20 September 2012
hands and holders.
We were at one of our neighborhood parks the other day and the kids were up and down one of the just-right-for-climbing trees. The air was cool, but not cool enough for sweaters, and I remembered being there in March, in the same spot, watching bare arms scale bare limbs as the world tipped back to the sun for spring.
Thinking about the end of summer always makes me wistful. But more and more as I get older, and watch my kids do the same, I'm reminded of the places that stay constant in our lives, whatever the season. The people, too.
I've had the Decemberists on the mind lately:
So raise a glass to turnings of the season
And watch it as it arcs towards the sun
And you must bear your neighbor’s burden within reason
And your labors will be borne when all is done
And nobody, nobody knows
Let the yoke fall from our shoulders
Don’t carry it all, don’t carry it all
We are all our hands and holders
Beneath this bold and brilliant sun
And this I swear to all
I have felt so borne up this past month: by family, by the community where we live, by hospital staff, by near-strangers who have reached out like friends over comment windows and phone lines to tell us, "You are not alone." It's strange and wonderful to think that this time next year our little girl will be post-Glenn, one of those new hlhs milestones we've learned about, and one which will almost surely mean an abatement of appointments and worry for our family. We can begin the work of healing from emotional strains, and, in time, throw our shoulders back into the work of supporting those around us.
But not just yet.
Back at the playground, I watched each of my boys playing superhero on the swings. I remember that feeling: belly down, arms open, wind in face, weight off ground. If you close your eyes you are almost sure you are flying.