Beautiful. I lost both my parents to cancer just before the pandemic. They were both keen gardeners and taught me how to sow seeds, take cuttings, grow flowers and vegetables. I feel closest to them when I have my hands in the soil. I hear my dad telling me how to prune the roses and my mum pointing at the right spot to plant a new bush. The grief is the love that doesn’t know where to go now they’re not here, so it’s directed at what we shared together: growing, harvesting, composting.
This is so beautiful, Jacqueline. Thank you. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to have cancer take both parents and then have to face the pandemic without them — and without the supporting infrastructures that crumbled during lockdown. Also, thank you for “grief is the love that doesn’t know where to go now they’re not here.” That’s exquisite.
It's hard to imagine that I lived only blocks from you during this time (4th Ave and 20th St.), and I was a complete shut-in with barely any support system. The lockdowns made my introverted life look "normal". But, I was longing for community and being newly arrived to Tucson, knew only a few people. I had just started to get out and do things in the community. I went into utter panic and terror that March, and almost lost a loved one to suicide just before the pandemic hit. It was a deeply painful time for so many.
The interconnected threads you weave in this story back and forth from life to death, health to sickness and back again, from heartache and grief to gratitude and joy, have brought such mixed emotions to the surface, especially in light of the pandemic and all that shrouds it. Thank you for sharing this, and although we never did bump into each other (that I know of!), we are always connected. Every single one of us. Always, even after death.
Thank you for this, Rebecca — and also for your own writing. Your latest piece about “failure” was so heartfelt. I read it after seeing your comment here and thought how amazing it would have been to know you as a neighbor back then, even in that horrible crucible of the pandemic. I suppose we are all still figuring out what community means in light of a transformed and “connected” world, and your ideas of connection here and in your piece on failure gives me a lot of clarity around that today. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Although we probably never met here in our once-shared neighborhood, I’m so glad I got to meet you here on Substack.
It feels like humanity will be figuring out the best ways to do community for a long while to come! Which is all good. I'm so pleased to hear that my memoir piece on failure resonated with you. And a blessing to meet you here as well, dear one 🙏🏼
Thank you, Eric. The poem resonates with such power today as it did when you first wrote it. Through your writing, I am reawakened to the joy of the Anastasi, the rebirth of faith that cultivates the fecundity of the soul. Thank you for feeding us on so many levels with your presence, your artistry, your agape.
Thank you, Eugenia. What a beautiful way to define Anastasi! With my seminary background, that word was always just tired to Easter, but your definition is one I will savor.
Beautiful. I lost both my parents to cancer just before the pandemic. They were both keen gardeners and taught me how to sow seeds, take cuttings, grow flowers and vegetables. I feel closest to them when I have my hands in the soil. I hear my dad telling me how to prune the roses and my mum pointing at the right spot to plant a new bush. The grief is the love that doesn’t know where to go now they’re not here, so it’s directed at what we shared together: growing, harvesting, composting.
This is so beautiful, Jacqueline. Thank you. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to have cancer take both parents and then have to face the pandemic without them — and without the supporting infrastructures that crumbled during lockdown. Also, thank you for “grief is the love that doesn’t know where to go now they’re not here.” That’s exquisite.
It's hard to imagine that I lived only blocks from you during this time (4th Ave and 20th St.), and I was a complete shut-in with barely any support system. The lockdowns made my introverted life look "normal". But, I was longing for community and being newly arrived to Tucson, knew only a few people. I had just started to get out and do things in the community. I went into utter panic and terror that March, and almost lost a loved one to suicide just before the pandemic hit. It was a deeply painful time for so many.
The interconnected threads you weave in this story back and forth from life to death, health to sickness and back again, from heartache and grief to gratitude and joy, have brought such mixed emotions to the surface, especially in light of the pandemic and all that shrouds it. Thank you for sharing this, and although we never did bump into each other (that I know of!), we are always connected. Every single one of us. Always, even after death.
Thank you for this, Rebecca — and also for your own writing. Your latest piece about “failure” was so heartfelt. I read it after seeing your comment here and thought how amazing it would have been to know you as a neighbor back then, even in that horrible crucible of the pandemic. I suppose we are all still figuring out what community means in light of a transformed and “connected” world, and your ideas of connection here and in your piece on failure gives me a lot of clarity around that today. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Although we probably never met here in our once-shared neighborhood, I’m so glad I got to meet you here on Substack.
It feels like humanity will be figuring out the best ways to do community for a long while to come! Which is all good. I'm so pleased to hear that my memoir piece on failure resonated with you. And a blessing to meet you here as well, dear one 🙏🏼
Thank you, Eric. The poem resonates with such power today as it did when you first wrote it. Through your writing, I am reawakened to the joy of the Anastasi, the rebirth of faith that cultivates the fecundity of the soul. Thank you for feeding us on so many levels with your presence, your artistry, your agape.
Thank you, Eugenia. What a beautiful way to define Anastasi! With my seminary background, that word was always just tired to Easter, but your definition is one I will savor.