Pebbles

Today, Scally and I bundled up in our snow gear and went for a walk. We saw chickadees and squirrels, woodpeckers and seagulls.  This past fall, we spent most of our time throwing pebbles in a gorgeous little brook.  We haven't gone down that path much since the snow came, but it was mostly clear today, so we ventured down.  There was a little crust of ice and snow at the bank, but the water burbled toward us, down a little waterfall, to the culvert where we stood.  Pascal grabbed a handful of pebbles with his mittens, and threw them - and they slid across the top of the water.  It astonished us both, and I laughed.

Ice had formed, obviously, but was so utterly clear it was indistinguishable from the water beneath.

Scally's curiosity was piqued, so we sat down by the culvert and threw pebbles for a while.

It was really fascinating - in some places, the pebbles looked as if they were hovering; in others, they slipped and plipped down through the water and landed on the riverbed, but from where we sat there was no clue, no giveaway as to what patch of water would hold the pebbles up, and which would splash.

After throwing lots and lots of pebbles, we were able to better see where the ice had formed, and differentiate it from the water.  Every time a stone punctured the ice and air bubbles were trapped under the ice, it grew slightly more opaque. 

But the frozen / not frozen water reminded me of grief.

Sorrow can look so much like normal sometimes that it's almost impossible to see.
And then one day someone throws a pebble and you can't even bear it, some small thing that would just pass right through an ordinary heart stops and lays on you.  You can't let one more thing in.  It's frozen here.

And I think it hurts most at the happy times; the celebrations and festivities that once brought joy stab more sharply in contrast.  After loss.  In grief.  In mourning.

My Nana, she passed along this trait to my mom, who shared it with my sisters and I: whenever something particularly heart-stabbing occurs, we instantly get red noses. This is a warning light that tears are about to flow. 

So if you see me Rudolphing it up, know that the dam is about to break.
Because at Christmas, I get a little overflowy.

Maybe especially on this, my first Christmas where I won't hear my Nana's voice.
Every year when I sing Christmas carols I can hear her singing too, see her head back and her eyes a-twinkle, hand tapping along on her armrest, and always that heart-picture has given me joy but this year it hurts, too -

So yeah.
I'll be red-nosed and blubbering my way through Walmart if O Holy Night comes on.

And if you are grieving too, as a person who has wept my way through many a candlelit carol, let me put my arms around you and squeeze you tight and tell you I need you.

I need to see you in your grief, so I can know I'm not alone in mine.
I need to learn how to love and be loved in all sorts of emotional seasons, frozen or slushy or clear as brook water.

Especially at this pebbly time of year.

Merry Christmas, friends.
xo.