A place where grief and joy sit side by side
an excerpt from my latest book + memories we call home
The spring my twins were two years old, we decided to take a trip north to visit my parents and a few friends. It would have been stressful even without two toddlers: days of driving on loud highways, expensive fast food made of flammable ingredients (please don’t try to test this at home).
Packing, unpacking, then packing again—in and out of too many Airbnb’s that smell like hotel mixed with the faint whiff of a wet cocker spaniel.
We made it to the final destination of our trip (thank God) and the memory is so strong, and so good, that I’d like to take you there with me for just a moment . . .
I sit on a tall chair covered in the softest leather and glance out the window at the most beautiful sun setting into emerald hills. The way they curve, it reminds me of a woman lying on her side—that point where hips roll into thighs.
The sun—oh the sun—how it shines.
If I squint my eyes and look towards it, I can see light that pierces out of the center like rays piercing the earth. Like St. Catherine of Siena holding out her saint-hands, a rainbow of blessing. I blink and little balls of light flutter behind my eye lids. This is why you’re not supposed to look at the sun.
But it is so beautiful.
I take a deep breath and hear the air hit my teeth as I exhale. Our twins are sleeping (finally) upstairs, after my husband and I bicker about the same thing we always bicker about.
Then, I can finally take a minute to just be a person and not a doing something. Not a mom. Not a wife. Not a woman in recovery. Just a me.
Photo by Stephan Widua on Unsplash
I can sink into another memory—or better the feeling of memory—and not get stuck.
I can trace my finger along the immensity of a thousand farm fields stretching across the landscape like an elongated psalm.
On vibrant evenings like this, if I was a bird, I would be one of the singing ones. Not a sunrise singer, but a sunset one, right before the world is covered in a blanket of dark and stars and calm. One last look at the miracle and brilliance of day with a melody. My birdsong, an aching tune, like a song by Nina Simone.
I step outside to take a picture of the sunset with my phone because (of course) I have to take a picture with my phone and the cold air hits my face and socked feet. I’m from the South now and so that layer of Midwest is slowly melting off like snow in March.
I take another deep breath through my nose and this time the scent hits, the sweet smell of home. Every time I’ve come home to Wisconsin and that smell hits me (yes, “that smell” means manure), the stinky-sweet brings back memories—the good ones—without really bringing them back.
This world looked different when I was a kid. . .
Do you have those places from your childhood that bring back memories?
Like when you see the cover of Goodnight Moon, the illustrations and lines flood back as if you are staring at the strange, smooth, orange and green pages again?
Do you have those moments that become, themselves, harbingers of another time that almost every part of you has forgotten, and yet, somewhere in the basement of your mind they rest, dusty?
A place where grief and joy sit side by side, where every corner whispers something familiar and yet impossible to articulate?
Standing outside now, the cold biting at my feet, I let myself feel it all—the ache of growing up, the wonder of being here again, and the bittersweet beauty of time passing. I look out at the horizon, at the curve of the hills glowing under the last light of the day, and for a moment, I don’t feel the weight of who I have to be. I just feel connected to it all: the past, the present, the land, the sky.
Home is different now, but maybe that’s okay.
Maybe it’s a reminder that change doesn’t erase what came before. Instead, it builds upon it, layering memories like the rings of a tree. And maybe that’s why I’ll keep coming back—to touch those memories, even if just for a moment, and to remind myself that they’re still a part of me.
Want to go deeper in your recovery and healing in the new year?
Wow, do you have a way with words, Caroline. I felt this writing deep in my bones as I was transported to a number of similar experiences. Thank you for the invitation to revisit those this morning. Lately, the intersection of joy and grief occurs most often with my sweet, 77-year-old mother, who has a progressive form of dementia and is increasingly non-verbal. We are fortunate to be exceedingly close in both the emotional and geographical senses, so I see her numerous times per week. Regardless of my emotional state (usually harried, cursing under my breath, and a bit late), I experience a profound internal shift the moment I step into my parent's home; all the familiar sounds, scents, and sights are all right there to greet me. (This is my childhood home, but it remains my proverbial one, too.) Some days, I am her daughter and others, I am now her "best friend." But I've come to see that both titles are the privilege of a lifetime. We often walk around the block or sit in her backyard, admiring her beloved birds. All my mother ever knows now is the present moment, which is the ultimate gift for an often-disembodied and overwhelmed mid-life woman/wife/mother like me. Her mindfulness and joy are contagious. As I sit beside her, the sun on my back and a lump in my throat, I attempt to memorize every detail of this woman who has lived with faith and gratitude as her guideposts, no matter the curveballs. She has always been my safe harbor, and I remind myself that our most powerful conversations have never involved much talking anyway. She remains my greatest teacher, even now, as we stare at a feeder with our knees touching, both of us lost and found in the moment. I feel uplifted, not burdened or resentful, as I add "caregiver" to my already lengthy list of roles, for these intersections of joy and grief remain with me long after I've pulled out of my parent's driveway. They hold my hand as I continue walking into the unknown, and they encourage me to notice the birds a bit more wherever I go. Small moments where I am invited to no longer feel the weight of who I have to be and instead relish the joy of simply being.
Gah, this is gorgeous writing, Caroline!
I really fell in. Because those moments, these ones where -"I can finally take a minute to just be a person and not a doing something. Not a mom. Not a wife. Not a woman in recovery. Just a me."
Just a me. When we go back to those places from childhood, it feels easier to slip into the "just a me" part of us. All of us, yet no one else's.
This piece reminded me of an experience I had not long ago while vacationing with my family. We stopped into a restaurant and as we were waiting to be seated at our table, I looked up and saw a painting on the wall that was in my dining room of my childhood home. It's of a fisherman and his daughter in a rowboat. I hadn't seen this particular painting in decades, and it had such a visceral effect on me! I almost couldn't move. Wild how time and place can just stampede back together again.