I forget that Spring makes me fall in love with laboring over a meal again.
That it re-enlivens my desires and passion and craving for art. I forget that Spring is art.
Spring's pollen makes me and my dog sneeze (correct, I did get the dog, forever weighing ten pounds, that has allergies), but I'll happily stroll in it. I'll cut up my wilted tulips and smear them, pollen and all, on my counter with my coffee just to see my favorite things next to each other in the morning light, dancing softly for me alone.
In the Spring, there is new life.
This past week I flew down to Florida and observed that death is indeed actually horrible. The death of a grandparent in your mid-twenties is not all that uncommon, the story I began to write in my head when I received the news and people began to cry and purse their lips and regret. A voice spoke to me in my head on my first flight, "let yourself cry." I don't know who it was, though I have an idea, and I arrived to the funeral prepared to allow myself to react however it happened. It may be common to lose grandparents on the brink of turning a century, but that is not the story I have. It would be an easier one to tell.
I have not stopped crying.
Determined as I was to announce that this death wasn't about me, for whatever reason I'm not really sure, it is about my father who let himself weep uncontrollably and it is about my grandpa, not related by blood but (perhaps more profoundly) related by life, who didn't know how to let himself do anything but remember the last months of tucking his wife in and doing her laundry and how much she loved lemon cake. Those ingredients make this death unavoidable.
Two weekends ago John and I celebrated the reason we have Life, and that horrible death that made it possible. My family was gone, though we were lucky to savor his, and it was quiet. But we celebrated. And then I experienced this death.
I did not want to write about this here. I am determined for this blog to not be the cultural resolution for my every woe, passing thought and major moment. That is not the writer I want to be. That is easy and it is weak and I certainly wouldn't want to read it. In being given new life however, death is a necessary part of it. So I'm reminding myself of that here. I may need to read it sometime later in life.
I am going to ride the wind of this energy as far as it will take me. Artistic droughts happen. Culinary droughts happen (whatever, sometimes they last a lifetime, ahem). Loss happens and takes more of your breath than you budgeted. New Life comes in the Spring, and you will breathe again.