On loss, limbo, and longing

This week my my husband's uncle died--the uncle who served as a father after my husband's parents died, so closer than the typical uncle, a man who carried a screwdriver everywhere on the off chance that he might find something to fix--and our neighbor up the road lost his wife this week too, a neighbor we've been particularly close to, the man who sharpened our chainsaw and played his trumpet at the party the day after our daughter's wedding, whose wife has been suffering from dementia for quite some time and whom we haven't seen since the quarantine began, and we've been doing all the things--phone calls and cards and sending flowers--but it's not the same, no big family funeral with hugs from distant relatives or friends we never get to see, no road trips to other parts of the state, no funeral dinners with loads of leftovers to take home afterward, no long, lingering conversations full of stories about the loved ones we've lost. Instead we stay home, look at the photos, watch it all happen from a distance.

My classes ended too, all except for final exams and grading, but the final Zoom sessions felt flat and unsatisfying. We congratulated each other for surviving this pandemic like the Pioneers we are (or claim to be), and I told them all I hope to see them in the fall, but who knows what will happen in the fall? "Watch your College e-mail for further details," I said, and I'll be doing the same, watching and wondering and waiting to adjust to whatever new conditions might arise while we're in limbo.

Meanwhile, back on the nest, our robin chicks are looking more like robins every day, rising higher in the nest to show off speckled bellies with rusty smudges. This morning I watched on our campus hawk's nest live stream (here) as an adult red-shouldered hawk disassembled a squirrel to feed the three fluffy chicks--a fine example of nature red in tooth and claw but also oddly soothing. And the woods keep calling me, despite wet weather, to look closely and see what new growth is bursting forth every day. On the forest floor, fallen trees rot and decay, providing nutrients for the rampant green cascading over everything, and even the most sterile stone teems with lichen and provides a footing for tiny forests of moss. 

Our time in limbo seems to bring only loss and decay, but I wonder what new thing is getting ready to burst into fresh life. Will the changes be bright and flashy or will they slither in unnoticed and stick around until it seems like something that's always been there? Either way, there's nothing to do for it but to keep waiting and watching and keeping our eyes open.

These tiny ferns were about the size of my smallest fingernail.

Tiny mossy forest on a rock.

Jack in the pulpit.

Colorful tree buds. Beech, I thnk.

Umbrella magnolias are beginning to leaf out.

Pawpaws!