Countless drops of dew.
Just hanging on.
Threatening to let go their tenuous grip at the slightest quiver of the branch they cling to.
I happened to look out the window this morning. The sight of dewdrops along the fragile new branches of our coral maple tree hurled my cellular memory back to a time eight years ago when I felt similarly fragile. I felt the impact again in my body.
If I had not taken photos, would anyone notice those dewdrops were there? Possibly. Sometimes.
Most of the time, not. It is what it is.
Dewdrops after rain on a bare branch is fact.
It’s a process.
They come, they go.
They are all at once inconsequential, and passed by unnoticed, and observed as objects of
beauty and wonder and appreciation.
Such is grief. Grief, too, is all these things. And more.
Imagine this: Right now, anywhere and everywhere in the world… countless families are receiving news that will make them lose their hold on what they thought was permanent.
Looking deeper, closer, we are rewarded.
If I had not looked within the picture, I would not have seen.
The leaf patterns that strangely resemble human flesh.
The most exquisite, intricately formed beauty.
It will be gone with the next passing season. But it was here.
And I witnessed it with my own eyes. I feel so lucky.
So… Is the fall the hardest part?
Or does that come after the fall? When you realise you have let go and in the letting go, you discover the freedom. But in the freedom, feel the fear. You are still here, breathing. Living. Expected to fit back in. And she is not. She has done her part and departed.
The double-edged sword. Hard and beautiful. Unavoidable.
New life on a branch.
Alongside the teardrops.
And the finest threads of connection. They are there, too.
Delicate in and of themselves, they are only visible if we are really prepared to look
But if we do, we will see them.
The new life comes after. It is always there. What form it takes after the fall will eventually become clear.