Friday, December 14, 2012


Frost covers each blade of grass. Each blade of me.

There is a frozen impotence around me, a sense of rejection and awkwardness and tension. I miss not caring about connections. I fall back on isolation like the drink. It comforts me. Or rather it once comforted me, but now it aches in me. And I cling to sloppy communication like the ice on the world around me this morning. Unwelcome, it slides over everything. It appears more hyper the more it is ignored. I just crave connection. I become self-aware and retract again in daylight.

I brought a packages of goodies for strangers to the post. And my return address stamps smudged and my paper was too loose and the ink stained the postal worker's hand. She said, "You are my problem today."

I swallowed and thought, "I'm everyone's problem today."

I understand why my children believe a fairy paints each petal and blade of grass with ice. I step into our southern facing three season porch. The world is crystalline and silent. I stand in awe, as my stomach retracts into itself instinctively, and I blow into my hands. I want to say, "This is so beautiful." But no one is around to hear it. And anyway, I need to just be present in the beauty and silence. I keep filling moments with talking.

The frost will leave late this morning when the sun rises over the treeline. The porch will heat up. There is a difference between solitude and isolation, even if I am alone in both. There is sadness in New Jersey and the planets align and affect the magnetism of the earth and the birds shit right on my windshield and I will always still want to fit in somewhere. There is a postcard pinned to my inspiration board:


It is the week before her death and her birth. Four times around the sun and I still have nothing close to wisdom. I have ornaments with her name and rituals I can't bear to do some days. And a promise of her kisses in my sleep, which I won't remember or feel, but remind me that I am not just two someone's mother, I am three. The way we are all connected is grief and loss, I remind myself. And love too.


  1. I often wonder if we are meant to gain wisdom after loss, or if we are just meant to perservere.

  2. I always find something that resonates in your posts, Angie. Four years gone. I'm so sorry. I wish that things were different.

  3. I read this the other day...but it is so hard to comment just using my phone. Isolation and solitude...wanting to fit in...I hate that I feel these things too and wonder if it is a product of loss and the lack of understanding -miss understanding- of others, or if I just can't keep up charades, or my charades have changed, or I just don't have the effor,t or is it me? Do I look ordinary to everyone else in the room I am standing in feeling alone? I forced myself to attend a moms club christmas party sucked. My husband thought it was good to go for Kai, because he would have fun...but I have lost almost all of my friends in the group either suddenly or over time and my attendence and conversation feel contrived and forced. I tell myself that new members join, new connections are to be made, I think I mostly do this for Kai, but I need friends too. It seems rare that husbands put the effort into friendships, they usually just make a connection or don't with the people the woman brings into their lives. It seems a lot of pressure for a grieving mother to have to worry about finding friends for the whole family when it is difficult enough to find friends individually.
    I also wish I had connections with other BLM in the community in which I live, but that is hard too...I can't really leave Harlow yet and don't really want to, but it is a tricky thing to bring a baby to BLM meet up without knowing the background of the women...I could totally flip someone out you know?

    We are all connected, but why does it feel so lonely if we are so intertwined. In the end we are all least that is how it feels. I feel less sure of the connections, that even the most precious seem easily broken, like a spiderweb in the wind. Strong but no match for the weather. And in griefland the weather can be pretty blustery on most days.

    I can't believe it has been 4 years...4 years. Such a long time, such a short time in
    the long run. A long time to carry grief and a short time in the length of your days that you will have to carry it.

    Sending you extra love. Wishing I could come and make you some tea and we could fill the silence with words or just stare at the melting frost.


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