Falling into Autumn
Today is my brother Mark’s 65th birthday. It seems quite impossible that he died almost 35 years ago. For many years identifying with the pain of my past propelled me forward. A reckoning with tendencies toward pathological optimism bordering on delusion, and the reality of a painful and often traumatic childhood. I am not alone in experiencing that pain and yet I alone can overcome it with the help of those who bear witness. Today rather than running or ruminating, I will practice writing a new story. One that calls me to move not from the past but instead, draws me toward something unveiling slowly from within. Paying attention to what is, rather than what was or what might be demands constant vigilance. So much of who I am today is the result of his death. Today I am holding the idea of rewriting my story.
Every goodness in my life today was set on the foundation cast in the grief of Mark’s sudden and tragic death. The paradox of life … even then I knew. Something so terrible could not make sense. Yet, when the priest at Mark’s funeral spoke his message was profound. What he actually said I’ll never know. What I heard was clear and ultimately transformative.
“Do not let this tragic loss go unnoticed in your life. Do something good and attribute it to Mark.”
I stopped drinking. A big change for sure. To attribute that action to Mark holds a weighty significance. It was his own drinking that put his life in danger. Not the expected danger of the immediate stupidity through drunkenness. Rather it was the danger of taking on a job he was unqualified and unprepared for in order to address the financial wreckage that grew out of his addiction. He was scrambling. He was searching for a solution to his troubles. Mark took a job. He crossed a picket line. He rode a train- it cost him his life. What could have been will never be.
My memory is often unclear but I do know we were in the process of trying to help Mark see his addiction. It was the 80’s. Rehabs and interventions were in vogue. For whatever reason the intervention did not happen. I guess that is a fact of life, the paradox of what was held up against what I now understand what could have been. I began the practice of trying to bridge the gap between what was real and what was imagined. It’s a practice I continue to attend to today. Being outside listening to and playing music help a lot.
It’s the time of year wherein I walk through my favorite colors. The glory of a warm autumn sunrise followed by a walk in the woods with the dog feels like a full body embrace. The woods are radiant with light that comes not only through sunlight but rather the life force of the trees and the plants themselves. A forest alight with colors reminiscent of perfectly ripe sun-gold tomatoes, tree ripened apricots, pomegranates and newly harvested cucumbers. As I walk I breathe in the humid thick air as my feet feel the spongy rich decay that is the forest floor. I am filled with peace.
The woods and the trails of our tiny island are less trodden than they were during the pandemic last fall. Some trails are now obscured almost completely. I walk through chest high goldenrod, past its golden glory and shedding its fluffy grey seeds all over me. I walk along less worn paths ladened with tendrils of the invasive species bittersweet and multiflora rose reaching out in tandem to trip my feet or rip my clothing and my skin. Both are an adept reminder of the importance of taking stock of where my feet actually are on the planet. No matter, my heart is alive. I find myself blissing out, breathing in the beauty that surrounds me. Attending to the sadness I remember today does not drive me to despair but rather reminds me this one life is precious and worthy of my attention. Each moment, a precious gift. The challenges and the joys. The mistakes along with the successes. Reminding me to be fully human, vulnerably imperfect and striving to be kind. Like Mark. Thank you.
