Bog Magic

July 2020

Our trip to Lubec this weekend was rainy. My vision of sun drenched days by the ocean was swallowed in the mist. We made the most of the foggy warm day by walking on the bog trail at Quoddy Lighthouse. As we drove up to the fog shrouded lighthouse, I knew we had made the right decision. The trail wound along ocean cliffs, the rocks cropping up in dark huddles through the mist. The woods path to the bog was so magical that they had to put up signs to not make fairy houses. The green moss lit the woods, dark trees tangled a ceiling above the trail—I yelled ahead to the kids, “Hansel and Gretel, don’t take candy from the witch!” As we reached our destination, the fog cast the perfect spell for viewing the bog. The pitcher plants were drinking their water and mist rolled in between the myriad of species as we inched our way along the boardwalk. 

On the trail back, I was walking a bit ahead of my kids and husband. Buoyed by the joy of a vacation day rescued and enchanted with the dark magical woods, I began to skip to “We’re off to see the wizard.” I felt lifted up out of this world into memories of similar moments of magic and promise from my childhood. Those vacation times of walking around Lake Scranton, or hiking Mt. Battie, when I would feel that around the bend something worth holding your breath for could be waiting, that mixture of delight tinged with hope. 

I believe this ability to levy myself up with creativity, magic, hope...has shaped me into a survivor. I emerged from my childhood, cancers, traumas...intact in a way that I could not have without this belief in magic. From Santa to fantasies—this place I could visit—the shire, the labyrinth, the dark and twisted woods alight with green, has kept me whole—able to love my children, retain friendships, and eventually be prepared to accept a love big enough to lift me out of fear and murk. At 51, I am more complete and happy than I have ever been.  Though I can still enjoy my wings being lifted up a little higher, my life is finally one I want to revel in, not escape from.

                    

Ten

On the lake, there is a part of me that is still ten, wearing my red sweatshirt and braids, quiet in the boat as my brother teaches me to row. I am everything and nothing. I am small and strong. I fit in my skin just right. Water is the surest, most forgiving time machine.

August 2, 2020 The Hangover

I woke up this morning, sad, and deeply hollow—hungover from the mania of our adventures after dropping off Fiona at the Canadian border and possibly from a glass or two of scotch. The joy of successfully getting her back into Canada and her life in Montreal buoyed the rest of the day for us. Seeing her happiness about returning to her life of autonomy is always well worth the acute suffering I first experience at her leaving. 

The sadness I felt this morning blossoming under my headache carried with it an instinctual need to keep it to myself. We as parents are only expected to be seen applauding our children’s continuous flight away from us as it is not only deemed to be natural, but it IS the brass ring of successful parenting. 

My discomfort with the notion of my sadness, led me to scramble toward a justification for its acceptance. I posited this thought—when our parents die in old age, it is natural, it is expected, it is what we all had planned and is the natural order of things. But no one tries to make you feel guilty for grieving the death of your parent at any age. Your friends don’t write, “What are you whining about, they were 85, you should be grateful!” on your Facebook. I well know these losses are not equal. But natural order grieving is still grieving.

Grieving is processing. I process by writing. So here I am, deeply thoroughly grateful that my daughter is back on her path of life—while still hearing the phantom sounds of her and trying to help my head and heart reckon with the reality that I don’t know when she’ll come through our door again, shouting “hiiiiii” as she has done every day for the past five months. 

Fiona fills our house and our lives in a way that understandably casts a shadow when she leaves. As my husband and I walked yesterday, he turned to me and said, “I don’t blame you for being sad, she adds a lot.” Turns out, he’s sad, too. How lucky are we to have a child who adds light and leaves a vacuum?

I know grief, it gets better. I know myself, I will cradle hope, massage it into a new shape of life. Certainly, watching my daughter thrive will hasten that process. But until then, I will let myself be where I am. I will try not to grief shame myself with thoughts of how much truer, deeper grief others are experiencing. Or rush myself because I know the countless, boundless blessings of my life. I know how to be gentle with myself. But I don’t know, honestly, how to ask others to be gentle with me. I think it’s something we are all struggling with—being gentle with each other. I guess the first step is asking.