Although it tries.

Spring and Easter, Man, a lot of shit happened in my life around Easter.


Several years ago at this time of year, I lost my Grandma Wright at the end of a long cancer battle. Her death came shortly after my beloved great-grandmother from my mother’s side also passed away. One of the women who most shaped me, kept me alive in the precious teen years with truths that

My little man a few weeks before his heart surgery. The photographer colored his cheeks.

My little man a few weeks before his heart surgery. The photographer colored his cheeks.

no one else would tell me, and loved me. That year both losses came about a week apart, very near Easter Sunday.

Baptism at Dawn

One year before that, my son was baptized at a dawn service on Easter morning.  A ritual done for the family believing his sweet, innocent, soul needed to be saved before the coming week when his tiny beating heart would be held in human hands. The week we all went through hell and came out the other side.


Grandpa Bill

My dear Grandpa Bill died on his way to work one Good Friday. A policeman called me to my grandmother. On the way I recognized his car, simply run onto a curb less than a block from his home; his soul barely time to leave his body slumped over the steering wheel. This image will be with me forever.


For years after these culmination of losses, each Spring, I slid into an inexplicable funk. My body reacting to memories and triggers that my brain trudged through like mud.  I say inexplicable, but of course it wasn’t, yet it took years of hiding under the covers, at least metaphorically, before I pieced these (and would you believe more?) tramautic events in the March/April/Easter corridor and decided to own it.

This morning I write it out.

and listen to of Monsters and Men, “Little Talks”

“Don’t listen to a word I say

The screams all sound the same

Though the truth may vary

This ship will carry our bodies safe to shore…”

Of Monsters and Men is a band from Iceland. I’ve referenced their songs here before, I love their work.

But then I think of Iceland

I recently read Iceland hasn’t had a live birth of a child with Ds in five years. I haven’t found a source that wasn’t just quoting another source quoting another. I haven’t found a valid, official claim or a medical statistic. (Europe does keep pretty extensive stats on these sort of issues.) So, I mention it here not because it’s confirmed true, but because it’s believable, not just for one nation but for many. Even if it’s not here, it’s coming. 

And that makes me sad for us all.

I’m working on so many words right now about Marcus, his travels, and his upcoming adventures. I am working on words to shed light on some of the amazing lessons he teaches.

I keep reflecting on the beginning of his life.

This. Guy.

This. Guy.

My Dear Marcus,

In those early days I held you close. I imagined I could will the beating of my own heart to strengthen yours. Heal the small flaw in your chest, the hole waiting to be mended. It was work for you to breath, to grow, to continue. I wonder now, if you were conceived by another, you may not be here to bless the world.

There are entire nations where a “face like yours” isn’t welcomed to your own birthday.

Of course, that’s an impossible thought,


as You


You could not be conceived of another.

You are a tapestry of the history of the universe beautifully made and given to me.

And to the world.  

I just, I don’t…

We are daunted but not crushed.

The corridor of memories and fear of the future that I walk through each spring, I do not walk it alone.

I am fully blessed and will get back to work cultivating and growing what is yet to flower.


SO – This was part of a blog hop that is one of my favorite pushers- to-write. Thank you Finding Ninee again. This week’s prompt – Spring Break. Look around and join!  And if you’d like to follow along on more of Marcus’ adventures, most of which are not as whiny as this – Join the Club here.