Autumn Seeps into All the Spaces

Today one of my former colleagues will be laid to rest.  I deliberated for a long time about how to word that last sentence. 

In 2014, that colleague was diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer at the same time my high school best friend was diagnosed with Stage IV esophageal cancer. I remember looking up the survival statistics of both diseases and resolving not to do that again--it was pretty grim. My friend was dead a year later. My colleague managed to live long enough that I thought he might beat the odds.

But along the way, there were glimmers that he might not. He kept a blog where he talked fairly openly about setbacks. I knew that the numbers that he didn't want to rise were rising. But he had been lucky. I wanted that luck to continue.

It did not continue.  This year, more than other years, I feel autumn seeping into all my spaces--and not the apple harvest, pumpkin spice scented autumn.  I feel the haunted, mists rolling in, All Saints parts of autumn--the year gallops to its end, leaving me shaking my head and feeling like I've lost several months.

I got the news about my former colleague on Monday, and I spent some time staring numbly at the computer.  I wanted to do something so that I didn't spend the whole day staring numbly at a screen.

I decided that it was time to create what is now our annual Veterans Day interactive board. A few years ago, I created a bulletin board type space and invited people to put up a picture of their favorite veteran or a note of appreciation. We got a lot of participation, and now I put it together every year. I use some elements from past years and leave space for new additions.

It was an oddly satisfying way of grieving. As I constructed the board, the words from "For All the Saints" went through my head--another satisfying response.

I won't go to the funeral of my former colleague this afternoon.  We weren't close that way.  I will be at work, perhaps having an all-campus Academic meeting by phone.

I read other people's autumnal postings, and feel a yearning to carve a contemplative space.  I feel like I have a lot to process.  I am going on a retreat this week-end, but I fear I will remember it as a time of driving more than a time apart--the curse of living this far south on the peninsula.

But I will give myself a fighting chance.  I've decided to leave my laptop at home.  I'll bring my notebooks and pens, my sketchbooks and markers.  I'll bring books.

And let me also remember that I can carve out space in daily life too.  This space helps me do that.  And maybe I can help others learn to carve out space too.  Most of us don't have the luxury of the kind of contemplative space I wish I had.  The trick might be to learn to work with what we have.