October brings the delight of crisp air in my corner of the world, and I am not immune to conjuring fantasies of apple picking in cozy knit sweaters while sipping on spiced beverages. I gave up coffee this year, but I can enjoy the rare decaf PSL, telling myself I’m consuming only a small amount of chemicals. When Rachel and I went apple picking to a small orchard in Connecticut this year, we left empty-handed. All the apples were rotted, not on the ground but in the trees. We walked through the orchard with our mouths hanging open. wondering if this was the cause of global warming. Was there some poison in the water or in the earth at this farm, and how, bless them, would they survive? Before stopping at the orchard, we stopped to walk in a cemetery Rachel used to love.
I, too, love old cemeteries. The peace I feel is hard to replicate in the land of the living. We walked to the back corner, and Rachel was surprised to find that a section of the cemetery had been changed. She pointed to a small hill dipping into a shadow covered in small, thin markers. Like someone had taken wooden coffee stirrers and broken them off in the earth. We walked into this new section, which was clearly ancient but had been given some landscaping and a plaque. Halfway down the short walk, I began to feel sick, and after a few more steps, I began to picture it happening. Seeing myself in my mind crying and bending over to vomit. I told her we should go back, not wanting to live out my vision. Rachel agreed, and we turned, walking back out to read the inscription. A children's cemetery sponsored by the catholic church for those who died of influenza in the early part of the last century.
I tried not to think of this as an omen as we walked through the orchards, staring in awe at the fruit rotting on the vine—a complete dissolution of the fall fantasy in my mind. Want to get the cider doughnuts Rachel offered me as a consolation? I am the one of us with a sweet tooth who can not go anywhere without wanting to buy something. Let's just get out of here, I whispered as I folded up the plastic tote printed with pictures of healthy apples, reminding us of what they are supposed to look like.
I never gave much thought to the seasons before I met my wife. Now, there are long conversations about whether our air conditioning will make it through the summer and celebrating when it does. Now, there are morning drives and sunrise hikes to look forward to. October was hard for me because it is the anniversary of my near-death experience, and it is my son’s birthday month as well. This year will be 19 years, but only a solid three years since I felt consumed by it. Now, I am simply cautious not to overschedule myself. I can still say to friends and family that I’m taking it easy because it’s October, and they nod in understanding.
Last week, I finished This Time Tomorrow by Emma Straub. In this fabulous book, she likens her father's death experience to labor and birth. The process of dying is not a single event. Although I’ve never cared for a dying parent, this struck me so profoundly, seeking out the truth of my own experiences of tragedy. They are never single events. We do so much harm to ourselves, trying to pretend that they are. Trying to be over it already gives grief the license to run amuck over your entire life. Worming its way into your consciousness until you see rotting apples as omens of death.
When I find myself in the labor of grief, of remembering, I go to this old standby a therapist taught me—asking How can I be helpful today? This takes the focus off of myself. When I show up to teach, connect, parent, or feel empty of inspiration or devoid of patience, “How can I be helpful today?” always gets the job done.
This could easily be misinterpreted to mean having no boundaries and doing everything for everyone else. It’s not that because that will never feel good or be helpful. What it does mean to me is pulling the focus away from my inner world and connecting me to everything else. It might mean picking up a caterpillar off the sidewalk where kids ride their bikes to school, waving at my neighbor's toddler, and giving him time to wave back before looking away or answering questions about the spirit world with depth and generosity.
By asking yourself how I can be helpful today, you’re not taking the importance off of you and putting it onto everyone else. Instead, you’re honoring the fact that you have a lot to give. You recognize that you move as part of a collective and share a universal struggle.
If I asked my readers today, how many of you have a month of the year that causes you immense grief? I know I will get a dozen responses. Who of us feel this grief year after year, tracking its growth like a chore chart, checking off the days like doing time until one day of that month one year in the future? We feel surprised to be joyful. Perhaps even cautiously expecting it, knowing it is bad but only actively looking for the good. How many of us have a month that wears us as thin as the tissues we carry?
I said a blessing over the children's cemetery and went home to make an entire pan of my Mom’s kugel recipe, which I ate for breakfast and lunch the entire next week. I filled myself with enough cinnamon, walnuts, and apricots that I forgot the bitter mood of that day.
My fall aesthetic is exactly like my summer, spring, and winter one—real. I want something true laid out where I can see it, a life real enough to sink my teeth into. That’s what I ask myself when I write to you each week. What is the truest thing from my life I can share with you? That and how can I be helpful today?
With love,
Sheryl
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