There’s a superstition that deaths happen in threes.

I have my own superstition, one which prevents me from speaking aloud the fears of my heart… just in case doing so would speak them into existence. Perhaps it’s a bit delusional. Paranoid, even. The kind of thinking that develops as one tries to adapt to an unpredictable environment, but that perhaps is material best explored at a later date.

In the throes of grief, though, there is joy. Life goes on, even if it feels like it’s slowed to a pace that isn’t moving. One life ends. Another life, two lives together, begins. The seasons change. Maybe this is spring.

So I sit on the cusp of another change, on the edge of a new year in which massive life changes will occur (only some of which will be planned, intentional), weeks away from the last thing I wrote, and feeling a not-quite-yet-ness to the impulse I have to create.

But the impulse is there. Buried under grief, under inertia, under a seasonal breaking I have come to anticipate as much as dread. I have no idea how to begin. I have no idea where I am. I am surrounded by a sense of impending. Underneath the winter, there is still a dormant soul. Maybe this is spring.

Much love,

BH ❤