Wistful

“I don’t think the common thread that runs through humanity is greed or power or these sorts of things. It is this binding agent of loss.”

Nick Cave in “Loss, Yearning. Transcendence,” On Being with Krista Tippett, November 22, 2023

I’m home a day having made my annual sojourn to see my parents and attend my mother-in-law’s funeral. A typical Niagara November where heavy clouds threatened rain and snow; a steely grey river whitecapped when wind blew against its current; bare limbed trees; ditches and gutters filled with bland brown leaves. Dreary, yet an apropos outer mirroring of a family’s inner experience, with a beauty found in the skies. Wistful.

On the day of the funeral, as I drove with my parents the twenty minutes up the highway towards the church, the arrival on the wind of a short-lived weather system brought blue sky, sun and bracing cold, felt especially as we stood at the cemetery for the internment.

It was a short visit wherein I recognized it’s the time in the cycle of a family’s life where we congregate more often for weddings, funerals, and the births of babies. Amidst this occasion of loss, I found moments of gladness in meeting a nephew’s bright-eyed baby, a niece’s toddler-princess daughter who endearingly acknowledged the absence of her tiara, and new young partnerings. I heard about career promotions and sudden job loss, and how one young couple is intent to choose work in service of humanity, and life balance. With family members bedecked in sweaters hand knitted by their mother-oma, a talent about which I read to the congregation from Sig’s in absentia tribute, yes, we were bound together by our loss.

Too, an unexpected and joyful reunion with a professional colleague last seen thirty years ago. He and his then wife “chummed” with Sig and me before they relocated to Niagara. Reading the obituary, he made the trip to offer support, much as we had given each other as recently graduated social workers navigating the complexities of outpatient psychiatry.

I’ve learned, albeit wistfully, to keep in mind the adage attributed to Ben Franklin when visiting my family. With work schedules and weekend commitments, I saw only my nephew, appreciating his brief visit, acknowledging his life’s fullness as he makes his way as husband, father of two boys, field supervisor with Hydro One, and part-time farmer. My niece and her family, with a young daughter I’ve yet to meet (hampered by covid) has an equally full plate compounded by her husband’s chronic health condition. My sister, now living in the states, knew even before the closure of all border bridges due to an explosion (terrorism ruled out) the challenge of crossing during American Thanksgiving weekend, took a pass. This time, sitting quietly – at the funeral in the church pew with my parents, and in their home, each of us reading on our devices, watching a Netflix series or a Saturday morning soccer game – marked episodically with conversation, missing Sig’s presence, I wondered how many more times I’d be making these abbreviated journeys.

“Our lives are defined by that love, that joy, that laughter, but also by anxiety, fear, despair. And somewhere between those is, I think, a responsibility: recognizing the truth of our past and all that has preceded us, not in a way that’s meant to paralyze us or overwhelm us or trap us in a sense of despair, but in a way that is meant to help us recognize and remember our own agency.”

Clint Smith in “What We Know in the ‘Marrow of our Bones'”, On Being with Krista Tippett, November 2, 2023

Much love and kindest regards, dear friends.