It is quite late, and I’ve no photo to share today to fit the word. The days grow full with responsibility and I continue to feel ‘under the weather’ – which is an interesting expression given the fabulous weather we have been having.

Several waves of sadness washed through me this day, however, some of it likely arising simply from waning energy levels that have come with this virus. Sometimes weariness feels a lot like sadness in my body.  My body does have a way of revealing things to me…like the fact that it’s boundaries are easily bteached.

Is sadness the same as sorrow, I wonder? When I look up the word sorrow, I find that it is defined as ‘distress caused by a loss’. Ah yes, there it is.

This winter was for me a time of strange and unexpected blessing. With my husband laid low from his surgery and requiring an extended convalescence, I found the rhythm of my days, for the first time in what feels like my entire adulthood, to slow to a stillness and a silence that seemed to attune with my natural rhythms. Long days to walk or to read, to pay attention and to ponder, to get to know intimately my surroundings, to explore and deepen friendships, to open again to presence, to wander in wonder, to ground myself in this place, to fall in love again!

I have caught a glimpse of the life I have always somehow imagined would be the one in which I might thrive…. the quiet, simple life of a poet…an artist…  a woodswoman… a country gardener …  a monk… in which much uninterrupted time spent alone would open a blossom in me, one that I hope might also offer a sip of gladness to the world. This week, I have felt the soil of that life slipping through my fingers.

That was the day’s second sorrow.

The first came during a brief visit to the lake to check on the ducks of yesterday’s early morning. I counted 6 courting pairs of mallards and 2 of Canada Geese, though the wood ducks were nowhere to be found. I felt blessed to have been fortunate enough to have been present yesterday when they stopped in for their ethereal visit.

Near the water’s edge, a gelatinous goo signaled the presence of infinite frog eggs, laid by frogs that have also just recently been awakened from the long freeze. I plunged my hand into the warm wetness, scooped up some goodness, let it slide back into the lake

This particular century-old lake is manmade, and managed by the owner of the for-profit  beach concession across the lake. Each year about this time, he drains the lake down to the small feeder stream that meanders through the center, ostensibly to perform safety checks and repairs to his diving platforms and such.  I expect that annual occurrence will commence any day now.

Then, the hopeful ducks, who were exploring the shoreline this morning, seeking an hospitable place to nest and hatch eggs, will move out, begin the search again someplace new. The frog eggs I delighted in this morning will dry up or, if they manage to hatch, the tadpoles will soon find no water in which to survive.

The thought of that brought deep sorrow to my heart.

I hadn’t noticed the connection between the two sorrows, until I sat down this evening to write. An external world out-of-sync with the rhythms of life. The flying away of a potential that can find no place to hatch. Potential new life, as tender as frogs’ eggs  in my fingers, slipping away to dry up, aborted before it has even the chance to hatch.

Distress caused by loss.





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  1. Trackback: weavings | Emmaatlast's Weblog

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