the grief and the joy (yet again.) (always.)

Millie, back in 2005 

In late April, it was the middle of the night and I was driving home from the airport. While driving, I started to imagine pulling up to the house and walking up the steps and then in the front door to our golden retriever Millie's face right there waiting for me. I had the thought, "I hope Jon's still up to help me carry my bags in."

And then I remembered that I was driving home to our new house and I'd be pulling in the garage. No steps. And then I remembered that Millie died earlier that month.

My breath caught in that way it does when the grief rushes in.

I turned up the radio and sang country songs at the top of my lungs the rest of the way home.

Earlier in the day, I'd been talking to my friend Lori about, well, everything, and I remember saying something about how the quiet way I'm holding my grief for Millie reminds me of a line from a poem I wrote about the days after my grandmother's death - "the open wound that people saw as me."

(Have you ever felt that way?)

The day after Millie died, we got the keys to our new home.

The joy and the grief. Hand in hand.

The new house is full of so much light. And space for this business of mine that has grown. And enough room for entertaining again and for Eleanor to run in the backyard and for Jon to have a little space just for him and for guests to feel comfortable in their own space. And the walls are painted blue now and they make me so happy I could burst.

And yet as I write these words sitting in my favorite chair, my faithful friend isn't curled up on the floor beside me snoring like she's always been when I write here on my blog or send newsletters to you.

The beauty and the sadness.  

As I watch the news and am surprised yet again that Trump's words can shock me, as I wonder why we are so divided but also see (some of) the reasons why, as my heart hurts thinking about it all, as I miss Millie, as I get news of a dear friend's cancer returning, as I hear of sadness in loved ones' lives, as I listen to Prince, as I wish I'd said things differently, as I hold space for so many stories, I sometimes wonder if perhaps a part of us is always an open wound of sorts. 

And then just as I begin to think that's true, someone sends me a lip sync video or Eleanor tells me a story about her stuffies or Jon takes my hand and squeezes it or I literally clap with glee hearing Jimmy Fallon tell a story about playing ping pong with Prince or I find myself dancing in the kitchen of my new house because I just can't stop myself as Fleetwood Mac spins on the record player or I notice the flowers in the backyard that are finally starting to bloom.

Because even when we hold so much grief, joy finds us.

Today, I just really want you to know that I deeply believe that joy is out there even when it feels far away, even when a part of us feels like an open wound. I hope you can believe that too. And if you can't today, I'm sitting right here beside you believing it for both of us. 

(Some of this post previously appeared in a newsletter love note. If you'd like to receive notes like this in your inbox, sign up here.)