the Monday after

| April 22, 2013 | 5 Replies

Last Monday morning I planned to write about Vespa the dog.

Vespa the dog

While my friends the Worsfolds take their customary April trip, I inhabit their home and spoil their Italian spinone with long, meandering walks.

ready for a walk

The tradition began five years ago, just two weeks after I’d told my husband I wanted a divorce. The realities of my decision were pressing hard around me, but I put them on hold for a little while. My yoga practice had been teaching me the art of resting. There are times to stand fast in the midst of discomfort: moments to stay and breathe, though your body shakes. But there are also times to fall into child’s pose. Knowing which time is which . . . well, that’s what the practice is for.

mats at the studio

My first week with Vespa was one long child’s pose. Morning and evening we’d wind our way through the neighborhood. She waited for me while I touched growing things. I waited while she rolled in the grass. Hollowed out by grief, I found in myself space for spring.

growing things

Vespa rolls in the grass

I’ve returned each year since.

Last Monday I began brainstorming an April-by-April chronicle, each year a stepping stone to the beauty of this spring, the marvel of walking with David beside me.

David walking beside me

But in Boston, the difference between Monday morning and Monday afternoon was something jagged and unwieldy. When evening came Vespa and I walked slowly. The shadows lengthened and spread. I lingered to examine trees felled by a storm.

lengthening shadows

fallen trees

The ache I remember from five Aprils ago became a puddle beside an ocean of heartbreak. There is a vast terrain between the sorrows we choose for ourselves and the ones that explode into our lives from outside. I know little of the latter.

What is there to do when we live close to the circle of pain, but not within it? I began by receiving the great, tangible holiness of the ordinary.

Sitting down with a cup of tea, an English muffin, and a good book.

tea, muffin, book

Doing the laundry. Journaling in the hammock. Scooping dog poop from the lawn.

journaling in the hammock

poop

Wednesday, on the train to Philadelphia, a flank of clouds formed a clean line across the blue sky. We live in a world that can happen like that: one moment you’re in the sun, the next you’re in shadow.

the line of clouds

In the wake of tragedy, the world can’t help but go on. When your life has crumbled, this feels alternately like mockery and like hope. This week I tried to hold my heart wide enough to feel it all: the pain of my city and the simple pleasures of a visit with my family.

family dinner

While David looked after Vespa I walked with Mom in Havertown, PA. Spring is springier a few hundred miles south. We live in a world where beauty can litter the earth beneath our feet.

Mom in spring

beauty litters the ground

Nate and I strolled through Philadelphia, discussing relationships and art. The tulips were in full bloom. The sky threatened rain, but we stayed dry.

Nate

tulips

Nate & me

I caught up with my gorgeous young cousin and her wise mother.

Lily & me

There were family dinners and lavish playtimes with Lydia.

playing w Lydia

Lydia jumps

playing w Lydia

playing w Lydia

While courageous officers worked around the clock in Boston, I slept long hours and went shopping for my bridal shower. My father bought me a rainbow of roses.

rainbow of roses

I picked out mangoes for the fruit salad and wondered what it would be like to live without this arm.

mangoes

I handed my mother mint for the iced tea and wondered how it would change me to lose her smile.

Mom + mint

Friday night Ben brought over fresh limes and good tequila. I sat with a margarita in one hand, a cup of tea in the other. When you’re holding your heart wide enough to hold a city’s pain, you don’t much mind the prosaic miseries of a head cold. I could handle just a few joyous limey swigs between sips of Gypsy Cold Care. No matter. If your little brother has mastered margaritas, don’t you want to know what that tastes like?

margarita, tea

At the bridal shower, women I love surrounded me like a grove of fine trees. We laughed and talked and ate delicious food.

women I love

women I love

women I love

women I love

women I love

women I love

Ben asked me afterward what I’d remember about the day many years from now. The shower will be a beautiful blur, I think, but I’ll remember the way we walked outside after the guests had gone home. The afternoon grew warm, and we scampered across the lawn with Lydia.

outside with Lydia

She squealed to watch a football bounce. She watched us watching her, proud to conquer the Everest of the concrete steps, thrilled to tower over us from her father’s shoulders.

Lydia & Ben

outside with Lydia

That father is my little brother. How lucky is it to watch him grow? How lucky to walk a dog or play with a child, to get divorced but be brave enough to remarry, to have a head cold and hardly mind.

my little brother

Monday comes around again. I’m hurrying to pack up at the Worsfolds’, eating the last English muffin, uploading pictures to my blog. In the car the steering wheel is cold, and I’m glad that I don’t have my gloves.

gloveless

After a tragedy, there are things we can do. We can pray. We can donate money. We can take action.

Also, we can receive everything. The cold steering wheel, the bustling morning, the forsythia blazing out the car window. We can open our hearts to this world we live in, to its wonders and its agonies. This is spring, after all. Watch the way it unfolds in Boston.

forsythia out the window

Category: beauty, body, family, friends, love, outside, pain, the seasons, yoga

Hannah Lynn Mell

About the Author ()

Hannah Lynn Mell grew up a missionary kid in Kailua-Kona, Hawaii. Now she lives in Rowley, Massachusetts with her exquisitely kind husband David, their plucky three-legged cat Thomas, and a needy-yet-lovable dachshund named Birdie. She's worked with singers since 1998 and loves to help people of all ages free their voices.

Comments (5)

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  1. Nancy says:

    Hannah, I have decided that reading your blog will be one way for me to “to take a moment in the midst”, to find oasis in the midst of busyness that makes it hard to “breathe” sometimes….so please keep on writing. Your thoughts and words and images make me feel less alone in this world. Love you.

  2. Mum says:

    Hanner darling, Thank you for taking me down recent memory lane!
    It’s like so much joy and nostalgia all over again… Delightful,
    even when Boston is hundreds of miles away ;o)
    You are always as near as my heart.
    R asked me today about what has changed in my relationship to you since I started
    seeing him. I said, Now we are more equals; we have a peer relationship. I feel
    a bit more grown up!! =0)

  3. Dr. E says:

    I love how you do not let things strangle you, but weave them into a tapestry that enfolds the dark and the light, soft and hard, brittle and pliable. You are a treasure. Dr. E

  4. Doug Bowker says:

    Loved this one as I do all of your pieces. The photography is particularly evocative and poignant.
    And thank you for the new Subscribe link at the top, which I am now hooked into.
    Peace,
    Doug

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