying. Though it wasn't unusual to hear interesting turns of phrase like "a herd of turtles" or "bats in the belfry" on a daily basis, there was one saying that stood out above all the others.
This one was an original, born out of the complicated relationship I had with my father after my parents' divorce, and softened by the tender memories we formed together when I was a teenager. The phrase was a combination of two words, or rather, two names: Mine and my sister's. My dad took the first part of my nickname, Missy, and the last part of my sister's name, Virginia, to express the sadness he felt when we were apart for too long.
The turn of phrase
Missinia.
Or "Missin' ya."
It's strange to see that word spelled out tonight, though that is the only term that came to mind when I sat down alone on my couch this evening in front of my brilliant Christmas tree — a freshly cut Scotch Pine. (Matt is catching up on sleep after a late night of studying, and my dog is sprawled across the carpet, her belly turned upward and her paws in the air, in a sleep she only enters into when she is ghastly tired.)
Alone. In front of a beautiful tree, with its lights glowing just inside patio doors that lead out to freshly fallen snow.
This one was an original, born out of the complicated relationship I had with my father after my parents' divorce, and softened by the tender memories we formed together when I was a teenager. The phrase was a combination of two words, or rather, two names: Mine and my sister's. My dad took the first part of my nickname, Missy, and the last part of my sister's name, Virginia, to express the sadness he felt when we were apart for too long.
The turn of phrase
Missinia.
Or "Missin' ya."
It's strange to see that word spelled out tonight, though that is the only term that came to mind when I sat down alone on my couch this evening in front of my brilliant Christmas tree — a freshly cut Scotch Pine. (Matt is catching up on sleep after a late night of studying, and my dog is sprawled across the carpet, her belly turned upward and her paws in the air, in a sleep she only enters into when she is ghastly tired.)
Alone. In front of a beautiful tree, with its lights glowing just inside patio doors that lead out to freshly fallen snow.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Smiling again!
The most poignant part of my summer occurred on a Sunday night, looking out bay windows onto the moonlit shore of Lake Superior.
Matt and I were curled up in front of a cozy fire over the hearth, and he looked at me — near to tears — and thanked me for my smile. In that tender moment, after a day of adventures on Minnesota's North Shore, my beloved admitted to me that he once feared he would never again see me smile.
But there I was, smiling! Not just any tooth-bearing grin, but instead a naturally-occurring and genuine expression of happiness.
And guess what? I am still smiling!
So after these many months I have spent staring into the depths of my subconscious, let me share with you some lightness of spirit, and something to make you smile.
"The Way"
In some Buddhist circles, it is called the "Tao," the path of life that is in harmony with the natural order of the world.
For me, experiencing nature and being in harmony with the world around me have been central to recovering from my grief. That's not to say that I don't have bad days anymore, because I do.
Matt and I were curled up in front of a cozy fire over the hearth, and he looked at me — near to tears — and thanked me for my smile. In that tender moment, after a day of adventures on Minnesota's North Shore, my beloved admitted to me that he once feared he would never again see me smile.
But there I was, smiling! Not just any tooth-bearing grin, but instead a naturally-occurring and genuine expression of happiness.
And guess what? I am still smiling!
So after these many months I have spent staring into the depths of my subconscious, let me share with you some lightness of spirit, and something to make you smile.
"The Way"
In some Buddhist circles, it is called the "Tao," the path of life that is in harmony with the natural order of the world.
For me, experiencing nature and being in harmony with the world around me have been central to recovering from my grief. That's not to say that I don't have bad days anymore, because I do.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
"Brings life to a field"
It is not possible to complete yourself
without sorrow.
Sorrow is the vital ingredient that shapes
the heart and enriches it.
So endure sadness the best you can
when its season comes.
That rain that can fall from your eye
brings life to a field,
and on other days when you laugh,
a sun takes birth in a sky you will
someday know.
See how all the elements are inside of
you.
See how your soul is a sire of light.
~ Hafiz
without sorrow.
Sorrow is the vital ingredient that shapes
the heart and enriches it.
So endure sadness the best you can
when its season comes.
That rain that can fall from your eye
brings life to a field,
and on other days when you laugh,
a sun takes birth in a sky you will
someday know.
See how all the elements are inside of
you.
See how your soul is a sire of light.
~ Hafiz
Friday, September 14, 2012
Bouquet Charms
A charm on my wedding bouquet cherishes the memory of my twin brothers, who died at age 13, with the initials of their first names surrounding by blue hearts.
I miss you, Mom
It has been three months since I last posted to this blog, and it feels as if many lifetimes have passed before my eyes in the time since then.
I stopped writing at about the same time that I started going to counseling at the Centers for Grief in St. Paul, Minnesota. On an ordinary day in May 2012, I walked into a counseling appointment, looked at my new therapist, and said quite simply, "It's too much!" Then burst into tears.
The summer that followed my first counseling encounter was at times exhausting, at times eye-opening, and at times rejuvenating. It was marked simultaneously by the personal challenges that existed all around me, by the warmth of the new people in my life, and by the unfailing love of my new husband, Matt.
On missing my mother...
I cannot begin to count the moments when I have felt my mother's absence this year. Even the simple things, such as picking up my cell phone and passing her name on my contacts list, knowing that she will no longer answer the phone, have been indescribably hard.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Nature's ability to heal
When it comes to adjusting to a life without my parents or my twin brothers, I can't exactly say I am doing particularly well. Every night I go to bed, and every morning at the same time the alarm clock sounds, calling me to shower, get dressed, slip into my shoes and walk into the world — and the routine passing of time.
Those things seem to happen automatically these days, as if I have been put on autopilot. The person making the decision to move forward with life, in some cases, is not exactly me.
What I can say is that I have actively sought out opportunities for peace and meaningful reflection, turning my woes over to the healing power of nature as often as I am able.
A Tour of State Parks
So far this year, Matt and I have taken a trip to the north shore of Minnesota on Lake Superior, where we hiked through Gooseberry Falls State Park, and we have traveled to Interstate State Park and Great River Bluffs State Park in Minnesota, as well as Willow River State Park in Wisconsin. In April, I journeyed to Hocking Hills State Park in Ohio with my sister, bringing the number of state parks I have visited this year to five.
Considering I didn't embark on any of these trips until late March, that's five state parks in two-and-a-half months.
Those things seem to happen automatically these days, as if I have been put on autopilot. The person making the decision to move forward with life, in some cases, is not exactly me.
What I can say is that I have actively sought out opportunities for peace and meaningful reflection, turning my woes over to the healing power of nature as often as I am able.
A Tour of State Parks
So far this year, Matt and I have taken a trip to the north shore of Minnesota on Lake Superior, where we hiked through Gooseberry Falls State Park, and we have traveled to Interstate State Park and Great River Bluffs State Park in Minnesota, as well as Willow River State Park in Wisconsin. In April, I journeyed to Hocking Hills State Park in Ohio with my sister, bringing the number of state parks I have visited this year to five.
Considering I didn't embark on any of these trips until late March, that's five state parks in two-and-a-half months.
Saturday, May 12, 2012
The anniversary, the celebration and the end of April
Nearly two months has passed since I last posted in my blog. Those two months have been more difficult than I could ever imagine, as they were filled with reminders and experiences that brought me back to last April, when I lost four people so dear to me.
The Anniversary
More like two anniversaries. Because my family members died on Easter Sunday of 2011, when Easter 2012 rolled around on April 8, I was already mourning deeply — a sense of grief renewed. Everyone in the family was grieving, each in our own way, and a memorial service was given for the Bunsey family on April 8, 2012, at Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church.
Matt traveled to Ohio with me for the service, and together we lit candles in memory of my family in a devotional section of the church. One for Paula (Arbogast) Bunsey, my mother; one for Tom Bunsey, my stepfather; one for Thomas Ross Bunsey, the oldest of the twins; and one for Lawrence Dana Bunsey, the youngest by two minutes.
Easter in 2011, however, fell on April 24 — so late in the year that I can scarcely remember another time the holiday came so close to May. For those of us touched by the accident, that meant making time for the anniversary of the accident early in the month on April 8, 2012, and again on April 24, 2012. This time of sharp memories and grief spanned almost an entire month, a period of time which I worried would render me completely dysfunctional, though somehow I managed to pull through.
The Celebration
Having lost so much life and feeling so empty after so much had been taken from us, my sister and I longed for the chance to find peace. If only for a moment.
We longed to be together, to support each other, and to remember our twin brothers, our mother and even our grumbling stepfather for the people they were during their time on earth. So full of confidence. So full of love. So full of life.
So when I returned to Ohio to reunite with my college comrades during the last weekend of April, my sister and I stole a night to ourselves and retreated to the place where we had some of our first and some of our last adventures with our family.
Hocking Hills State Park. If you've never been to this gem in Ohio, it is absolutely stunning, with a different attraction for every nature-lover on your list.
For us, Hocking Hills was and still is a family tradition. We've traveled there with many of our friends and family, in varying groups, at varying times. But most often, my sister and I traveled to Hocking Hills with the twins. We would grab the twins by the hands as toddlers and pack them into a Jeep with their blankies and the family dog, then we would hop into the driver's and passenger's seats and make the trek to our favorite Ohio State Park. Once there, we scaled down the cliffs of Old Man's Cave and hiked the trail to Cedar Falls, snacking on fruit along the way and cheerfully chatting with the boys about everything touched by their imagination.
On the evening of April 28, 2012, my sister and I made that same journey, though this time our youthful foursome was turned to two. Still, we hiked the same old trail and found a restful Hocking Hills cabin where we could rest our heads later that night. Throughout our evening together, we shared memories, hopes and fears — as well as our love for each other. And we tried, as best we could, to celebrate the lives of our 13-year-old brothers and our parents.
We ended the night with a toast to our loved ones followed by ice cream cake — a tradition we used to share with our family when we celebrated the milestones of our lives together.
We chose an ice cream cake with soccer balls on the edge, and asked the cashier to write "Celebrating their Life" on the top. It came out as "Celebrating the Life," but it worked just as well or better, as we wanted to celebrate the life that we as a family shared and the life that our loved ones lived so fully.
The End of April
May 1. Never have I concentrated so hard on making it to one particular day, and putting one entire month behind me.
The month of April, for me, was full of personal challenges. Feeling so close to my grief once again made me realize just how far I have to go in order to heal. My life has changed by volumes since the accident, and though I still try to stand tall during the day when I am working or socializing, I often feel crushed when I get home at night.
Through all the time that has passed since my last post, there is only one thing that has become clear to me: How fortunate I was to have such wonderful people in my life. I suspect the notion of "How lucky I truly am to have had them for so long" is a realization — moreover a feeling — that can only come with time.
The Anniversary
More like two anniversaries. Because my family members died on Easter Sunday of 2011, when Easter 2012 rolled around on April 8, I was already mourning deeply — a sense of grief renewed. Everyone in the family was grieving, each in our own way, and a memorial service was given for the Bunsey family on April 8, 2012, at Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church.
Matt traveled to Ohio with me for the service, and together we lit candles in memory of my family in a devotional section of the church. One for Paula (Arbogast) Bunsey, my mother; one for Tom Bunsey, my stepfather; one for Thomas Ross Bunsey, the oldest of the twins; and one for Lawrence Dana Bunsey, the youngest by two minutes.
Easter in 2011, however, fell on April 24 — so late in the year that I can scarcely remember another time the holiday came so close to May. For those of us touched by the accident, that meant making time for the anniversary of the accident early in the month on April 8, 2012, and again on April 24, 2012. This time of sharp memories and grief spanned almost an entire month, a period of time which I worried would render me completely dysfunctional, though somehow I managed to pull through.
The Celebration
Having lost so much life and feeling so empty after so much had been taken from us, my sister and I longed for the chance to find peace. If only for a moment.
We longed to be together, to support each other, and to remember our twin brothers, our mother and even our grumbling stepfather for the people they were during their time on earth. So full of confidence. So full of love. So full of life.
So when I returned to Ohio to reunite with my college comrades during the last weekend of April, my sister and I stole a night to ourselves and retreated to the place where we had some of our first and some of our last adventures with our family.
Hocking Hills State Park. If you've never been to this gem in Ohio, it is absolutely stunning, with a different attraction for every nature-lover on your list.
For us, Hocking Hills was and still is a family tradition. We've traveled there with many of our friends and family, in varying groups, at varying times. But most often, my sister and I traveled to Hocking Hills with the twins. We would grab the twins by the hands as toddlers and pack them into a Jeep with their blankies and the family dog, then we would hop into the driver's and passenger's seats and make the trek to our favorite Ohio State Park. Once there, we scaled down the cliffs of Old Man's Cave and hiked the trail to Cedar Falls, snacking on fruit along the way and cheerfully chatting with the boys about everything touched by their imagination.
On the evening of April 28, 2012, my sister and I made that same journey, though this time our youthful foursome was turned to two. Still, we hiked the same old trail and found a restful Hocking Hills cabin where we could rest our heads later that night. Throughout our evening together, we shared memories, hopes and fears — as well as our love for each other. And we tried, as best we could, to celebrate the lives of our 13-year-old brothers and our parents.
We chose an ice cream cake with soccer balls on the edge, and asked the cashier to write "Celebrating their Life" on the top. It came out as "Celebrating the Life," but it worked just as well or better, as we wanted to celebrate the life that we as a family shared and the life that our loved ones lived so fully.
The End of April
May 1. Never have I concentrated so hard on making it to one particular day, and putting one entire month behind me.
The month of April, for me, was full of personal challenges. Feeling so close to my grief once again made me realize just how far I have to go in order to heal. My life has changed by volumes since the accident, and though I still try to stand tall during the day when I am working or socializing, I often feel crushed when I get home at night.
Through all the time that has passed since my last post, there is only one thing that has become clear to me: How fortunate I was to have such wonderful people in my life. I suspect the notion of "How lucky I truly am to have had them for so long" is a realization — moreover a feeling — that can only come with time.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
The city that never sleeps
Matt and I had the opportunity to go to New York City over the weekend, and with both of us needing to experience life at a different pace, we took advantage of it!
For me, it was the second time visiting NYC, and for him, it was the first. We felt compelled to make the trip after we learned that Matt's brother would be giving his first performance at Carnegie Hall, in the midst of working on a doctorate degree in piano performance at the Cleveland Institute of Music.
Can you imagine, performing a piano solo at Carnegie Hall?!? We wouldn't miss it for the world!
So, we packed our bags, got our fuzzy companion settled in at a puppy resort, and boarded the plane for New York City. It was a quick trip, in late Friday night and out by Monday afternoon, but we made the most of it.
In the two days that we spent in Manhattan, we visited the Museum of Modern Art, dined in Rockefeller Center, saw the Phantom of the Opera at The Majestic, traversed Times Square, met my cousin and his girlfriend for dinner followed by a show at the Comedy Cellar, took in a 3-hour-long concert in Carnegie Hall, strolled through Central Park and zipped to the top of the Empire State Building.
A New York Minute
While the pace of New York City was challenging, it was also surprisingly refreshing.
For me, it was the second time visiting NYC, and for him, it was the first. We felt compelled to make the trip after we learned that Matt's brother would be giving his first performance at Carnegie Hall, in the midst of working on a doctorate degree in piano performance at the Cleveland Institute of Music.
Can you imagine, performing a piano solo at Carnegie Hall?!? We wouldn't miss it for the world!
So, we packed our bags, got our fuzzy companion settled in at a puppy resort, and boarded the plane for New York City. It was a quick trip, in late Friday night and out by Monday afternoon, but we made the most of it.
In the two days that we spent in Manhattan, we visited the Museum of Modern Art, dined in Rockefeller Center, saw the Phantom of the Opera at The Majestic, traversed Times Square, met my cousin and his girlfriend for dinner followed by a show at the Comedy Cellar, took in a 3-hour-long concert in Carnegie Hall, strolled through Central Park and zipped to the top of the Empire State Building.
A New York Minute
While the pace of New York City was challenging, it was also surprisingly refreshing.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Finding hope in the Hoarfrost
One of the most beautiful things about living in Minnesota is the hoarfrost.
It happens in between seasons, when the temperature drops drastically over night. It happens in the mornings, often accompanied by a thick fog, and when it forms, it blankets entire cities. It happens, and then the world becomes mystical, like something out of a pleasant dream.
What is hoarfrost?
Hoarfrost is unlike anything I had ever seen before I moved to Minnesota. I'm sure it occurs in other states too, and certainly in many other climates. But here, we seem to get a few visits from the hoarfrost fairies every single year.
I think it has something to do with humidity — fog or water vapor crystallizing in thin air to create intricate structures on a tree or a bush. But you never know when you are going to see hoarfrost in the morning, as it seems incredibly hard to predict. Then one day, you wake up, you look outside and you see a crystallized neighborhood all around you.
Spikes of hoarfrost protrude from tree branches; delicate patterns decorate the grass; and tiny little structures of frost — like physically impossible snowflakes — coat every leaf and berry in sight. Looking up from the ground and down the street, the entire neighborhood appears as if outlined in snow, with every detail painted in pure white, courtesy of the hoarfrost.
A frosted Saturday
Matt and I woke up to one such morning in February, and I have to say it was one of the most romantic things I have experienced in my life.
It was late Saturday morning, and the heat from the city was already beginning to melt away the tiny delicate structures in our view. But I could still see the hoarfrost all over our suburban trees, and it was lingering on the berries in the bushes. So when Matt asked me what I wanted to do for breakfast, I insisted on a drive through the forest in nearby Eagan to a bakery we had recently learned of.
"Highway or the scenic route?" he asked me, and I excitedly responded with: "Scenic route!"
As soon as we mustered the energy to find some coffee and get in the car, we were headed out of the urban sprawl where we live, and down the winding road through Eagan, Minnesota, where lakes dot the paths on either side of the street and age-old trees reach out above the road, before expanding into a huge regional park.
As soon as we found our rural route, we were met with a wonder for sore eyes! As far as the eye could see, over hills, lakes and valleys, the horizon was coated in hoarfrost. Thick white crystallized structures clung to every plant in sight, and what resulted was a panorama of frosted forests and lakeshores, as if the morning itself had been dowsed in powdered sugar.
As each tree came closer into view on our drive, the unique structures revealed themselves. Some jutted out of the brush with fierce spikes coming from every angle. Some climbed the pine needles, winding closely around each part of the pine trees. And some lingered in playful little patterns around the edges of things, from weeds and seeds to entire fields of grain.
A closer look
A thick fog also hung over the Twin Cities that morning, and there was a sort of electricity in the air. So with a little spontaneity, Matt and I decided to stop at Lebanon Hills Regional Park for a closer look.
I'm so glad we did!
As we walked down the path, we were greeted with barren branches and winter plants that were buried in hoarfrost. It was amazing to stand in this old forest on a lake, and be immersed in an environment where the frost enveloped everything below us and everything above us.
No matter which direction we looked, we had our breath taken away by tiny little structures that were no bigger than a toothpick, yet so intricately drawn and no two alike.
Exhilarating!
We stopped at each new plant to observe nature's handiwork and see art in its purest form. And at each step of the way, we felt renewed regret over leaving the camera at home. We could have spent all day in the woods just staring at nature's beautiful display.
Back to civilization
Finally, our hunger drew us back to the car. Though we enjoyed an awe-inspiring view of the hoarfrost all the way to the bakery. And an even better view all the way back!
Our bodies were grateful for the feeling of renewal this journey through nature brought us, and the beauty was enough to help our hearts heal throughout the day. We felt submerged in our excitement and joy and, for one of the first times in a very long winter, we experienced genuine happiness.
When you figure in the pastries, almond lattes and kisses beneath the frosted trees, this particular morning amounted to nothing short of perfection!
It happens in between seasons, when the temperature drops drastically over night. It happens in the mornings, often accompanied by a thick fog, and when it forms, it blankets entire cities. It happens, and then the world becomes mystical, like something out of a pleasant dream.
What is hoarfrost?
Hoarfrost is unlike anything I had ever seen before I moved to Minnesota. I'm sure it occurs in other states too, and certainly in many other climates. But here, we seem to get a few visits from the hoarfrost fairies every single year.
I think it has something to do with humidity — fog or water vapor crystallizing in thin air to create intricate structures on a tree or a bush. But you never know when you are going to see hoarfrost in the morning, as it seems incredibly hard to predict. Then one day, you wake up, you look outside and you see a crystallized neighborhood all around you.
Spikes of hoarfrost protrude from tree branches; delicate patterns decorate the grass; and tiny little structures of frost — like physically impossible snowflakes — coat every leaf and berry in sight. Looking up from the ground and down the street, the entire neighborhood appears as if outlined in snow, with every detail painted in pure white, courtesy of the hoarfrost.
A frosted Saturday
Matt and I woke up to one such morning in February, and I have to say it was one of the most romantic things I have experienced in my life.
It was late Saturday morning, and the heat from the city was already beginning to melt away the tiny delicate structures in our view. But I could still see the hoarfrost all over our suburban trees, and it was lingering on the berries in the bushes. So when Matt asked me what I wanted to do for breakfast, I insisted on a drive through the forest in nearby Eagan to a bakery we had recently learned of.
"Highway or the scenic route?" he asked me, and I excitedly responded with: "Scenic route!"
As soon as we mustered the energy to find some coffee and get in the car, we were headed out of the urban sprawl where we live, and down the winding road through Eagan, Minnesota, where lakes dot the paths on either side of the street and age-old trees reach out above the road, before expanding into a huge regional park.
As soon as we found our rural route, we were met with a wonder for sore eyes! As far as the eye could see, over hills, lakes and valleys, the horizon was coated in hoarfrost. Thick white crystallized structures clung to every plant in sight, and what resulted was a panorama of frosted forests and lakeshores, as if the morning itself had been dowsed in powdered sugar.
As each tree came closer into view on our drive, the unique structures revealed themselves. Some jutted out of the brush with fierce spikes coming from every angle. Some climbed the pine needles, winding closely around each part of the pine trees. And some lingered in playful little patterns around the edges of things, from weeds and seeds to entire fields of grain.
A closer look
A thick fog also hung over the Twin Cities that morning, and there was a sort of electricity in the air. So with a little spontaneity, Matt and I decided to stop at Lebanon Hills Regional Park for a closer look.
I'm so glad we did!
As we walked down the path, we were greeted with barren branches and winter plants that were buried in hoarfrost. It was amazing to stand in this old forest on a lake, and be immersed in an environment where the frost enveloped everything below us and everything above us.
No matter which direction we looked, we had our breath taken away by tiny little structures that were no bigger than a toothpick, yet so intricately drawn and no two alike.
Exhilarating!
We stopped at each new plant to observe nature's handiwork and see art in its purest form. And at each step of the way, we felt renewed regret over leaving the camera at home. We could have spent all day in the woods just staring at nature's beautiful display.
Back to civilization
Finally, our hunger drew us back to the car. Though we enjoyed an awe-inspiring view of the hoarfrost all the way to the bakery. And an even better view all the way back!
Our bodies were grateful for the feeling of renewal this journey through nature brought us, and the beauty was enough to help our hearts heal throughout the day. We felt submerged in our excitement and joy and, for one of the first times in a very long winter, we experienced genuine happiness.
When you figure in the pastries, almond lattes and kisses beneath the frosted trees, this particular morning amounted to nothing short of perfection!
Monday, February 20, 2012
A boy in a hooded jacket
Yesterday was a significant day in my life. Sunday, February 19,
2012, was the day my twin brothers would have turned 14 years old, and
it was the first anniversary of their birth to pass after their untimely
death in April 2011.
It was a tough day. A day for looking back, a day for looking forward, and a day for shedding tears.
Admittedly, the tears didn't come quite so easily for me on the twins' birthday. The situation just seemed too surreal — like a long unwanted dream, swallowing up time as though years were passing over the course of one night's sleep.
It's moments like these that I still find myself asking the basic questions:
What happened?
Why did this happen?
How can this possibly be real?
It was a tough day. A day for looking back, a day for looking forward, and a day for shedding tears.
Admittedly, the tears didn't come quite so easily for me on the twins' birthday. The situation just seemed too surreal — like a long unwanted dream, swallowing up time as though years were passing over the course of one night's sleep.
It's moments like these that I still find myself asking the basic questions:
What happened?
Why did this happen?
How can this possibly be real?
Monday, January 30, 2012
Faith, Trust and a little bit of Pixie Dust
“All you need is faith, trust and a little bit of Pixie Dust.”
~ Peter Pan
“Peter Pan”
You know the story of “Peter Pan,” but do you know that Peter Pan once inspired the growth of a hospital for children of the poor?
It’s true. I looked it up, having only a faint memory of the history of “Peter Pan” for myself, and confirmed that the story of “Peter Pan,” a work by Sir J.M. Barrie, contributed to the growth of the Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children in London, England — a hospital that still benefits from the story today.
According to the hospital’s website, the hospital opened in 1852 with only two 10-bed wards, and it opened to provide care to the children of the poor while at the same time encouraging clinical research and training for pediatric nursing.
Sir Barrie and his wife had no children of their own, but they loved children dearly and they supported the work of the London hospital for many years.
On December 14, 1929, at Barrie’s suggestion, the cast of a London production of “Peter Pan” visited the hospital, and the cast played out the scene from the nursery for young patients there. The tradition continued over time, and after Barrie gave the hospital all rights to “Peter Pan” that same year, proceeds from the play helped the hospital to grow in size and scope.
There you have it.
Peter Pan, the brave boy with green tights and a feather in his cap, has been a true inspiration of faith and trust in the real world. In fact, during a benefit dinner, the author of Peter Pan’s story claimed that Pan had himself been a patient in the children’s hospital.
Do you believe in Magic?
The story of Peter Pan is magic.
It’s not just a story about the Lost Boys, who would probably be an impossible challenge for any gaurdian if they all lived in the same house — or in the same tree hole. It’s also a story about faith and trust, and renewing genuine feelings which get lost or buried over time, as we all face the trials of a complex world.
It’s not just a story about being grossed out by grown-ups, because they are too serious or they don’t indulge children in their childish games. It’s a story that reminds us that we were all children once, and that childish innocence is pure and unspoiled, unrestrained. It reminds us that we can all be children; even as adults, we can be children-at-heart and be youthful in our daily lives, letting happiness win over hardship.
I surround myself with several stories that remind me to be youthful — stories that remind me not to take life too seriously and that there will always be time left to be a kid. And I believe that this is real magic, when you let yourself go, stop worrying about what other people think and move freely through space and time, as if the point of living is to have fun, as if the meaning of life is to be happy.
Faith and Trust
For me, the concepts of faith and trust have been very difficult these many months. My world has been rocked at its core, but I have challenged myself to continue to do the things that hold meaning for me and the things that make me happy, such as playing childish games and watching “Peter Pan.”
If you like Disney movies, watch the sequel that Disney made to Peter Pan: “Return to Neverland.” Wendy’s daughter Jane is growing up during World War II, and all hope seems to be lost for her happiness. Wendy, as a mother, speaks of Faith and Trust, and Jane says, “Faith, Trust, Pixie Dust?! Mother, those are just words from your stories. They’re not real.”
A song plays, saying “There is no such thing as faith, and trust… and Pixie Dust.” And I bawl every time, because I too have come so precariously close to losing hope.
There are even twins among the Lost Boys, and I notice that these two characters are some of the first in the movie to help Jane find it in herself to “Think of a happy thought,” and fly.
A little bit of Pixie Dust
On Sunday, a young boy helped me to renew my faith and trust, as for me it ebbs and flows with the pain of events that have happened over this past year.
Matt’s younger brother indulged me in playful games, as I drew a map of his own house for him, leading him to clues that would help solve the mystery that was foremost in his mind. Excitingly jumping through the house and speaking at volumes to match our excitement, we bounded around, being together in a genuine way that felt refreshing and full of life.
After a wonderful card game that brought the whole family together — children and grown-ups alike — he knew exactly what movie he wanted to watch that afternoon. The sequel to Peter Pan!
And it was perfect. As Matt and I bundled up with his younger brother all on one couch, we watched the movie, all getting sucked into the plot and watching with suspense. And as the little girl found her faith again and began to believe in Peter Pan and Neverland, and the story ended, I scooped up the little guy with everything I had in me.
He didn’t even wiggle or flinch as I held him so tight, though I confess I was deeply saddened over the loss of my twin brothers at the time. But children don’t care about any of that.
Children love unconditionally. And his unconditional love was right there, restoring me, holding me up in a time of weakness and sorrow.
And with a little bit of Pixie Dust — that magical material that children are born with, but can sometimes dry up as adult problems blow in…
With a little bit of Pixie Dust, I came back. And I am here now, in the present, and I am ready to tackle a brand new day.
“I can fly!”
~ Peter Pan
“Peter Pan”
You know the story of “Peter Pan,” but do you know that Peter Pan once inspired the growth of a hospital for children of the poor?
It’s true. I looked it up, having only a faint memory of the history of “Peter Pan” for myself, and confirmed that the story of “Peter Pan,” a work by Sir J.M. Barrie, contributed to the growth of the Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children in London, England — a hospital that still benefits from the story today.
According to the hospital’s website, the hospital opened in 1852 with only two 10-bed wards, and it opened to provide care to the children of the poor while at the same time encouraging clinical research and training for pediatric nursing.
Sir Barrie and his wife had no children of their own, but they loved children dearly and they supported the work of the London hospital for many years.
On December 14, 1929, at Barrie’s suggestion, the cast of a London production of “Peter Pan” visited the hospital, and the cast played out the scene from the nursery for young patients there. The tradition continued over time, and after Barrie gave the hospital all rights to “Peter Pan” that same year, proceeds from the play helped the hospital to grow in size and scope.
There you have it.
Peter Pan, the brave boy with green tights and a feather in his cap, has been a true inspiration of faith and trust in the real world. In fact, during a benefit dinner, the author of Peter Pan’s story claimed that Pan had himself been a patient in the children’s hospital.
Do you believe in Magic?
The story of Peter Pan is magic.
It’s not just a story about the Lost Boys, who would probably be an impossible challenge for any gaurdian if they all lived in the same house — or in the same tree hole. It’s also a story about faith and trust, and renewing genuine feelings which get lost or buried over time, as we all face the trials of a complex world.
It’s not just a story about being grossed out by grown-ups, because they are too serious or they don’t indulge children in their childish games. It’s a story that reminds us that we were all children once, and that childish innocence is pure and unspoiled, unrestrained. It reminds us that we can all be children; even as adults, we can be children-at-heart and be youthful in our daily lives, letting happiness win over hardship.
I surround myself with several stories that remind me to be youthful — stories that remind me not to take life too seriously and that there will always be time left to be a kid. And I believe that this is real magic, when you let yourself go, stop worrying about what other people think and move freely through space and time, as if the point of living is to have fun, as if the meaning of life is to be happy.
Faith and Trust
For me, the concepts of faith and trust have been very difficult these many months. My world has been rocked at its core, but I have challenged myself to continue to do the things that hold meaning for me and the things that make me happy, such as playing childish games and watching “Peter Pan.”
If you like Disney movies, watch the sequel that Disney made to Peter Pan: “Return to Neverland.” Wendy’s daughter Jane is growing up during World War II, and all hope seems to be lost for her happiness. Wendy, as a mother, speaks of Faith and Trust, and Jane says, “Faith, Trust, Pixie Dust?! Mother, those are just words from your stories. They’re not real.”
A song plays, saying “There is no such thing as faith, and trust… and Pixie Dust.” And I bawl every time, because I too have come so precariously close to losing hope.
There are even twins among the Lost Boys, and I notice that these two characters are some of the first in the movie to help Jane find it in herself to “Think of a happy thought,” and fly.
A little bit of Pixie Dust
On Sunday, a young boy helped me to renew my faith and trust, as for me it ebbs and flows with the pain of events that have happened over this past year.
Matt’s younger brother indulged me in playful games, as I drew a map of his own house for him, leading him to clues that would help solve the mystery that was foremost in his mind. Excitingly jumping through the house and speaking at volumes to match our excitement, we bounded around, being together in a genuine way that felt refreshing and full of life.
After a wonderful card game that brought the whole family together — children and grown-ups alike — he knew exactly what movie he wanted to watch that afternoon. The sequel to Peter Pan!
And it was perfect. As Matt and I bundled up with his younger brother all on one couch, we watched the movie, all getting sucked into the plot and watching with suspense. And as the little girl found her faith again and began to believe in Peter Pan and Neverland, and the story ended, I scooped up the little guy with everything I had in me.
He didn’t even wiggle or flinch as I held him so tight, though I confess I was deeply saddened over the loss of my twin brothers at the time. But children don’t care about any of that.
Children love unconditionally. And his unconditional love was right there, restoring me, holding me up in a time of weakness and sorrow.
And with a little bit of Pixie Dust — that magical material that children are born with, but can sometimes dry up as adult problems blow in…
With a little bit of Pixie Dust, I came back. And I am here now, in the present, and I am ready to tackle a brand new day.
“I can fly!”
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Wintertime
 |
| Holiday lights adorn trees outside of cozy window during the Minnesota winter. Photo by Melissa F. Kaelin |
Maybe we danced in the wintertime
When the twins were small — so small that we marveled at the size of
their little toes and held our hand up to their hands just to see how
much larger our fingers were — we used to dance.
Left to our own devices, as our parents decided to go shopping for home improvement projects, my sister and I would have two bundles of joy to babysit with endless energy pouring out of each one. By this time, the boys would have been 1 or 2 or even 3 years old, which would have made it 1999 or later, and that would have put my sister and myself at the ages of 15 and 14, or 16 and 15, etc.
We were teenagers, busy with our own adolescent dramas unfolding in the midst of a daily schedule of club meetings and band practices. And though by this time we knew how to change a diaper and give two babies with chubby cheeks a bath, complete with bubbles on their heads, the challenge of how to entertain the twins for a full day was something we were still struggling with.
Sometimes we would get frustrated, children that we were, and when the twins cried because their parents were gone, or when they fought with each other over a toy, we would quickly lose our tempers and test the volume of our young voices in an attempt at discipline. That was the exception, though, as we had before us our loving relationship as sisters and our unconditional love for these two radiant beams of light, and we knew how to have a good time, even in the rain and the snow.
I remember dancing
Maybe it was wintertime when we danced, when we ran out of ideas on how to occupy the twins and entertain them in a way that would sufficiently wear them out. Happy for the break of their afternoon naps, we had to keep them active so that they could take their nap during the day and still be able to sleep that night.
So when the winds blew hard or the storms rolled in, or for some other reason the weather wasn't agreeable to the pitter-patter of little feet outside, we would turn to our parents' collection of musical albums and turn on the entertainment.
At the time, we could hardly stomach Led Zeppelin and many of the other remnants of the 70s, so we put in the random classical music compilations that hid in a corner of the stereo closet. Then we scooped up our brothers, one in the arms of each sister, and we danced across the room.
We cradled the twins in our arms, holding one hand out and enclosing arms on the other side, and we swept across the living room floor, mimicking ballroom dances, like the waltz or the tango, and swing. Sometimes we pulled their beloved blankies with light-blue silk sewn into the borders into the dance, covering their faces and playfully swinging the blankies like capes, as we glided across the house.
The twins would smile from ear to ear and giggle with delight as they felt the breeze on their face, sailing across the living room and twisting in circles, faster and faster. They would shriek with happiness when we would offer their bodies a dip lower to gravity, bending our bodies to the ground in what would have otherwise been a romantic motion. Whenever a dance finished, my sister and I would be panting to catch our breath, and our little brothers would immediately offer up their arms from their place on the couch, asking for another and yet another.
These days were usually filled with the smell of cookies baking in the house or a break with lemonade in the afternoon, and the memory is so vivid in my mind that I can practically taste it!
The last dance
I don't remember the last time I danced with my brothers, specifically, though I can remember young Lawrence's gleeful giggle and young Thomas's charming smile. But whenever the last dance was, there was no way that I could have known that it was the last dance.
Now, I shudder at the thought of dancing. I want to, in a way, because it is such a gesture of freedom and such a beautiful form of expression. But how can I when my two littlest dancing partners are gone? In fact, I would have loved to dance with them at my wedding. But my eyes tearing up, that is another subject entirely.
My colleagues at work were kind enough, after the accident, to offer me a gift card to a jazz club, and though it is the perfect gift... A confession: I haven't cashed it in yet.
It is so difficult to think of dancing, and maybe we will go to the jazz club to enjoy the music from the sidelines, but in short, as words fail me...
I guess this is just to say that I miss you, Thomas and Lawrence. And I miss dancing with you. I hope that in some way, somewhere, you will be able to dance again, and shriek and giggle and smile.
It seems so silly to think of you on top of a cloud, beside a guy with a big grey beard, but maybe your souls live on somehow. Maybe somehow your dance isn't done.
Left to our own devices, as our parents decided to go shopping for home improvement projects, my sister and I would have two bundles of joy to babysit with endless energy pouring out of each one. By this time, the boys would have been 1 or 2 or even 3 years old, which would have made it 1999 or later, and that would have put my sister and myself at the ages of 15 and 14, or 16 and 15, etc.
We were teenagers, busy with our own adolescent dramas unfolding in the midst of a daily schedule of club meetings and band practices. And though by this time we knew how to change a diaper and give two babies with chubby cheeks a bath, complete with bubbles on their heads, the challenge of how to entertain the twins for a full day was something we were still struggling with.
Sometimes we would get frustrated, children that we were, and when the twins cried because their parents were gone, or when they fought with each other over a toy, we would quickly lose our tempers and test the volume of our young voices in an attempt at discipline. That was the exception, though, as we had before us our loving relationship as sisters and our unconditional love for these two radiant beams of light, and we knew how to have a good time, even in the rain and the snow.
I remember dancing
Maybe it was wintertime when we danced, when we ran out of ideas on how to occupy the twins and entertain them in a way that would sufficiently wear them out. Happy for the break of their afternoon naps, we had to keep them active so that they could take their nap during the day and still be able to sleep that night.
So when the winds blew hard or the storms rolled in, or for some other reason the weather wasn't agreeable to the pitter-patter of little feet outside, we would turn to our parents' collection of musical albums and turn on the entertainment.
At the time, we could hardly stomach Led Zeppelin and many of the other remnants of the 70s, so we put in the random classical music compilations that hid in a corner of the stereo closet. Then we scooped up our brothers, one in the arms of each sister, and we danced across the room.
We cradled the twins in our arms, holding one hand out and enclosing arms on the other side, and we swept across the living room floor, mimicking ballroom dances, like the waltz or the tango, and swing. Sometimes we pulled their beloved blankies with light-blue silk sewn into the borders into the dance, covering their faces and playfully swinging the blankies like capes, as we glided across the house.
The twins would smile from ear to ear and giggle with delight as they felt the breeze on their face, sailing across the living room and twisting in circles, faster and faster. They would shriek with happiness when we would offer their bodies a dip lower to gravity, bending our bodies to the ground in what would have otherwise been a romantic motion. Whenever a dance finished, my sister and I would be panting to catch our breath, and our little brothers would immediately offer up their arms from their place on the couch, asking for another and yet another.
These days were usually filled with the smell of cookies baking in the house or a break with lemonade in the afternoon, and the memory is so vivid in my mind that I can practically taste it!
The last dance
I don't remember the last time I danced with my brothers, specifically, though I can remember young Lawrence's gleeful giggle and young Thomas's charming smile. But whenever the last dance was, there was no way that I could have known that it was the last dance.
Now, I shudder at the thought of dancing. I want to, in a way, because it is such a gesture of freedom and such a beautiful form of expression. But how can I when my two littlest dancing partners are gone? In fact, I would have loved to dance with them at my wedding. But my eyes tearing up, that is another subject entirely.
My colleagues at work were kind enough, after the accident, to offer me a gift card to a jazz club, and though it is the perfect gift... A confession: I haven't cashed it in yet.
It is so difficult to think of dancing, and maybe we will go to the jazz club to enjoy the music from the sidelines, but in short, as words fail me...
I guess this is just to say that I miss you, Thomas and Lawrence. And I miss dancing with you. I hope that in some way, somewhere, you will be able to dance again, and shriek and giggle and smile.
It seems so silly to think of you on top of a cloud, beside a guy with a big grey beard, but maybe your souls live on somehow. Maybe somehow your dance isn't done.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Four Mile Lake
 |
| Our canoe glides over Four Mile Lake in Northern Minnesota. Photo by Melissa F. Kaelin |
"Hurry gradually"
In December I made two trips to Ohio, where I was born and raised, to see my family.
The first, I had hoped, would be a quiet trip to visit only my immediate family and my grandparents in order to be there for them in a time of sorrow and pain. The second I had hoped not to make, as Christmas for me was a holiday with a very deep and quiet need — a holiday where I needed more than ever before to be safe and secure within my own home, tending to my emotional wounds.
Feeling the pull of family concerns and the desire to be there for everyone in my extended family, I did make the second trip, however. But I was hurting in the moments when I decided to go, when I booked my flights, and when the airline connections were delayed for more than two hours on each end of my trip.
Aside from the fulfilling act of being there for loved ones in Ohio, the one great thing that did come out of my trip came in the form of literature.
An episode with new fiction
Fortunately, before I even got on the plane, I felt compelled to find a book to read while suspended in flight. This may sound normal, but I am not a huge reader. I only read books that steal my attention right away, without faltering, and I rarely read anything but magazines on a plane. In fact, I usually use my time in the sky to write poetry or make entries in my journal.
I also knew at the time that the book I might bring could not be just any book. It needed to be real, the messages ringing true and the quality of the literature rare.
Matt and I went to a bookstore for just this purpose. I ran to all of my old standbys — cynical, satirical books by authors that one bookseller described as “Crazy.” I read frantically down the front and back covers of the books, looking for references to similar authors or other authors altogether. Instead longing for something entirely different, I tried picking up the most inspiring book-turned-to-movie that I knew of, then reading that book’s front and back covers for similar authors.
All to no avail.
We were about to leave, and I was on the verge of giving up, when we saw a book by the author that would fit the part. The title instantly grabbed something deep inside of me: “The World As We Know It.” And when I read the book’s front and back covers to learn about the author, I found that he had published a book before this one.
“Eternal on the Water”
By Joseph Monninger, the book follows one man as he ventures to kayak “Ninety-two miles alone on a river.” Being the nature lover that I am, it was an instant hit with me, and by pitting the protagonist against challenges of love and death, the author immediately engaged me in a deep and meaningful way.
I read the book cover-to-cover during my late December trip, and I came home feeling refreshed and renewed. I was tired and haggard from a brutal trip to Ohio, which found me searching for a hotel in the country after canceling plans with my host due to flight delays, then spending unexpected time with my beloved grandfather in a hospital. But in spite of all that, I had achieved a state of inner peace and calm.
The book, “Eternal on the Water,” was full of little messages bursting with meaning. There were thoughts on love, on life, and on loss, all within a greater context of finding meaning in your life. And the novel spoke to me.
“Hurry gradually.”
That is the advice the narrator gave himself as he ventured to kayak through white rapids and freezing waters down the Allagash River in Maine.
As if to say: Be swift, be purposeful with your life, but be gentle with your spirit. Take things one day at a time.
And though my New Year in 2012 has been devoid of resolutions and much different than what I expected, that is exactly what I am going to try to do. I am going to make an effort to go forward in life, to attempt to realize my dreams, even as a large part of who I am must be left behind.
The first, I had hoped, would be a quiet trip to visit only my immediate family and my grandparents in order to be there for them in a time of sorrow and pain. The second I had hoped not to make, as Christmas for me was a holiday with a very deep and quiet need — a holiday where I needed more than ever before to be safe and secure within my own home, tending to my emotional wounds.
Feeling the pull of family concerns and the desire to be there for everyone in my extended family, I did make the second trip, however. But I was hurting in the moments when I decided to go, when I booked my flights, and when the airline connections were delayed for more than two hours on each end of my trip.
Aside from the fulfilling act of being there for loved ones in Ohio, the one great thing that did come out of my trip came in the form of literature.
An episode with new fiction
Fortunately, before I even got on the plane, I felt compelled to find a book to read while suspended in flight. This may sound normal, but I am not a huge reader. I only read books that steal my attention right away, without faltering, and I rarely read anything but magazines on a plane. In fact, I usually use my time in the sky to write poetry or make entries in my journal.
I also knew at the time that the book I might bring could not be just any book. It needed to be real, the messages ringing true and the quality of the literature rare.
Matt and I went to a bookstore for just this purpose. I ran to all of my old standbys — cynical, satirical books by authors that one bookseller described as “Crazy.” I read frantically down the front and back covers of the books, looking for references to similar authors or other authors altogether. Instead longing for something entirely different, I tried picking up the most inspiring book-turned-to-movie that I knew of, then reading that book’s front and back covers for similar authors.
All to no avail.
We were about to leave, and I was on the verge of giving up, when we saw a book by the author that would fit the part. The title instantly grabbed something deep inside of me: “The World As We Know It.” And when I read the book’s front and back covers to learn about the author, I found that he had published a book before this one.
“Eternal on the Water”
By Joseph Monninger, the book follows one man as he ventures to kayak “Ninety-two miles alone on a river.” Being the nature lover that I am, it was an instant hit with me, and by pitting the protagonist against challenges of love and death, the author immediately engaged me in a deep and meaningful way.
I read the book cover-to-cover during my late December trip, and I came home feeling refreshed and renewed. I was tired and haggard from a brutal trip to Ohio, which found me searching for a hotel in the country after canceling plans with my host due to flight delays, then spending unexpected time with my beloved grandfather in a hospital. But in spite of all that, I had achieved a state of inner peace and calm.
The book, “Eternal on the Water,” was full of little messages bursting with meaning. There were thoughts on love, on life, and on loss, all within a greater context of finding meaning in your life. And the novel spoke to me.
“Hurry gradually.”
That is the advice the narrator gave himself as he ventured to kayak through white rapids and freezing waters down the Allagash River in Maine.
As if to say: Be swift, be purposeful with your life, but be gentle with your spirit. Take things one day at a time.
And though my New Year in 2012 has been devoid of resolutions and much different than what I expected, that is exactly what I am going to try to do. I am going to make an effort to go forward in life, to attempt to realize my dreams, even as a large part of who I am must be left behind.
Monday, January 9, 2012
The Bridge
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| A snow covered bridge stands alone in one of our Minnesota State Parks. Photo by Melissa F. Kaelin |
Pure, infallible snow...
You made it through the work day and navigated through the teeming
rush hour traffic to find your way home. Now, with your cat in your lap
or your dog at your feet, you are relaxing in your favorite chair, or on
your favorite couch. You look beyond the Christmas lights and lingering
holiday decorations to take in the scenery outside your bay window,
only to find that there is no snow. Not a glimmer. Not a flake.
Not even in the northernmost part of the country. Not this year.
Pure and infallible
Let me share with you my own opinion of snow.
I once wrote a poem about snow, though this particular poem was written in between seasons. I came to know the inspiration on a dark night, when the air was cold and crisp, and the grass outside of my home was gilded with frost. I was missing someone, and my heart ached for the changing of the seasons. I yearned for the opportunity to reunite with the person in my thoughts.
So I wrote about the frost. I wrote about the way the street lights played off the tips of each blade of grass, causing them to sparkle and shine. And I wrote about the foreboding, the knowledge frost brings that winter is fast on its way.
Only, I love snow. I crave it — and not in dustings or gentle blankets that fall on the horizon only until they achieve the color white — but in banks and snowdrifts and seas of crystallized water droplets that close an entire city and challenge the traveler.
In fact, I once drove through a snow storm like this, as I wanted to be snowed in at home as opposed to stranded at work, and everyone on the 70 m.p.h. interstate highway was reduced to driving no faster than 20, stopping every so many miles to clear the windshield wipers of the accumulating snowfall. That was in Minnesota, and it was also my first encounter with "thundersnow," during a storm that shot thunder and lightning across a white horizon in a nearly blinding experience. But that's another story.
The frost that I was hoping would yield to snow covered the horizon when I was a college student in Oxford, Ohio. And what I wished for was specifically this: That the frost would yield to "a pure and infallible snow," a feature of nature that is clean and white, and turns even the most industrialized of cities into a quiet natural scene, if only for a moment. My hope was that all that was in transition at the time would finally achieve its goal, that autumn would yield to winter, and that what I considered to be the most beautiful time of year would finally arrive.
And so, it snowed.
The winter of my discontent
Give what reasons you will for the failure of the snow to fall this year.
Especially in central Minnesota, as we cross our fingers in hopes that the snow is not waiting to come all at once, it is difficult to ignore the fact that little has fallen. It is normally resting in heaps around our homes and places of business by this time of year.
In fact, the St. Paul Winter Carnival, the nation's largest and oldest winter festival, is at risk of flopping due to the weather. I don't know if that's a first, but it is undoubtedly rare. It is also very rare to not have a White Christmas in these northern parts.
Here is the reason, for me, that the snow has not fallen this year:
Again, it comes back to loss. Grief. The pain and sorrow of not having someone beautiful in your life — four beautiful someones.
I believe that Nature grieves with us.
It rained for a week in Ohio after four of my immediate family members died. The heavens filled with tears, crying in streams down upon the earth. Once the funeral services were done and four caskets were driven away from the church, a rainbow dared to cross the sky.
A candlelight vigil was held for my twin brothers that night at the middle school, sharing stories of their chess prowess and their natural talents for math and music. And the next day, I saw white storm clouds forming in the south and dark storm clouds forming in the north.
Rays of light broke through the clouds with such radiance on my summer travels that I could almost believe my brothers and my family were still with me here on earth. But now, at least in my world, Nature mourns them.
The reason no snow fell on my Christmas is that something beautiful and sweet was missing. For me, the reason the land looks stark and barren, with naked trees and no snow to cover them, is that something pure is missing from the earth.
Allow me this notion, in the face of my grief, especially as the youngest to pass away were two of the most intelligent, compassionate, faithful teenagers one could ever come to know. Having just turned 13, they were leaders, inspiring everyone around them to goodness and strength.
. . .
Nature is still hurting from such a great loss, so the climate cannot yield to a pure and infallible snow.
Not even in the northernmost part of the country. Not this year.
Pure and infallible
Let me share with you my own opinion of snow.
I once wrote a poem about snow, though this particular poem was written in between seasons. I came to know the inspiration on a dark night, when the air was cold and crisp, and the grass outside of my home was gilded with frost. I was missing someone, and my heart ached for the changing of the seasons. I yearned for the opportunity to reunite with the person in my thoughts.
So I wrote about the frost. I wrote about the way the street lights played off the tips of each blade of grass, causing them to sparkle and shine. And I wrote about the foreboding, the knowledge frost brings that winter is fast on its way.
Only, I love snow. I crave it — and not in dustings or gentle blankets that fall on the horizon only until they achieve the color white — but in banks and snowdrifts and seas of crystallized water droplets that close an entire city and challenge the traveler.
In fact, I once drove through a snow storm like this, as I wanted to be snowed in at home as opposed to stranded at work, and everyone on the 70 m.p.h. interstate highway was reduced to driving no faster than 20, stopping every so many miles to clear the windshield wipers of the accumulating snowfall. That was in Minnesota, and it was also my first encounter with "thundersnow," during a storm that shot thunder and lightning across a white horizon in a nearly blinding experience. But that's another story.
The frost that I was hoping would yield to snow covered the horizon when I was a college student in Oxford, Ohio. And what I wished for was specifically this: That the frost would yield to "a pure and infallible snow," a feature of nature that is clean and white, and turns even the most industrialized of cities into a quiet natural scene, if only for a moment. My hope was that all that was in transition at the time would finally achieve its goal, that autumn would yield to winter, and that what I considered to be the most beautiful time of year would finally arrive.
And so, it snowed.
The winter of my discontent
Give what reasons you will for the failure of the snow to fall this year.
Especially in central Minnesota, as we cross our fingers in hopes that the snow is not waiting to come all at once, it is difficult to ignore the fact that little has fallen. It is normally resting in heaps around our homes and places of business by this time of year.
In fact, the St. Paul Winter Carnival, the nation's largest and oldest winter festival, is at risk of flopping due to the weather. I don't know if that's a first, but it is undoubtedly rare. It is also very rare to not have a White Christmas in these northern parts.
Here is the reason, for me, that the snow has not fallen this year:
Again, it comes back to loss. Grief. The pain and sorrow of not having someone beautiful in your life — four beautiful someones.
I believe that Nature grieves with us.
It rained for a week in Ohio after four of my immediate family members died. The heavens filled with tears, crying in streams down upon the earth. Once the funeral services were done and four caskets were driven away from the church, a rainbow dared to cross the sky.
A candlelight vigil was held for my twin brothers that night at the middle school, sharing stories of their chess prowess and their natural talents for math and music. And the next day, I saw white storm clouds forming in the south and dark storm clouds forming in the north.
Rays of light broke through the clouds with such radiance on my summer travels that I could almost believe my brothers and my family were still with me here on earth. But now, at least in my world, Nature mourns them.
The reason no snow fell on my Christmas is that something beautiful and sweet was missing. For me, the reason the land looks stark and barren, with naked trees and no snow to cover them, is that something pure is missing from the earth.
Allow me this notion, in the face of my grief, especially as the youngest to pass away were two of the most intelligent, compassionate, faithful teenagers one could ever come to know. Having just turned 13, they were leaders, inspiring everyone around them to goodness and strength.
. . .
Nature is still hurting from such a great loss, so the climate cannot yield to a pure and infallible snow.
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