APRIL 2
The deadliest of all things to me is my loss of faith in nature.
No spring—no summer. Fog always, and the snow faded
from the Alps.
—JOHN RUSKINThis kind of pervasive depression is certainly what life feels
like often, when we are living in the wake of grievous loss.
It’s as though we’re standing still. If our own life will not
move in the way we had wanted, we’re unwilling that any-
thing else move in its accustomed way, either. We even re-
sent that night and day follow each other without taking
note of our anguish. How can they act out “business as
usual” when our private world is in such chaos?
It’s probably unavoidable, after the first rush of grief and
crisis, that from time to time we hold the world, the seasons,
the days and nights, at arm’s length—a kind of general an-
esthesia against life, because it is so painful to allow
ourselves to feel.
Then, bit by bit, the nerve endings begin to tingle again.
We are, perhaps against our will, jarred into an awareness
of life around us. We are aware again that it is beautiful, and
that we can take pleasure and nourishment from the world,
even though our loved one has moved on.
My life is what I am given now. I will trust that the fog will lift
and the mountains will be beautiful once more.