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Today has been one of the most beautiful days I’ve had in a long while. The kind of day for which there are not words to describe the sweetness.
Three days ago was the eight month mark of my baby’s death. That day hit me hard, and continues to. The tears have flowed freely. Sleep eludes me.
How is it that those two realities can coexist, that such deep beauty and deep sorrow might live side by side? That they might dwell together in the same breath?
I don’t know, really. All I know is that it is so.
When our baby died, so much was lost. It was not just her little life that was snuffed out. We lost a whole future with her, a lifetime of tangled curls and skinned knees and laughter. I lost a part of myself. We are left only with anniversaries of what might have been.
We who grieve often focus on what has been lost, and for good reason. What we’ve lost is beyond value, the loss itself beyond imagining.
But, incredibly, I have found that gifts have come tucked in amongst the grief, too. Surprising gifts, and often small, but no less valuable in their smallness.
One of the most important of these gifts is an enhanced awareness and appreciation of beauty, of sweet days like the day I am writing these words from. Before my daughter died, I would have enjoyed such a day, but missed the weight of it. I would have taken the blessings for granted, thought that I could count on a lifetime of similarly blessed days. I would not have thought it special.
It’s so different now. Since my daughter died, I feel it all so much more deeply, the weight of the blessings. The simple pleasure of speaking honest words with a dear friend over freshly made coffee, of scrubbing the dishes until they are glistening and clean, of the summer breeze wafting in through the windows and across my skin – these are now gifts beyond price. Small pieces of beauty that have become so exquisite that they move me to tears. They are heartbreakingly beautiful.
I have learned the hard way how easily these things might be taken away, or might never have been. How quickly life can change. How very little can be counted on to exist in a month or a day or a moment from now.
The rhythmic rise and fall of my husband’s chest as he sleeps beside me in the morning quiet. The laughter in his eyes when he wakes. The way the sun lights the clouds as it dawns. The soft-rough of the carpet against my feet when I rise. I hoard these small joys like the treasures they are, treasures that I would have missed seeing before my daughter died.
After she died, I was shocked at how I became overwhelmed by fear. All of life, it seemed, was precarious. Nothing was guaranteed. I didn’t know how I could live with that reality.
Learning that truth was hard. Unspeakably hard, and horrible. I still don’t know if I’ve come to terms with it, eight months later.
But the darkness of that truth came with a luminous flip side. It is a gift to know that life is a gift, to be able to savor it while it lasts. Because I know that all life is so precarious, I can soak in the light of it before the flame goes out, because I know now how easily the precious is extinguished.
Have you found surprising gifts tucked in amid the grief of loss or infertility?
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About Beth
Absolutely beautiful, Beth. Absolutely.
So beautiful, Beth….and so true. We do know the sacred beauty of soaking in each of life’s moments…because of that which was taken…because we know the fleetingness of this life. It truly is a “sacred dance of grief and joy”. I love to see the beauty in the dance…and you, my friend, shine much beauty in your dance…even in the brokenness.
Much love to you…
Beautifully written.
Thank you for sharing this. Somewhere recently I read some described it as “the sacred dance of grief and joy”. I was just remarking on this to a friend yesterday. Beautifully written.
Perfectly written… I think I held my breath the whole time it took me to read it. Eve is a beautiful name … my daughter was born still at 24 weeks…her name is Allison Eve. (Her due date was yesterday.) I have definitely noticed the small and exquisitely beautiful things much more since her death. They catch my breath and bring tears to my eyes as well.
Thank you for putting into words what I haven’t been able to.
So many reasons to wholeheartedly relate to what you wrote. I am constantly feeling the extreme joy that comes with extreme grief these days. My sweet Ruby was born still at 39 weeks on May 7th. I have tried time and time again to describe that sentiment time and time again to so many, but it seems to not be fully understood. Thank you so much for sharing your absolutely beautiful piece. Sending prayers for your continued healing.
You describe it oh so well…The twilight where joy and sorrow are intertwined like light and darkness..The twilight that will always be my life without him…
Life is so much more beautifully lived when you know the pain of death.
I spent months seeking out trying to understand those gifts. I was sure that underneath all the pain there had to be a reason for it all. There are so many gifts. Blackberry picking, being in nature, looking at the world with the wonder of a child, spotting moments in time, that before I would never have noticed, lessons like knowing the world is full of kindness, that strangers even on the other side of the world can feel so close, things like having my dreams now – written a book, having a business and charity. Yes this is not what I wished for, but I am determined to make it the best it can be