“When you seek love with all your heart, you shall find its echoes in the universe.”
As to other matters, today I found my melancholy around the upcoming holidays increasing. It is being triggered by things like knowing that Laureen will not be here this year to prepare our Thanksgiving dinner. No stuffing, no turkey, no cranberry sauce. Actually I think the cranberry sauce in particular was a trigger for me. I don’t even know if she ever wrote down any instructions (otherwise known as a recipe) on how to make the cranberry sauce.
In my entire life before Laureen I had never eaten cranberry sauce. It was one of those foods, of which there were many, that just upon sight I determined I didn’t like it. Well, Laureen never let me get away with that. So when she presented her cranberry sauce to me, so many years ago now that I don’t even remember clearly when, I had tried it and I had liked it and although the recipe was not overly complicated, it was truly something that was simply and uniquely hers and now it is gone because she is gone and even if I could make it, and do make it, will it taste bittersweet for the lack of the love and care with which she herself made it?
I believe that I am but a poor substitute for her uniqueness. And yet somehow I must soldier on and put a brave face to it and maybe somewhere down the road there may come a day wherein preparing the cranberry sauce as she once did will be an act of celebration of her life and a quiet acknowledgment that YES, Laureen was here, once upon a time, and that she left us all with so many wonderful gifts – gifts created from her love and her compassion and her joy for life. But it is oh so difficult for my bereft soul to find that place right now. I feel only sadness and loss and grief and I miss her so. . .
Clearly I do not find myself in one of Shakespeare’s comedies wherein . . . “All the world’s a stage . . . And we . . . merely actors.” And yet, sometimes even my own emotions betray me. Loss, grief and tears in one moment; followed by a smile and a tender laugh in the next. What kind of life is this? What kind of theater that knows such pain and yet can still feel joy? How is it that we are to make sense of all of this? What is our final resting place, our point of refuge? Do we surrender to love alone and trust in that regardless of circumstance – that love, or the want thereof, will suffice until such time as we tire and, “go gently into that good night?”