She Changes Everything She Touches: A Reflection on Love and Loss, part 1 by Sara Wright

 I reflect upon this year as the sun star rises in a northeastern sky. ‘He’ has reached the end of his northeastern journey.

  Wave after wave – oceans of grief break over me at dawn – tempered by the same cycle during which I have been graced by a most powerful love in the form of a young canine companion.  Love and Loss are such intimate companions.

‘She changes everything she touches, changes…’ during cycles of grief  S/he changes nothing at all.

As the solstice bears down on us under a hard blue dome so does the fire. It is hard to believe that three weeks ago temperatures hovered in the 40’s. I resist the stifling heat of June coupled with days of torrential rain, cold, and wind that are presently drowning a field of lilies, wild lupine and roses. Fire and Ice. On good days there is the increased noise flow of man-made machines. Slow down please, I plead. Let me listen to the wood thrush, experience this space in between without bouncing between extremes.  

 I am feeling resentful, cross over the loss of spring and the relentless rains that destroy every flower just as it begins to bloom. I must honor the child who is heartbroken or I will make things worse. Wildflowers bring her the greatest joy and most have been under perpetual siege by inclement weather. Many plants were not pollinated. Too cold for bees.

Yesterday I noted with surprise and pleasure that hard green berries were still forming in place of the delicate pearl white blossoms that graced each branch of the chokecherries that were swarming with bees and butterflies less than a week ago. So many changes so fast! Solomons seal blossoms have already transformed into soil, delicate spring anemones are barely a memory, marsh marigold stalks send up seed stars. Violets and speedwell  have disappeared along with the deep blue haze of ajuga spires. Bloodroot leaves cast giant canopies over every inch of once bare earth outside my door. The last of the barely buttoned up Canada anemones will officially end the spring wildflower season in whirls with a single pearl white flower.

 Fragrant honeysuckle beads are forming when just days ago intoxicating blossoms seduced every butterfly and bee in the area into their perfumed field.

The one exception is Jack and Jill. This year my jack in the pulpits are splendid. Jack has become Jill who will send up a tower of scarlet berries by the end of July.

The adult ruefully acknowledges that Nature has for the most part made a radical adjustment to ‘the spring that wasn’t’ reassuring me that as unwilling as I may be to deal with sudden changes She can adapt!

Seeding up for most is occurring just as if spring had stretched her wings over time.  There is a message for me here in the seeding. Sudden changes don’t mean that all is lost.

What must I do to adjust, to allow these extremes to flow through me instead of resisting? How can I seed in acceptance?  

 Acclaimed author Richard Powers suggests that we may need to learn how to surf these radical changes while staying aware and living with loss, an idea that intrigues me.

 Today we meander down the road in fierce unrelenting heat. Green frogs have gathered at wetland edges strumming their symphonic banjos as we pass by under a reflected steel blue sky. I take pictures of wild viburnums, so many covered with lemony swallowtails.

 A sharp knife suddenly pierces my heart – swallowtails swarmed over her grave…  Hope has been dead almost a year. Some days this dog is such a visceral presence that I can’t believe she’s not here in the flesh…

 I sigh as we walk back down our pebbly road peering at every leaf.  Brilliant emerald damselflies dart in and out of the green, bees feasting on deep blue, walking over the diminutive prints of ‘little deer’ and a couple of moose whose relatives have traveled this same path we are on for perhaps a hundred years? This property was once part of a farm, and I deliberately built my cabin on the well – traveled wild animal trail.  

  Coalie collapses on the floor like a rug after we enter the house. Panting. We listen to red eyed vireo and ovenbird both of whom have fledglings in the fruit trees that shade this part of the house. The phoebes are gone. I stare into the rose tipped trees soaking in the last of the luminous vision of lime, rose, wine and chartreuse, shapeshifting into deep forest green before my eyes.

 I have hand clipping to do before it gets even hotter. For once Coalie is content to watch me through the window. Usually, she moans pitifully even when I am outdoors in clear sight with only a window or glass door separating us. In Coalie’s world where I go she goes and she adheres to this belief in a literal sense.

 As I wield the old-fashioned metal scissors, I listen to rhythmic snapping slipping into reverie, recalling a simpler time when tools were powered by hand, a time when machines were treated like the tools they are and did not rule our colonized minds as modern day gods.  

Part 2, next week.