Keeping In Touch
So my husband and I looked around at home, and began to sort: what in our lives gives purpose and meaning? Which things could someone else make better use of? Nearly a year ago, my sister died. I cherish the few things I have which represent her life to me, and leave me with a feeling of connection, however tenuous. If there is not meaning and purpose any longer, I let go.
We turn to other stories in our lives – old photographs and scrapbooks which must be purged and distributed. By the fireside on this cool morning, with many faces of treasured family and friends spread around us, I reflect on the journeys these people made, and are making, through this life. I think about what each one has meant to me, and the immortal gifts these people gave me by being who they were and are, gifts which I now pass along to those I meet, for they are an imbedded part of who I am. And, in turn, the gifts live on.
The Civil War Monument continues to stand tall on the Common. Photo by Christine Barnes, The Northfield News
In this small town, the journeys go on as well, and I was saddened to learn of several losses over the winter, no one I knew well, but people with whom I was acquainted, each one who mattered in Northfield. With the advent of spring, perhaps perspective changes, but the ache is terrible and ever-present. My thoughts are with you all.
Even at the Farmers’ Market on opening day, there was an awareness that some of us, vendors and visitors alike, had experienced sickness and/or losses among friends and family. And yet the day sparkled with light and life, as early-going market loyalists wandered thorough the Commons, picking up strong, healthy plants for their veggie gardens, fresh bread, jams and pickles.
Business was light enough that a couple of us were drawn to the monument. We silently read the names, moved around the giant marble tribute, then stopped. “That was my greatgrandfather, and an uncle. It makes me sad.” And it’s part of the journey.
The first market day continued along, a giggling gaggle of children playing an endless game of tag among the vendor stalls, the trees, the monument and the fountain. The empty water basin became its own free-forall: down and in and up and out, and repeat - time and again – Northfield’s version of Coney Island.
The springtime sweetness of the town marches on, fluffy pink and white trees lining the roads, flower gardens greening up with promise. The little pond near us is barely big enough for tadpoles, but a bottoms-up duck, bright orange elbows protruding above the water’s surface, pops up – a male Mallard and his bride! They proceed to mate, a shockingly ungracious display. He stuffs her under water and holds her by one waving foot, while they have at it. Back on the surface of the pond, they preen and swim about, business as usual.
Bluebirds have arrived. Maybe this year they will choose one of our boxes. The Barred Owl calls in the night. Far away as the crow flies, but close to our hearts, the catastrophic crisis in the Gulf continues, oil belching from the pipeline of the ruptured well. Anxiety is running high on the south coast. Lives are changing, out of control. We are safe and green here, but not our brothers and sisters who live off the waters and the formerly abundant seafood; not the Mallards, or the Great Egrets or the little sandpipers running along the shores. Not Morgan, the Brown Pelican.
As always, and as in all things, people rise to meet the challenge. That is our heroic nature. The monument on the Commons is testimony to that, as is every one of us who has been through a loss, and who comes again to the market to celebrate another spring. There is a place for the sadness, a place for the gifts shared in an immortal giving, and a place for the celebration. “To everything there is a season…” That is the journey.
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