Good Mourning

I think fall may be MY season; I love the colors and the coziness. I love the sunny Indian summer days and the crisp nights that sweeten the apples and grapes, as well as the first days of rain that water the earth and bring the rich green of Western Oregon back. I love having a pot of butternut squash soup simmering on the stove or the smell of pumpkin pies baking.  I even love football; well, I like football, especially when I have a team to cheer for.

But despite my love affair with fall, it often evokes in me feelings of melancholy, a sense of loss and mourning. It is a sure reminder of time passing, of the coldness and dreariness of approaching winter. While I love all four of the seasons, as I grow older, I am less and less enamored of the approaching dark and chilly and damp days of winter.

Those changes I wrote about on my last post continue to entrance me. When I wrote that just a couple days ago, very few of the leaves had started to fall. But this weekend they seem to be making up for lost time. My lawn that was green just a couple days ago is now completely yellow and gold with all the leaves. I watch them spin and dance as they tumble down from my maple tree, in a hurry to move on to the next phase of their leaf lives.  The dogwoods and sweet gums, so gorgeous in their crimson and scarlet cloaks just days ago, are almost bare. 

And I realized this afternoon while walking Charlie that I am mourning that and other losses: promises and possibilities that never came to be; dreams that remain unfulfilled and seem unattainable. Like those dancing leaves, life around me seems to be in a hurry to move on to its next phase – whatever that may be – but sometimes my heart isn’t ready to go there; or perhaps  my mourning stems from the realization that my heart is ready but, unlike the leaves, it is not yet my time to float free.

November is the month in the Catholic Church when we especially remember loved ones who have died. All Saints and All Souls days are specific feast days set aside to remember those who have traveled to the far distant shore ahead of us. I have become more convinced of what we call the “Communion of Saints” this fall, that those who have died remain part of us, continue to be with us in spirit and love. They have left us physically but aren’t really gone. Eight years after losing my husband John, I had a conversation, of sorts, with him last month. The messages I received were comforting and reassuring. I was reassured of his ongoing deep love for me and our children and grandchild and of his continued presence in our lives. But even more, I was reassured of God’s love and promises, of a future filled with hope and beauty.

As I wrote in “42 States of Grace: A Woman’s Journey,” after John’s accident, while he was being life-flighted to Seattle, he died on the plane. The medical people with him resuscitated him. What I didn’t know then but understand now is that he didn’t want to come back, wasn’t willing to stay bound to earth and his broken body; he had already decided to move toward the amazing light and love pulling him away from us. He didn’t want to leave his family, but he knew we would understand.  And be happy for him.

I do understand. Perhaps that is part of my mourning, my melancholy:  the desire to experience that wonder and mystery in such a profound way. To feel that love that everything we have experienced here on earth can only hint at, can never quite compare to or measure up to. But I accept that my place is still here; I apparently still have work to do. Sometimes it feels like very lonely, fruitless work, and I continue to long for someone I can share this life with, but that, too, seems not meant to be my path.

Some day it will be time for me to lay my burdens down, but that time has not yet come for me. So I am reminded to use fully the time that remains to me, to love tenderly, to be gentle and forgiving, especially of myself, and to enjoy the gifts God sends us all every day, if we take the time to look for them and to pay attention.