Late one winter afternoon, I walk crunchily down a road on a forested point of land that thrusts into Merrymeeting Bay. My snowshoes make more noise than I’d like; I certainly won’t be sneaking up on wildlife today. On either side of me is water, glimmering through the trees. Tides and currents have broken the ice that covers the bay into jagged bits. These catch light from the lowering sun, throwing up rays of rose and purple on one side of the point, yellow and gold on the other. I stand and watch the shimmering colors for as long as I dare. The Northern Lights, I think, the terrestrial version. The sky deepens to purple and I hurry on, ahead of the looming dark. Cool air sings through my lungs, fresh and sweet.

During any other winter I might have missed this show, tethered to my desk as I finished the day’s last tasks. But I can dispense with all those later this evening—may as well, in fact. There’s not much else to do.

On a cool autumn day in 2018, Jeff and I drove through the gate of the apple orchard in Virginia that we had owned for 23 years (but would not for much longer) and made our way down the grassy hill, through the trees we’d planted, to the simple cabin we’d built. A little numb, I fingered the key to the cabin door before inserting it into the lock. It’s okay, I thought. It’s time to leave all this behind. I felt solid in our decision to sell and ready to carry it out.

But when I opened the door and stepped inside, I was overcome by a feeling not of sorrow, but of being home. The room I stood in, and the small loft upstairs, were entirely ours—our things, our tracked-in dirt, our unique smell. My body relaxed in a way it had not in many months. Before me were the windows we’d worked so hard to put in, and the coat hooks Jeff had whittled from apple twigs he’d found. My grandmother’s kitchen table, where we’d eaten many a candlelit meal, looking up to the mountains. My parents’ folding chairs. A sense of deep belonging entered me. I stood still for several minutes, reveling in the feeling. And then I set about taking it all apart.

Ten years. A decade. A tenth of my life, if I should live to 100, more if not. It seems like a very long time since we lost Reid, our only child, in a car accident—and it also seems like yesterday. The arrival of mid-March always catapults us back to those early days. How could it not?

When a child dies, the void in the parents’ life yawns like a cosmic black hole that threatens to pull you in and obliterate you. Moving away from that force, putting distance between myself and the event horizon (science’s term for the point of no return) was unquestionably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. It was so tempting just to let it take me. And who would blame me? But over time I managed to break free. I consider this the greatest of my life’s achievements (though I know at any careless moment, I could drift back toward its deadly rim.

Older

Beautiful inside and out

Invisible

I gave a little start when those words flashed onto the screen during a presentation by the poet Elizabeth Bradfield. Liz was in the process of describing six-word stories, modeled on Hemingway’s heartbreaking For sale: Baby shoes. Never used. The photograph showed a wall from the 6 Words Minneapolis project, in which city residents were asked to briefly describe themselves. This entry spoke directly to an experience I’d been having of late but hadn’t quite been able to name.

Consider: I smile at a young couple who are walking with their baby out of the grocery store as I enter. Their eyes flit briefly over my face and body without expression.

Waiting in a loose group of people for service at a food truck—there doesn’t seem to be a line—the fellow taking orders looks straight at me and then asks the guy in back of me what he’d like.

I’ve been doing one of those intense, year-long spiritual programs, where meditating on a daily lesson will, I hope, bring me bit-by-bit closer to the divine. It’s been hard, really hard, but also amazing. I have 47 days to go.

Today’s lesson is “My heart is beating in the peace of God.” Sounds wonderful, right? Only problem is, my heart isn’t the least bit peaceful. Actually, it’s smokin’ angry. My husband and I had an exchange this morning. Let’s say it involved money. Let’s say one of us has been spending more than the other, and that it isn’t me.