A change in the air...

There is a change in the air, and despite the remaining presence of snow and cold temperatures, there is definitely the scent of spring. I am hoping that the change of the external season will also bring a change in my internal season. Winter has been a long, grey time and I don't think I have been in hibernation exactly, but perhaps more like in a state of torpor. Hibernation and torpor are methods animals use to survive winter, with hibernation being like a deep, deep sleep and torpor being periods of sleep broken by periods of activity. So while outwardly continuing the activities of life, inwardly, I have been quiet, removed, needing of a great deal of solitude. This is the first time that I have written for a while but perhaps there are seasons for words also. 

I felt that the time of snow was ending so I had better enjoy its presence before it had gone completely. There are many wonderful things about these last snows when the season is on the cusp of a new fresh one. A pristine cover of snow in the bright sun is a thing of great beauty, but it also allows a glimpse into life in the forest become invisible once it is gone. Like...nature's artwork in the snow..

showcasing small things of beauty..

like a vine tendril..

or an beech leaf..

or a feather.

Or showing evidence of who has been present in the forest like..

a deer mouse with tiny feet and a dragging tail,

a hungry rabbit..

a meadow vole, whose subnivean (under the snow) tunnels become apparent as the layers of snow begin to melt,

or this intersection of prints which show that a deer mouse (diagonal), a deer (vertical), and a squirrel (horizontal tracks) have all been in the same area recently.

Ice is a winter companion also, dangerous underfoot but spectacularly beautiful in all its forms....

gravity-defying icicles.

ice baubles dangling over the creek,

patterns in frozen puddles and

 at the river's edge.

Not only is there a whiff of spring in the air, but the silence of winter in the forest is beginning to give way to the sounds of approaching springtime. The birds that remain here year-round are quieter in the winter. They call to each other to communicate where they are, or if there is food to be shared, or if there is danger close by. Now their repertoire expands to include mating calls and territorial warnings.

The male cardinal is heading up from the shrubbery to the treetops to sing for a mate and to establish his 'patch'. The chickadee's songbook will now include a distinctive two-note song as well as the well-known 'chick-a-dee-dee-dee', as he sings seeking companionship. The sparrows are starting to squabble and investigate the possibilities for nesting.

One of my favorite things is to watch the squirrels waking up and joining the mating game. Many are nesting right now, probably in a hole in a tree, but there is plenty of noisy chasing and chattering going on.

The grey squirrels and the black ones,(who are also grey even though they are black and often have red belly fur), are busy building a drey to nest in. (Not dray, as in cart, or dre as in Dr.) There is a hollow centre to these nests that is lined, warm and soft for babies. They seem to defy gravity and the effects of weather, so they must be well built. With the leaves still being absent, it is possible to see the squirrels doing parkour in the trees, as they pursue the activities for which the nest is prepared, ahem.  

The remaining snow highlights the changing colours.

The Red-osier dogwood's red bark is so bright and cheerful, 

while the youngest branches of the willows glow a soft and warm gold.

The moss seems more verdant as it is still the only thing around that is green. 

Even the sky seems a brighter blue as we welcome back the presence of the sun. Life will go on as before, but it just seems more hopeful and easier to bear when the sun is shining, and when we know that Spring is in the air.

Closure....

I bumped into my age the other day. It used to be called 'the generation gap', those differences that exist between parents and children because they are growing up in a different time. I told my son that I had watched the digital version of my brother's funeral service*, and he looked alarmed and asked 'why?'. I looked puzzled and thought 'why would I not?'. 'Oh', he said. 'Did you need closure?' (*refer to blog of 3 Nov 2018)

Sons, especially grown ones, do not like their mother to be upset, which is endearing and thoughtful protection but not always realistic. Painful things happen, and often, without notice and invitation. He did however understand that there might be a purpose for my action, this being 'closure'.

I have thought about this a lot since that conversation. I do not remember that word being used in this context for most of my lifetime. According to the dictionary the original word 'closure' apparently came from 'enclosure', the means of keeping something enclosed. Computer and mathematical fields use the word with this same implication, like a number set or an operation that is closed. For most of my life 'closure' was when something closed, like a business closure, or 'something that closes', like a skirt with a zipper closure. 

Now, as with many other words, the meaning has morphed into something different. The Urban Dictionary defines 'closure' solely in terms of relationships, as in being able to 'move on' after the termination of an unsuccessful relationship. It is more broadly used as the sense of bringing something to an ending, or something that facilitates that process, as in a victim finding closure to a painful experience and perhaps a trial, aiding that process. 

The generation that raised me was not one to display, or encourage a display or discussion of feelings; there was more a 'Keep Calm and Carry On' attitude to emotion. While I do not think this is necessarily a healthy view, it seems as though the generations coming along feel that happiness is somehow a right, therefore one must find 'closure' on unpleasant things in order to return to the desired happy place. 

So what does this word even mean? Are we to forget the painful things? What place are to put them? Do we not continue to mourn the loved ones who are no longer here with us? 

Well, two months have now passed since I began this blog. It is like a tap turned off in me and I went into an internal hibernation, a kind of silence. During this time I read that when the Druids celebrated the autumn equinox, they acknowledged that it was not just a time of harvest, but, recognizing the ebb and flow of the seasons, saw it as a time for regaining internal balance and so spent time in preparing themselves for the coming dark time. 

Because they followed the sun and the seasonal changes, they knew that they would be entering a time when the hours of light would grow increasingly shorter and so the time of sunshine and activity would now change to a time of increasing darkness and rest. This was a normal, natural, and accepted cycle of the seasons. 

The work of the garden was finishing, the harvest was secured and the garden prepared to withstand the coming winter. The work of the plants and trees moved from producing above ground to sustaining deep in the ground in their root systems. The leaves dropped and became nourishing compost for the soil. Just so, the Druids recognized that similar work for physical and spiritual balance must be done. The 'composting' took the form of discarding those things which are not used or no longer serve a useful purpose. 

Time for reflection and rest is no longer built into our society; we are to work and strive all the time, ignoring the fact that the body and mind, like the earth, need to rest and replenish, and in an equal amount of time in order to be most productive.

By the winter solstice, the garden was composted and replenishing, and the time of rest with its longest periods of darkness was ending. Sleep was repairing the body and quieter, more creative pursuits were restoring balance to the mind and spirit. 

So where does this leave us, in our world, at this time? I watch my children working all hours of the day and night, shifts that upset our bodies natural rhythms and allow insufficient time for rest, never mind creativity or time to feed important relationships. And the weather has been so variable and unpredictable; it has also been unrelentingly grey and gloomy for the past months. Ironically, I read the other day of a word, coined by an Australian philosopher, to describe the distress people feel about the very real changes in our environment made by global warming; it is 'Solastalgia'.  

Obviously there are many things that we have no control over, which may be why they cause us such anxiety. I realized though, that not only did I not prepare myself for the 'dark time' of winter, or 'dark times' of life, I did not accept them as part of the calendar year, or the calendar of my life. The Druids accepted, prepared and celebrated each part of the year, including the dark time, which they considered to be a full half of it. 

I realized that 'composting' as a process is needful and helpful for emotional balance and well-being. If you do not identify those things, emotional or physical, which are not helpful to you, those things that clutter and cause upset,  and attempt to discard them, your body and mind cannot find rest.

Rest is vital for the body and the spirit and must be given priority even against the societal norm of busyness and productivity and I realized that if I did not have sufficient rest I soon lost perspective on every aspect of my life.

So...I finally realized that over these months I had unwittingly been following some these ancient practices. I moved my inner life to a place of quiet where I could think. I read a lot and tried to be creative in those quiet spaces. I tried to identify those thoughts, feelings and even physical things that caused me disquiet in an effort to 'compost' them and find more positive thoughts and pursuits. I walked often, immersing in the beauty of the forest and the joy of the birds. I allowed myself to nap when weary. I am of an age when I have that luxury and am grateful for it for I remember the freneticism of younger years.

And I came to decide after months of mulling, that 'closure' was more preferably defined as 'acceptance'. I deplore its common usage which implies that the person finding closure has been clearly wronged or misused and the closure involves an action of revenge or justified abuse. I do not think it necessarily means that a resolution has been reached either. There is no resolution to death, loss and dark times. I also do not think that 'enclosure' describes it completely, as that to me implies drawing a circle around an event and putting it away. 

In order to find a 'closure' to my brother's death, I needed to accept all the circumstances of his passing. I needed to take part in the funeral that commemorated his life. I needed to examine all the feelings of pain as well as guilt that I had over things not said or done. Then I just needed to 'be' for a while. Then, after a while, I found a feeling of closure. I found it more slowly than my sister-in-law, as her experience had the intensity of daily inexorable loss and grief.  But, what I found  miraculously, was that the process had given me back my brother. I was free in a way to have Al back in a whole form; my big brother, his grin and his voice. It is wonderful and unexpected and welcome. I will always feel his loss, yet I feel a renewed presence with me.

Have I now become more accepting of the dark times? Am I more prepared? Probably not. Sometimes the pall of winter grey is overwhelming. But as the seasons inexorably change, the dark time is growing shorter and the blessing of spring does thankfully approach.

A Final Message

I attended my brother's funeral today..alone..sitting on my couch.

I wasn't there in person along side of my brothers, saying goodbye. My sisters-in-law and I were only present in our thoughts and hearts. The reasons were of necessity but still deeply unsatisfying emotionally.  The only thing that helped at all, was knowing that Barbara was already booked to visit Ontario in the following weeks. 

We anticipated Barb's visit as a beloved sister, not as our brother's widow bearing copies of his funeral service on USB sticks for us. We had planned a family gathering so we could see and touch her, hear her voice and her news. We had not known that Alan would leave us in the interim. 

I anticipated her arrival with, mostly, equal parts joy and trepidation. I wanted to be a support, to listen, to hug and offer love. I did not want to be weeping and needy requiring her consolation. 

It was a gift, that little bit of time. We were finally able to weep in one anothers arms and to talk about the pain of Alan's final journey. It had felt, to me, that the geographical distance made it almost impossible to walk along side of them, but Barb told me that she had always felt loved and supported along the way. The tears were healing. A precious gift of time and proximity. A treasure.

Robert did not want me to watch the service alone; ever the loving and protective big brother. Schedules interfered and I decided to watch it alone.  I saw my brothers file in and sit together. The natural selection that chose our faces from different ancestral mixes, made us all the same height and shape, and now time has painted our heads varying degrees of grey. I know they missed my presence but maybe it was good to just be brothers together mourning the loss of one that was dear.

The service was in a sense familiar, the patterns and music of my youth and my upbringing. The pastor read from my brother's own Bible. My niece told the story of my brother's life so beautifully. My great-nephew sang and my sweet great-nieces gave their own remembrances of their 'Papa'. 

Then there was a video..my heart cracked and a deep well of grief erupted. I had cried many times for my brother along the way, as I realized that he was suffering and at each new evidence that was he was leaving us. But this, this I hadn't know was even there. It occurred to me finally, that perhaps I had not really  admitted to myself that he was gone, really and finally gone from us. I have lived most of my life far from my brother. I was used to picturing him in the garden or at the table for tea with Barbara, or hundreds of other little mental photos that I had.  Even in the care home, I could picture the ebb and flow of his days because I had been a health care aide as well as cared for my parents. Perhaps I needed the reality of these final pictures.

I phoned my husband just to hear his voice, and he who knows me well, advised a quiet walk. It was drizzling, which was okay because I was too. In the process of calming down, and breathing in, and looking up, I guess I had processed something about the service more completely.

Alan had prepared the framework of his own service. His Bible was read from, his words to us all were spoken, the hymns he loved were sung, and the verses that were of special meaning to him were read. This was his voice. This was his final words of love to us all. He wanted us to know that his faith reassured him and carried him through even this. He believed he was loved and would be at peace and at rest. He had a deep and assured joy for his future. All of this underneath the painful and fearful process of arriving there, was this calm knowledge, this 'blessed assurance'.

So, while the tears are still close, it is okay because I received Al's last love letter to me.

I love you. It's ok.