Seasons of sadness

There’s a tree at the end of my back garden.  A giant horse chestnut.  It’s my barometer of the seasons. Each year since we moved into our house 23 years ago this month (March), I’ve looked out at it longingly, waiting desperately for the first buds to appear on the bare branches, the first signs of spring.  This year I can barely look out of the window at all.

I hate winter and live for spring and summer, but this year I feel almost a sense of betrayal that Mother Nature can go on renewing itself, making buds and blossom, filling out bushes with new growth, even encouraging geraniums in sheltered places to fully flower.  Because all of this renewal marks the start of yet another season without my husband.

It’s a reminder of the passage of time, the number of days, weeks, now months since I saw him last, that the world keeps turning, getting on with itself, while I feel as though I’m reeling off in a different direction.

I first felt like this after my mum died.  She slipped away one May night, and as I walked back heartbroken from the hospital just as dawn was breaking, I couldn’t believe that the sun had the nerve to shine so brightly.  We had the summer and then before I knew it came autumn and a tangible sense that I was moving away from her.  She was still in Spring and I was being swept away from her, bundled almost, against my wishes into another month, another season, and then eventually another year.

As my husband died in September, we quickly moved into autumn without me noticing, and then deep and darkest winter, when it was fine to shut the door and close the curtains and just lie on the sofa and be sad. 

Yes there were lots of fun times and celebrations along the way – my special birthday, Christmas, New Year, a family wedding, trips – but in winter it’s easy to slap on a smile and join in for the short time each one of them lasts.  And in the many remaining hours, you can think and think, and cry, and start to plan but somehow without feeling the passage of time.

Spring has changed all of that.  Each day new life arrives outside.  The Acer in our front garden – the tree that my husband planted and always loved – is now lit up with crimson buds ready to burst into flower and light up the street. Usually my husband and I would look at it in awe, discuss with the neighbours how beautiful it is, take photographs of it to share with family around the country. But this year, well, I’m finding it hard to even look at it.

Time goes on and we learn to cope.  But it’s a hard lesson.

MY LOVELY PLACE FOR MARCH…

Is home…. Regular readers of this blog will know that this started as a celebration of my 60^th year, and then became a sort of life-after-bereavement with mention of special things, trips and adventures I was doing each month to still try to mark this year. With the coronavirus I guess the blog having to take yet another new turn because it doesn’t look as though I’ll be going anywhere but the garden for the next few months. 

The developments of these last few weeks and the lack of any certainty about the future, have sent me spinning back to September. Just when I was beginning to emerge from the turmoil of losing my husband and feeling like I was entering calmer water where I could think straight, I’m back being thrown around, out of control, discombobulated.  But one thing I am sure of is that I’m determined to still have some nice things to share. Stay in and stay safe.