This is the new year, and the beginning starts with loss. A
talk with a mediator who specializes in helping communities transition through
loss and embrace new identities has me awestruck at seasonal coincidence.
All around there is the subtle change in palette, now, a
bronzing, the russet of an apple, but all over our woods. Here and there a
young red maple has decided to dive deep and early, and is crimson from crown
to trunk. The aspens are golden.
I was cold sitting outside today, feeling more distinctly the
exact location of my furnace, decidedly not in my extremities. And a birthday
poem by Mary Oliver spoke about the trees turning themselves to torches. The
wind doesn’t set the trees to roaring, yet, like they will in October, when
they will actually gesticulate by sending their own leaves falling. But they
more than rustle, now – is there a word? It has sibilance to it, with an ‘x’ in
there, too. It’s not raucous, yet.
But this is the beginning, this is my new year. Technically,
too – seed is set, buds are born, and dormancy is merely growth, inside-out. We
all know the wisdom of cycling, by now, but I’ve just begun to understand the
importance of the order of it all. Now is when we plant our bulbs. Spring is
resurgence: “re.”
The maple who decides to go for it, to burn up, to set its
buds and immolate, has it right. It’s right there in the word: decide. Cidere, to cut. De, away from, out of, of, etc. To cut away. From the misty infinity of
potential, choosing means loss. Beginning means loss. First the leaves let go,
then comes the buds’ dormancy, then
the leafing.
It is still taboo to grieve at the beginning, because, I
think, grief gets mistaken for a lack of gratitude. Just like when we’re
scolded for feeling angry – how ungrateful.
But the loss is right there, and often it’s first, and when it’s holding us,
begging to be seen, our energy can’t go into what’s been chosen.
Like how we prune our apple trees, cutting the water
sprouts, those endless, perfectly vertical spikes you can see on a neglected
old tree. And corn suckers, and calendula blossoms, like lilac sprays. Prune
them, direct the energy, and multiply the fruit. Deciding to bear fruit, and
bear it well, means choosing, and that means cutting. Which always, always
needs to heal.
What if weddings, those ultimate cultural beginnings,
recognized the necessary end and accompanying grief that comes with something
new? When you choose your person, you cut away all other potential. What if
this were acceptable to acknowledge, and made the choice wiser, sweeter?
My dear friend Cella described to me looking into the face
of her newborn, and the depth and purity of the sadness, and the love, that
welled up- it was magnificent and overwhelming. I wonder, and it’s just
wondering, that even at the very beginning, that extraordinary, finite
specificity of a new being brings the understanding of loss. I have no idea
what this means. I just marvel at the maple trees.
