Fiction Daily

Grief and loss

A subdued FD today, looking at the unstoppable current of life that sustains itself, but into which we perish. While spring erupts around us, there is an inescapable sadness this season underlying all the color and joy.

I first became aware of it in college when I was working on the undergraduate literary review, Cellar Door. As we read over the stories for the spring edition, I was amazed at their somber tone.

Fall brings love, spring brings death, the editor said to me.

She was right.

T.S. Eliot’s remarkable poem “The Waste Land” begins with that famous line, April is the cruelest month ….

Thinking myself to sleep last night, I was reminded of words of the Buddha, who said, Every thing that is created will die. It is an inevitable aspect of life that it ends, and yet why are we so devastated when it happens?

I lost an uncle earlier this week, and yesterday found myself undone by it. I spent the afternoon trying to make sense of it all. The large body of experiences, drives and energy we call “family” affects us from the time we take our first breath and for good or bad, is the dominant influence on our lives.

We can fight against it, or embrace it, but it is part and parcel of who we are.

So when my uncle died, he took with him all those years and experiences — the framework on which so much of my childhood was built. He was always part of our large family get-togethers at my grandmother’s house, where he would regale us with stories of ghosts that crept in under the door and would rob you of your brain; or of the country “witch” named “Sis Combs” whose toenails were so long she clicked across the floor like a cat.

He passed Easter morning, and though in later years we sometimes found ourselves on opposite sites of many issues, he was nevertheless my flesh and blood, my tribe, my family.

If there are any lessons in loss, I don’t know them yet. I still struggle to find meaning in any given day, being a person who’s always worried so much about obligations I’ve sometimes lost sight of people. Yet if there is one thing that I believe, it’s that every moment is precious, and must be lived carefully and with intention and honesty.

So today unfolds before me covered by the gray veil, with a sun out there somewhere.

FICTION DAILY RETURNS

Hello out there in Fiction Dailyland. It’s been more than a week now, and though I’d like to tell you I was on a daring mission to save the Crown jewels, rescuing an imprisoned heir, hanging by a rope off a cliff at Big Sur trying to figure out who killed the shady land developer. At the Caribbean seashore saving endangered birds by breaking up a poaching ring. In the mountains of Appalachia protesting mining operations that blow off the tops of those beautiful God-given mountains.

Trailing arbutus. Photo by MB

Alas. The truth is I am overwhelmed by fairly underwhelming obligations. Yes, yours truly is on the hamster wheel.

Yet today I wake up and look out of the window in front of my desk and see a green world, a slightly overcast sky, and a fresh morning. It’s probably why I became a so-called morning person in college — when I wake my thoughts are orderly and hopeful, and when I see the sun rise and bring a new day, I can tackle whatever seemed so impossible the night before.

So today. Yesterday as I drove through town I realized it’s that moment of the year when everyone who doesn’t live in the South is tragic. Everywhere you look azaleas and dogwoods are blooming. The two open together around here, and everything seems to explode — sprouting leaves are the canvas for the rush of fushia, red, pink and white.

Meanwhile, phlox and sorrel are also in bloom, giving a soft, powder blue and pink tint to lawns and driveway borders.

For wildflowers, the show starts pretty early. No dozing if you want to see trout lily, bloodroot, wood sorel and other dear ones.

Two weekends ago we took a hike at Medoc Mountain State Park. If you’ve never been there, it’s a wonderful place.

Medoc is a trove of wildflowers each spring. You need to start early, however, and our visit March 28 was a bit on the late side. Early March may be better for some flowers, such as Bloodroot.

We did manage to see Trailing Arbutus, a wildflower I’ve always wanted to see blooming. Mom says when it first opens it’s hot pink before fading to white, so maybe next year I’ll catch it. When we saw them, the blooms were white. But so precious.

We also saw trout lilies, some past their peak but others just opening. The main surprise was the degree of flooding … most of the trails were underwater, and in many cases, we walked off trail. I thought it was too early for chiggers, but I did have a few bites. Nothing like it will be this autumn, when you have to coat yourself with spray, and certainly avoid stepping off the trail, or become chigger food.

Medoc is on the to-do list again for May, when Adamasco lilies should be in bloom, and possibly the last of the lady’s slipper (moccasin flower).

We meet with our tax preparer tomorrow afternoon; meanwhile, plenty of work left for me to do on them.

Dear Everyone in Fiction Dailyland … This week is just looking terrible for deadlines and other obligations … not to mention the cats are out of food, Dewey needs to return to the vet and I haven’t gotten my taxes ready … in these uncertain financial times it’s a struggle to contemplate abstract topics and easy to get in the weeds about things … begging your indulgence as Fiction Daily pauses for a few days.

FICTION DAILY RESUMES IN APRIL!