Be Present

This weekend while I was sitting with my mother drinking wine, we were talking about my grief. And I said, "I just try to be present." And Beatrice began bouncing up and down.

"Bea presents. Bea presents. YAY! Bea presents."

:::

There are two mourning doves and a hornet's nest that live under my kitchen window. The mourning doves scatter when I walk to the car. I watch them fly off and wait for me to go quiet. After I leave, they fly back and nest again in the river rocks around my house. Their soulful moans echo through the open windows. They make me always remember my grief, even when I try to wash my grief away with the dishes and forget for a minute or two that I should be sad.

I refuse to turn on the air conditioner this year. With the rain and the cool nights, I haven't felt the urge. But particularly, this year, I want to hold out as long as possible before we turn on the fake air, and I once again get closed into our home without the baleful coos and the wind chimes. I'd rather be sweaty than insulated from the outside world. I used to defer to my polar bear husband who begins getting too hot in May, and doesn't stop complaining until autumn, but this year, I want to experience every season--no matter how uncomfortable. A summer without shivering. A summer without sweaters.

I had a dream last night that Sam and I were doing yoga together. Stretching and reaching, and one of my babylost mama friends walked up beautifully pregnant, and I began crying. And she held me and said, "Just cry. It is okay. You just lost your second pregnancy. It is right to cry." And I said, "Yes, sometimes I cry for all my losses." Was this an anxiety dream? A premonition? An expression of our many layers of loss?

Sometimes I don't want to believe in omens and signs, and yet I look for them in every corner. The hornet's nest, the mourning doves, the feelings and premonitions, dreams of my friends and family...my little Lucy acorn girl got eaten by Jack the dog. Here is what she looks like:


Surprisingly, I didn't cry. I didn't lose it. Beatrice screamed, "My acorn baby. My acorn baby." And as I comforted her, I said, "We'll order more." I tried not to think too hard about it. Is that progress? I don't know. I can say in that moment, I was present. Taking care of my heartbroken daughter, not looking for meaning in the dog's chew toy. I wasn't looking for an omen, and that felt good.

I jumped on Etsy and ordered two more acorn girls, and tried to put the loss behind me. She is a thing, not a she. Not my baby. I had seen the signs of Jack's growing interest in the acorn babies, in the little meaningful toys around our house. But I decided to integrate them into our household, it also means I chose to take the chance of them getting eaten, lost, thrown away, stepped on, dipped in paint...a whole host of painful endings. And maybe, if I really look for meaning in things, I should think about why I did that. Why did I let the household with a two year old, a dog and two absent-minded adults in charge of delicate little dolls with acorn caps? Maybe I wanted them to have an ending, not just a beginning and a home in a box on a shelf opened on sad mournful occasions and nights rife with an extra glass of wine or three.

They arrived today, two more acorn babies, and a magic fairy ring.

"Bea presents. Bea presents."

This weekend we headed to the Pennsylvania Dutch Folk Festival, which is basically a large festival of Pennsylvania Dutch crafts and food. It is hands down my favorite festival of the year. We always pick up some pottery. This year I bought a witchy broom for my house. I have always wanted a handmade broom to use. So beautiful, it leans against our front door. I am still figuring out how to ride it.



Having new acorn babies makes me want to leave some of this expectation behind, makes me want to discover new ways of being present, (and giving Bea presents)...it also makes me want to leave behind these "things" I covet what I think connect me to Lucy when I know that everything connects me to her.