Bess, I found your words a few weeks ago and I just wanted to say your solstice essay has touched me deeply. I watched the newgrange livestream this week and was very moved, so reading your reflection was perfectly poignant. Im so glad you were able to visit in person and I’m so glad there is a glimmer of light for you both right now. Imagining you both eating ice cream and writing together warms my heart. Solstice blessings and a peaceful new year to you both. ❤️
An old friend sent me this at 4:32 am today. At 1:30 am I had fallen in my bedroom returning from a sleepy, staggering trip to the bathroom.
Falls for me are a daily occurrence. I have a degenerative brain disease that’s aggressive and cruel and often keeps me awake at night. So when my old friend sent me your essay at 4:32 am, I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking.
Bess. like you I’m a writer. My disease forced me to retire from my profession as a high school English teacher. To keep the fires of hope and sanity and perspective burning, I like you and Jake have been “writing furiously” to connect me other people and”preserve” my life for the future. I have published two books about learning to live a meaningful life while staring hard at mortality and also write a weekly letter on my blog about life lessons. So when my three adolescent children grow older, I will be with them, helping them, comforting them—so they might not feel so damn alone.
I’m never thankful for fall. However, my friend somehow knew our stories had to meet. And 4:32 am is as good a time as any to hear someone’s story and be thankful.
Jay, it’s good to hear from you. I’m going to check out your writing right now :) I hope you’re doing okay after the fall! The ER doc in me worries. I love the idea of writing for your children in the future. Having the words of someone you love is precious.
This is beautiful. We buried a daughter named Ember, and this essay has touched me in ways that are hard to explain. Thank you for shining a light in the darkness, even through your shared and awful pain.
Thank you, Zawn. I’m honored that my words were meaningful to you and that we could connect. It’s easier to find the light together. May Ember’s memory be a blessing.
I’m so happy to read about the possibility of stable disease, and I know what you mean about “borrowed time”—that phrase has been used a lot in my family as well. These milestones that we weren’t sure we’d make—it’s wild to take day by day, moment by moment, and what else can we do? Sending so much love to you both.
I hope light finds its way into all the dark corners of your life this year, Emsé. You’re so right, there’s nothing to do but take it day by day, and maybe sometimes pivot and think about future days and imagine them happy, as a little treat.
‘There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in’. Leonard Cohen
Bess, I found your words a few weeks ago and I just wanted to say your solstice essay has touched me deeply. I watched the newgrange livestream this week and was very moved, so reading your reflection was perfectly poignant. Im so glad you were able to visit in person and I’m so glad there is a glimmer of light for you both right now. Imagining you both eating ice cream and writing together warms my heart. Solstice blessings and a peaceful new year to you both. ❤️
To you as well, Lindsay. Thank you for reaching out and for your kind words.
Greetings Bess and Jake,
An old friend sent me this at 4:32 am today. At 1:30 am I had fallen in my bedroom returning from a sleepy, staggering trip to the bathroom.
Falls for me are a daily occurrence. I have a degenerative brain disease that’s aggressive and cruel and often keeps me awake at night. So when my old friend sent me your essay at 4:32 am, I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking.
Bess. like you I’m a writer. My disease forced me to retire from my profession as a high school English teacher. To keep the fires of hope and sanity and perspective burning, I like you and Jake have been “writing furiously” to connect me other people and”preserve” my life for the future. I have published two books about learning to live a meaningful life while staring hard at mortality and also write a weekly letter on my blog about life lessons. So when my three adolescent children grow older, I will be with them, helping them, comforting them—so they might not feel so damn alone.
I’m never thankful for fall. However, my friend somehow knew our stories had to meet. And 4:32 am is as good a time as any to hear someone’s story and be thankful.
Be well,
Jay
Jay, it’s good to hear from you. I’m going to check out your writing right now :) I hope you’re doing okay after the fall! The ER doc in me worries. I love the idea of writing for your children in the future. Having the words of someone you love is precious.
John Donne's A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy's Day (easily found by googling) is a great meditation on the solstice, and loss.
This is beautiful. We buried a daughter named Ember, and this essay has touched me in ways that are hard to explain. Thank you for shining a light in the darkness, even through your shared and awful pain.
Thank you, Zawn. I’m honored that my words were meaningful to you and that we could connect. It’s easier to find the light together. May Ember’s memory be a blessing.
Your writing is much like one of those dragon light corn bulbs.
I’m so happy to read about the possibility of stable disease, and I know what you mean about “borrowed time”—that phrase has been used a lot in my family as well. These milestones that we weren’t sure we’d make—it’s wild to take day by day, moment by moment, and what else can we do? Sending so much love to you both.
I hope light finds its way into all the dark corners of your life this year, Emsé. You’re so right, there’s nothing to do but take it day by day, and maybe sometimes pivot and think about future days and imagine them happy, as a little treat.