Posted at 9:00 am
This year is getting away from me, and somehow despite that I’m always keenly aware of April. My year does not run January to December, it runs April to April – the closing and beginning of new cycles. There are days quickly approaching that I count down to all year, caught in pointless thoughts and memories that I couldn’t let go of even if I wanted to.
There’s already so much about to happen in the next 30 days, and here I am adding more. But this is my year. That’s something I’ve been promising myself since 12:01am January 1st. 2014 I was broken. 2015 I was a little less broken. 2016 I recovered. 2017 is where I’m going to discover a new me.
So here’s to the new year, still rotating around the days that have shaped me the most – the ones that happened to me and the ones that I make happen.
Let’s write. ❤
Posted at 10:50 am
Anyone who has checked out in Invisible Ink recently will quickly discover that I am a baby loss mother. We passed what would have been my daughter’s first birthday recently, and like anyone grieving can tell you, it’s hard. You’re living in this constant duality: the you who functions (albeit differently than before) and the you that’s always screaming inside your head. Baby loss parents master this internal conflict very quickly because we have to cut down on the casualties of grieving. It’s soul-shattering, bone-weary exhausting, and there are days when you wish you could just die from a broken heart.
But every once in a while, you encounter something heart-warmingly bittersweet that convinces you to keep moving forward. Yesterday morning I went outside to water the garden and found something that brought me to tears: daisies. Being the flower of April, it’s a flower we’ve associated with our Eevee since the day we laid her to rest; I’m growing my own right now, and when we sent out memorial cards on her day we included daisy seeds so that our friends and family could watch their flowers grow and be reminded of how beautiful life is.
The thing is though…there have never been daisies in this spot, they weren’t there the day before and I didn’t plant them. I know logically speaking they were probably carried into the yard by the wind or an animal, but it’s more comforting to think it’s her saying hi from her plane of existence. And if a little illusion offers a grieving woman some small measure of comfort, who can find fault in that?