I slept late for me: 6:45 and I’m moving slowly and carefully this morning as though I’m ill but I’m not.    I wondered why and then I looked at the date.  It’s my father’s birthday.  He was born in 1921, would have been 99.

How odd to realize he only lived to 47 and yet his life was full. He’d lived and given all that was needed to move on, and yet, such a loss for my family, and I understand loss is how we grow. 

The chick breaks open the egg. The sprout pushes open the earth. The butterfly emerges from a chrysalis which is quite a process when one thinks about it. Caterpillar – dissolution – butterfly.

We change with loss. In The Return, Hisham Matar writes of his father coming to him after his death. I’ve felt that too with both of my parents, and grandparents too.

We know we’re twined in ways we may not understand, and today is gray and a perfect day to dwell within and honor my own chrysalis to see what may emerge. Nothing to do today and nowhere to go. I’m in the honoring of that.

A piece of my yard in morning fog

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