It's true that I didn't immediately register them. And, really, it's been so long, I should've.
They're exciting little buggers, to be sure, but you do have to be paying attention to see them.
In my defense, it's been a long winter. That isn't a very good defense. I already felt nostalgic for snow before it had all melted. Which it decidedly has by now.
Outside, a slew of bubbles are buffeting by the window, driven by the stiff spring breeze. Little wisps of iridescent optimism issued by a happy child somewhere.
Back to the upstarts. My second line of defense is that it was approaching dusk. Still kinda'a weak defense.
My third line, maybe my best, is I did have 45 pounds on my back, and a hill I was trudging up. Distracting, you know? All that panting. But it was only when I saw the second set, with a third nearby, that I realized I'd seen the first without registering it, a little farther back down the hill.
Little flower shoots. Tightly furled against the barely-spring air. But most definitely there. White and purple. Like bunnies, they'll soon be everywhere, may already be. The upstarts of spring. Them and the bubbles.
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Sunday, March 27, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The world lost last week
Last week, we became one bright spark dimmer. One always-friendly face less. An embodiment of sweetness & kindness, now gone. The boathouse, dock, and river will be lonelier. An unfinished life now finished.
Last week, the world lost Ann Fitzgerald.
***
I don't think we ever get used to death, unless perhaps we live in a war zone. Long illness might help us brace ourselves a little more, but if we don't know about the illness, the news comes as much of a shock as a sudden accident.
And death, and its accompanying emotions of surprise and grief, also become puzzling for me when the person wasn't a core part of my life. It's still a loss. There's still grieving. But I find myself not knowing just how to react when the loss is a lighter shade of gray -- not an all-out blackout as when it's someone near & dear, not a pale gray as when it's a celebrity or someone distantly known and the loss is more theoretical or intellectual. It's all those shades of grey in between that get perplexing.
***
I'm not at the boathouse often these days while the river is still frozen, but I was there yesterday, and found Ann very much in my thoughts. As the ice starts to break up over the water, and rowers' water time is fast approaching, I feel her loss & absence. For a purely recreational sculler, too shy or unsure of her ability to come to the coached sessions, she was braver than I when it came to going out in cold & wind. But she'd never gone into the basin w/ its nearly ever-present windy, choppy conditions, so one time we took a 2x into the basin. It was a gorgeous day, the sky a brilliant blue. I find myself cherishing that memory, that first, I was able to give her.
Going for my weekly volunteering last week, tho I haven't seen her all school year, I find myself cast back to last year when I saw her every week. We'd usually meet in the Trader Joe's parking lot & walk over to the school, chatting about her pottery classes or my jobless/freelancing state. She'd always ask how I was doing, how it was coming. She was always positive & encouraging. Afterward, we'd often head over to the boathouse for a row or maybe an erg, b/c our schedules allowed it.
I never knew she was sick, let alone that it was cancer. I don't know how long she knew, either.
Casting about for some way to honor & memorialize her, perhaps looking for something concrete to mark the loss?, I received an email about a fundraising event for fighting cancer, this year open to rowers for the first time. Not really a competitive event, you can choose the distance, up to 20 miles, & boat size, from a single to an eight. I think she'd love it. I think she'd have wanted to do it. I'll do it for her, wishing I could do it with her instead.
Last week, the world lost Ann Fitzgerald.
***
I don't think we ever get used to death, unless perhaps we live in a war zone. Long illness might help us brace ourselves a little more, but if we don't know about the illness, the news comes as much of a shock as a sudden accident.
And death, and its accompanying emotions of surprise and grief, also become puzzling for me when the person wasn't a core part of my life. It's still a loss. There's still grieving. But I find myself not knowing just how to react when the loss is a lighter shade of gray -- not an all-out blackout as when it's someone near & dear, not a pale gray as when it's a celebrity or someone distantly known and the loss is more theoretical or intellectual. It's all those shades of grey in between that get perplexing.
***
I'm not at the boathouse often these days while the river is still frozen, but I was there yesterday, and found Ann very much in my thoughts. As the ice starts to break up over the water, and rowers' water time is fast approaching, I feel her loss & absence. For a purely recreational sculler, too shy or unsure of her ability to come to the coached sessions, she was braver than I when it came to going out in cold & wind. But she'd never gone into the basin w/ its nearly ever-present windy, choppy conditions, so one time we took a 2x into the basin. It was a gorgeous day, the sky a brilliant blue. I find myself cherishing that memory, that first, I was able to give her.
Going for my weekly volunteering last week, tho I haven't seen her all school year, I find myself cast back to last year when I saw her every week. We'd usually meet in the Trader Joe's parking lot & walk over to the school, chatting about her pottery classes or my jobless/freelancing state. She'd always ask how I was doing, how it was coming. She was always positive & encouraging. Afterward, we'd often head over to the boathouse for a row or maybe an erg, b/c our schedules allowed it.
I never knew she was sick, let alone that it was cancer. I don't know how long she knew, either.
Casting about for some way to honor & memorialize her, perhaps looking for something concrete to mark the loss?, I received an email about a fundraising event for fighting cancer, this year open to rowers for the first time. Not really a competitive event, you can choose the distance, up to 20 miles, & boat size, from a single to an eight. I think she'd love it. I think she'd have wanted to do it. I'll do it for her, wishing I could do it with her instead.