Diapause
a state of suspension, a breaking open, a breaking out.
The air around me hums, hinting at change. I can feel the desperation grow inside me, the nearly ravenous search for green shoots, bluebird fledglings, or catkins bursting forth overnight.
Like the moon, I wane and wax, grow full, and empty myself.
I have ached for words in the last couple of weeks. When I reach for them, it’s as though I’m groping around in the dark. A dear friend’s illness has me in a state of suspension, and even when I try to distract myself with mindless tasks, I can’t think of anything else.
She wouldn’t want me to be this way, I know. And so, I fumble for letters and try and find a tune.
I look for beauty in the easily missed.
Accidental altars on shelves and windowsills.
Fallen limbs from an old Hackberry Tree in our front yard, crumbling if they are handled too roughly.
Even in their decay, I marvel at the life they gave and held, the holes pecked and passages burrowed. It was a vessel, full of cambium and pulsing sapwood. Now, at the slightest sigh of wind, it gives itself back to the earth beneath.
I pick up several of the larger pieces and carry them to our back garden. My 4 year old’s head pops up from behind a dirt pile, curiosity getting the better of him as always. Smiling to myself, I place them on a bench, and reappear a few minutes later with paint and brushes. Without a word between us, he is at my side and begins, picking up the brushes and blending colors.
The dreamy look of concentration he gets when he creates, paint smudged on his fingers and cheeks, is one I recognize in my soul.
Recently, in the nature group I help lead for little ones, we talked about diapause. It’s a period of time where an insect will be dormant, typically during difficult weather conditions, like in the winter, though it can also happen in extreme heat. It’s similar to hibernation, and for these creatures it’s more of a “pause” in their varied stages of development - egg, larvae, pupae, or adults.
As I often do, I started reflecting on nature’s parallels to my own life. My friend’s hospital stay has put many into a state of pause - a baseline existence of functioning, where we are, right now. General survival tasks are accomplished each day as we hold our breath, wait for another lab or test result, signs of improvement, send updates to various text threads, maintain schedules, and fall to the floor in gratitude when she cracks a joke to our friend Jess, slowly singing the words to a Taylor Swift song, “It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me.”
In my case, it’s a hunger for beauty, for life, amidst all this grief. Sometimes I stress eat, reaching for the dredges of the leftover Halloween candy, or scroll through Instagram so much that the algorithm only gives me Irish humor reels. I spin actual circles in my kitchen, not knowing what to do next except to deep clean something else.
But, I also bought a lot of seeds. As in…a lot of seeds. Herbs, flowers, and a few vegetables for good measure. Last year I was in the thick of learning Audiobook Narration and had no bandwidth for the dirt.
This year, it’s all I want.
I declare to a friend, “I want a fucking beautiful garden.”
Today, I hope you are witnessed, right where you are. What does that feel or look like for you? Please feel free to share in response directly to this email or in the comments below. I will respond, though I ask for patience in the timing of it.
It would mean a great deal to me if you would share this with a friend, restack it, or post where you tend to frequent.
As always, thank you for being here.
Warmly,
Jess
words of note
“Connecting deeply with nature and its rhythms reminds me of what life is about. Despite the meltdowns and the tantrums—to be expected with a 9-month-old and 9-year-old—my senses were still awakened to everyday magic. And the gift of being able to pause. And to notice.” -
in her piece this week, 40 things I know to be true. I love her perspective on growing older, similar to mine, amidst the delight of her children at the seaside. (Who doesn’t love a good heart or bum shaped stone?) There is so much to write about her list that I will simply leave it for you to peruse at your leisure.Writer
shared from a raw, heartbroken place this week, leading in with these words that I felt like a heartbeat, words I have often thought myself lately - “…something about these last few months has made me brave in ways I’m still trying to understand, and so I thought , fuck it, I am who I am, and I am learning to love that person , and I LOVE YOU, and so here we are —”“Pencils up, dear one!” in a love letter to writer moms from my friend and fellow writer,
- on the “radical creative opportunities in grief” which felt like Diapause, too.
“Might the pain kill me? It certainly felt like it at times. Would grief destroy my life? That also felt like something that might happen, if I wasn’t careful, since the kind of things I’d been good at – caring for my kids, writing beautiful words, having good conversations with my friends, to say nothing of emptying the dishwasher, taking a shower or cooking soup - all became so insignificant, for a while I simply stopped being able to do them.”
“The air around me hums, hinting at change. I can feel the desperation grow inside me, the nearly ravenous search for green shoots…”
Gorgeous words, Jess, ones I can wholly resonate with. And thanks for quoting my piece. I see I’m in good company!
Love the poetry of this. And the photos - especially the one of your kids searching around for stuff on the beach. 🌿