Iwas outside at dawn this morning, as I’ve been most days this summer. Standing in the wet grass, watching the molten, majestic sun slide from behind the mountain into a rose-colored sky, two thoughts occurred to me at exactly the same time: Life is still hard. And it’s more beautiful than ever.
The hard things are easy to list. They’ve been running on an endless loop in my head through every sleepless night this week: An ongoing conversation with my younger son that keeps ending badly. The helplessness of not knowing how to make things better. Worries about the other son as he wraps up a summer job he’s loved and embarks on a new life chapter. A slightly frayed, unraveling edge in my marriage — and not knowing how to mend that, either. The piles of things around the house that I should have cleared away by now and the to-do list that doesn’t ever seem to get any smaller. The familiar, nagging sense that I’m spread too thin, letting too many people down, not doing enough or being enough or giving enough.
Wakefulness takes its own toll, as if exhaustion has peeled off a protective layer, leaving me a little more raw and vulnerable than usual. I am less resilient and resourceful; more prone to sudden, silly tears, frustration, anxiety. I do an interview over the phone, make a birthday dinner for my dad, hand-write a stack of letters, pay the bills, read a bound galley that needs a blurb, call to congratulate a friend who’s just finished writing her book, sort the laundry, sweep the floor. I try again with my son. Take my husband’s hand. Pick flowers for the table and bake scones from scratch. Take a deep breath, and then another. Take a run. Smile at a stranger on the street. These are all good things to do. And yet. My mind feels not quite all here. I’m tired. And it’s still hard.
And beautiful.
There was, for starters, that sunrise. The spectacle of it, with a just-past-full moon fading away in the west as, for one fleeting moment, night and morning shared the sky. There was my phone vibrating in my hand even as I snapped this picture, a cherished friend’s morning greeting arriving with the sun to lift my heart. There was the sleek beaver swimming silently upstream as I ran along the river toward town. There were my own two feet standing on my yoga mat, the stillness of mountain pose and eagle pose, the compassionate words of a teacher who knows precisely where I hurt, her instructions whispered in my ear. There was the sound of forty voices chanting, “Peace, Peace, Peace”.
There is the quiet day unfurling as I sit here allowing thoughts to come and go, the steady accumulation of hours, the pulse of time passing. There is this house, this hilltop, this place we call home and the people who pass through the door; the memories layered over the course of years, the joy and sadness that have been accommodated beneath this roof. The knowledge that there will surely be more of each in all our futures.
There was dinner on the porch last night, the clatter of dishes, the deepening shadows, the white lights strung around the windows, the first stars. Good, strong coffee this morning in a smooth pottery mug that fits my hand just so; ripe peaches in a blue bowl; a row of tomatoes on the kitchen sill, gazpacho already made and in the refrigerator for tonight.
There is our beloved border collie who turned thirteen this week and still begins each day with a wild dash through the fields, the white flag of her tail wagging in enthusiasm. There are the lessons she teaches all of us, free of charge: roll in the grass, savor the moment, run while you can. And of course, this, a dog’s essential truth: it’s enough to offer love, no matter how imperfectly received or given.
There are the bronze-faced sunflowers blooming everywhere, taller than I am and still growing an inch a day, and creamy hydrangeas, their heavy heads bowing gracefully to the ground. There is the woodpecker upside down at the feeder, the dragonflies cruising open-mouthed above the shaded potted plants. There is the softness of this August afternoon, the gentle touch of wind on skin, the bees thrumming in the flower garden, the constancy of crickets, the wide, pale expanse of sky, the arc of a swallow’s flight.
There is a sentence written by a stranger that takes my breath away. A letter from a reader in Ireland that erases miles and cultures and differences. There is the slow reaching out for connection, as my son wanders into the kitchen to make a sandwich and pauses to ask what I’m writing about. There is the relief, at last of, simply speaking a few words of kindness in return. There is the sound of the basketball thwacking the driveway and there is the knowlege that soon enough the ball will sit, silently deflating, in the closet. There is my husband, emailing from his desk at his office twenty miles away, making plans for next week and the week after that – the moving truck secured, the airline tickets bought, the rental cars, the dates on the calendar, the reminder that, come what may, we will get both of these sons of ours moved – one to Atlanta, one to Minnesota – and launched into the next phases of their newly-grown-up lives away from us. There is his steadiness and my gratitude for who he is and what he does.
There is, for now, this solitary hour on the screened porch. The laundry waiting to be folded. The few, final days we will all spend together in this house. The sense of summer’s ending. The first red leaf on the maple tree. All that is unknown and unknowable. The densely woven fabric of our lives. The words that come. The feelings that need to be felt. Remembering, all over again, that this is the way life is. Hard. Beautiful. Both.
;
You still have one more week. . .
If you are a longtime reader here, you know that losing a dear friend to ovarian cancer three years ago was a turning point in my own life. I still miss Diane every day. I also know the best way I can honor her memory is to carry on the work to which she was so passionately committed — ensuring that any woman who follows in her footsteps will have a better prognosis than she did.
If you missed my blog post about Diane last week, I hope you will read it here.
A contribution to Team Diane and a comment on my Aug. 15 post will make you eligible to win one of the 12 copies I’m giving away of my collected blog posts — my way of saying thank you for supporting my 26.2 mile walk on Sept. 8. (Much as I would love to give every single one of you a bound copy of The View from My Window, I have only a dozen left on my shelf. Still, your odds are good! And please know that I am enormously grateful for every single donation.)
Winners will be drawn on Aug. 29. A huge thank you, my friends, and good luck to all.
So beautiful. So true. Thank you, Katrina.
There is friendship shared.
Katrina, this is one of the most accurate and beautiful things I have ever read.
Peace and blessings immeasurable for you and your husband as you transition your nest.
And may your beloved border collie and you savor the days ahead in a way that will leave your future years filled with comforting memories.
Katrina, thank you for always capturing with your beautiful words what many of us think and feel in our hearts and minds. I loved this piece. I so appreciate your courage as a writer.
Sharing these very same feelings as summer winds down…..it’s an amazing time if year, almost like spring in reverse….sending my oldest off to college was a little easier the second time, getting my youngest to football practice 2x a day and wishing summer could just come to a halt for an extra week just so I could take it all in and enjoy it without the craziness of my own going back to work along with the boys back to school-ishness…..so we work hard to savor the beauty of those fleeting moments!!
I loved reading this. You write with such delicacy and detail that I feel like I’m right there beside you. It’s gorgeous.
thank you, katrina. tears of gratitude and resonance. heart soaked with gratitude for your poetry, for your honesty.
Thank you Katrina. As always, your words make me feel so deeply. I love your work and appreciate your willingness to share your life with us, your readers, with such honesty and candor.
Still hard, and more beautiful than ever. Oh, yes. These words are going to run through my head on an endless loop. I sit gazing at the bright, fall-light sun on Lake Champlain and feeling the heavy sorrow of the one-year anniversary of my beloved grandfather’s death. Hard and beautiful.
You have the most beautiful writing style I have ever experienced. I know because I get goose bumps when I read your work. Hang in there, everything works out the way it is supposed to. Nothing happens by accident. Life is beautiful. I bless you with love and light. Have a wonderful day.
Dear Katrina, Thank you. Thank you for sharing your world, your thoughts, your gifts. You help me feel, not alone in my thoughts. Your book, Magical Journey, reached to me from the book shelf and your journals continue to speak to me just at the right moments, it’s crazy how that happens, I guess that’s the connection we all share. Thank you and your team also for your fund raising efforts for ovarian cancer. I too lost my very best and still dearest friend on Sept. 11, 2001.
Peace and love for you.
Your words are beautiful. You have captured so much of what I have been feeling here, as well. School starting, a summer gone too quickly, and wondering where the time went. I was also recently wondering why it all seems so hard some days, even as I enjoyed a peaceful solitary drive and a beautiful sunset. Thank you for sharing with us.
Beautiful. Your words are always a light for me. This post in particular couldn’t have come at a better time.
Your words are so heartfelt they pull at my own heart. I want to reach out – comfort you, sit with you, laugh with you. I am amazed at all you do – from a stack of letters to gazpacho already made….. but mostly glad for your porch, your morning run and your deep caring for those you love.
Lauren
Thank you for the courage you possess, to admit the frailties of life. Sometimes, I just have to pause and give thanks for the ordinary life I live with all its mundane activities. Last week my husband and I shared a magnificent weekend with our children, ages 21 and 24, at the Delaware shore. Yesterday I found out I herniated 2 disks in my back. The pain is excrutiating and the meds are not working too well. My son called to find out how I’m doing and to tell me about his life. My daughter actually brought me home an ice coffee from Starbucks. My husband came upstairs and laid down next to me for fifteen minutes before calling his patients. I am thankful for small things…and I am thankful for your posts which continue to remind me we all need to be appreciative for each of these moments or blessings.
Katrina, the words you write are your legacy and the story for your sons. What struck me most was this line: The familiar, nagging sense that I’m spread too thin, letting too many people down, not doing enough or being enough or giving enough.
I doubt that anyone would accuse you of not doing, being or giving enough…
You always manage to put my life in perspective with your writing. I am grateful.
I don’t know if it’s because I too am in this place you describe or if it was the sheer beauty of your writing, but this post just got me in the heart. And allowed the tears that needed to fall to fall. Thank you as always for your honesty and for sharing your gift with the world.
PS – I found Elena Brower’s classes on Yogaglo.com and they are beautiful. Free trial right now:)
Thank you, Katrina, for once again touching my heart…
I am naturally voluble especially when writing. But every time I read your blogs, I get downright tongue-tied. It is as if you caught everything I wanted to say and said them with fascinating precision. You are truly gifted. You are so blessed and you are also such a blessing to people!
Thank you, Katrina, for all you share. I strongly related this morning as I watched the moon slip to the west and the sun peak over the green mountains. I feel overwhelmed too much of the time. I am single self employed mom who struggles with prioritizing ” The List”. I am grateful you are here, and to have met you at Hubbard Hall….when was that? For today, it’s pesto (gazpacho is a good idea) , rip and install nailers for insulation and paneling in my daughters’ room……and the list goes on…….
Katrina, I love this post, especially where I’m at in my life right now. I, too, have found myself quick to tears, seemingly out of nowhere, bubbling up from a space deep inside me that I can’t quite put my finger on. I am reading Mark Epstein’s “The Trauma of Everyday Life” right now, a slim primer that I think you’d love. As a Buddhist-oriented psychiatrist, his conclusion, really, is what you’ve said right here: life is both beautiful and hard, often in equal measure. Our life is full of traumas both big and small; no one escapes unscathed. I’m having an easier time seeing the “hard” than the “beautiful” right now, but I know the latter is there, and your post is a good reminder to me to be more intentional in seeking it out.
I agree with others Katrina. You are a wonderful writer and a role model for sharing and embracing life from a place of compassion, love, and grace.
I look forward to your blog posts all the time as they consistently give me some strength and hope to carry on and embrace the moment and my day. Thank you!
Thank you, thank you, thank you. Life IS beautiful and hard…right now for me, more hard than beautiful. I try every day to stay in focus, to be present, and to not worry about the lists, the undones, the tomorrows…thank you for the gentle reminder this morning.
I, too, find your writing very close to the heart and very touching. But, in some way, it troubles me, only because you reveal such personal information about your family. I imagine they must give permission for this. And I realize that this is the very difficult fact of writing memoir. But I know that my family would find it very intrusive. How do you reconcile it?
Speechless. Beyond beautiful.
Thank you!!