A Sense of Wonder

I had one of those moments yesterday. You know the ones, where emotions suddenly overwhelm you for no discernible reason. This was deep, really deep. The kind that catches in your throat. You hold your breath and wonder if you can even let it out. The rush of emotion is indefinable: maybe joy, maybe grief, maybe hope and awe, all rolled into that one breathless reach for meaning in a mean world.

Even though I had just driven by the spot where, 26 years ago on a snowy night, my husband was killed in a head on crash by a teen driver who crossed the centerline — leaving me with a two-year-old to raise alone — that wasn’t what triggered it.

It wasn’t the joy that comes with having just re-connected with old friends, even if in a fleeting fashion, and with the uncertainty of whether there will ever be a future meetup.

I wasn’t contemplating in that moment the indignities of my ongoing “relationship” with ovarian cancer that recently led to emergency surgery after a tumor grew “just enough” to create a bowel blockage.

It wasn’t the hope and pride that comes with seeing your child succeeding as an adult, finding love, and living his best life.

It wasn’t that sense of frustration and unfulfillment that comes with knowing you’ll never accomplish the many things in life you hoped you could achieve.

It wasn’t that self-satisfaction that comes with having published five novels in 2 years, with another in the works, and a few short stories that might find a home.

It wasn’t the deep loneliness that comes with being a widowed empty-nester facing a terminal disease and contemplating the end of days for yet another pet who has burrowed into your heart.

It wasn’t the excitement of seeing a beloved underdog team achieve its highest honor, or the frustrations of seeing another fail in its mission.

It wasn’t both the excitement and pride in seeing a nation preparing to speak its truth to power, and yet the trepidation of what might come next if they fail.

There’s that moment when the sun in the autumn trees light up, brilliant blue sky behind, the golds and reds sending their hues in through windows newly shut against coming winter. That can take your breath.

But yesterday it was drizzling and hazy gray. The trees muted as the mist-weighted leaves softly fell to still-green grass or into the piles of the gathered dead, damp and soft, cushioning the fall with a gentle respect. Like an impressionist painting, the treelines peeked from the haze, periodically blurred by gathering moisture on the windshield, suggesting a moody mystery.

Maybe it was all of it. Or none of it.

The emotion is real.

I felt alive.

More alive than I do when they tell me my veins are starting to go bad from chemo and I’ll need to consider a port.

More alive than when I see sluggish sales for novels that I poured heart and soul into.

More alive than I feel as I slowly stroke my elder cat as he curls against me on the couch, unmoving for hours.

More alive than I feel watching friends and family share their joys and gatherings on social media while I watch night gather in the corners of the house.

More alive than I feel as winter stalks toward us, lengthening nights, feeling the urgency of the desperation that even when masked, comes through every encounter.

More alive than wallowing in the wishes for time to make that difference in the world, or the means to make change, or the ability to undo the burdens that weigh the soul.

I still don’t know what triggered it. There were so many things that could cancel that feeling. So many things. But, in my silent car, I found myself singing in tune with whatever had triggered tinnitus in that key (F?) a made-up song where the refrain was an affirmation that I’m not done yet, and not ready to go.

I think maybe it was an overwhelming sense of wonder. That I’d survived thus far. That I’m not dead yet and there’s a chance it won’t happen “soon” (though still “soon.”). That there was so much beauty to see while driving to the store in search of a furnace filter and cat food. That I could witness this magnificent masterpiece that nature could display beside a US highway.

And between the sun and the rain and the chill in the air, I could take so much joy on getting home to simply walk through the leaves and revel in autumn’s palate.

Cover photo of round hay bales in a field in Southeast Wisconsin by Meg Turville-Heitz, 2018.

Interested in hearing when there’s a new blog post, author event, publication becomes available or even a free snippet now and then?   Sign up for periodic news updates.

 

First Name

Last Name

Email address:

Leave this field empty if you're human: