Change
I’ve been paying close attention to the weather lately. Over the last few days, frost has claimed the last of the nasturtiums outside the kitchen door. The maple tree, as of yesterday, is bare, save for two golden leaves stubbornly clinging.
“The leaves fell so much earlier than usual this year,” I’ve been saying to my husband, as if we’ve been deprived of something; an extra week of gazing at them perhaps. “It’s gotten colder sooner.” He doesn’t believe me, but I’m pretty sure I’m right.
And then it occurs to me: I have a record.
It was just a year ago that two young filmmakers from Boston drove up to our house in New Hampshire to shoot the book trailer for Magical Journey. I was watching the weather pretty closely that week, too, worried it would be freezing by the time we finally had a shot list together and that late October would prove too stark and wintry to allow for the kind of carefree outdoor moments I’d been envisioning.
I haven’t watched the video myself for a year, not since the day I okayed the final cut and sent it off to my publisher to post on YouTube, with fingers crossed that it might inspire a few book sales. Perhaps some movie stars get used to seeing themselves on film or hearing the sound of their own recorded voices, but I doubt I ever will. It’s easier not to look.
A year ago, making a book trailer was just another item on my pre-publication to-do list, one more thing to worry about getting right and submitting by the deadline. This morning though, aware of all that’s changed since we spent a day filming footage for a three-minute movie, I clicked on the link and allowed myself a different kind of magical journey: a short trip back in time.
I have no idea if this brief excerpt ever moved anyone to buy a copy of my book. Unlike the video I made for The Gift of an Ordinary Day, which surprised everyone by going viral — with well over 2 million views despite its nearly 8-minute length –this one has had a far smaller audience. But I have to admit: sales or not, I’m grateful now for one October day in my life that was not only lived, but captured for eternity.
Watching the film that resulted from that day of shooting, I’m reminded once again of something I know deep in my heart to be true: it is the ordinary stuff of life that is most precious – the light through the kitchen window, a walk in the woods with a friend, tossing a ball for a beloved dog to catch, raking leaves into a fragrant pile, a chat over a cup of tea, a son’s quick kiss on his way out the door.
As I type these words, I can’t help but marvel at how relentless change is. How inevitable, how eternal, how unpredictable. I think of our two sons, each of them living now in distant states and following paths neither could have foreseen a year ago. They check in, text their dad during the World Series games at night, ask us to send them a few things from home. But the ties that bind are lengthening, stretching, and growing thinner all the time. Change propels us forward, urging us to unfold, to grow, to risk. Change separates us, too, demanding that we release our hold on what’s over.
And, at the same time, change challenges us to surrender, to accept, to soften into what is. Bright fall days give way to grey winter afternoons. The last leaves finally do drift from the trees. The ground hardens over, the sky darkens, a season ends.
Our dog Gracie, so eager to show off her fielding skills a year ago, tearing across the yard to snatch a ball out of the air, is thirteen and battling a sudden, advanced cancer. A week ago, we almost lost her. And then to everyone’s astonishment, she rallied, responding to good care, a barrage of drugs, and an enormous gush of love. (I always said I’d never cook for a dog. Last night, Gracie had beef stew for dinner, which she lapped — delicately, out of a spoon – while lying down on the dining room rug.)
“We have to take it day by day,” the kindly veterinarian warned last week as I took notes about her chemo treatments and wrote down what side effects to watch for and the schedule for her pills at home.
For the time being, she is doing well enough, holding her own. But as I sit next to her on the floor, kissing her nose and feeling with my fingertips to see if the lymph nodes on her neck are shrinking, the words “day by day” assume their own resonance. This, after all, is the way each one of us must approach our lives, appreciating all that we have for as long as we can. Day by day. Hour by hour. Precious moment by precious moment.
I will write more about Gracie. For now, though, I think I’ll simply say this: how glad I am that the need to make a book trailer last fall prompted us to catch our dear, fleet-footed girl on film when she was still healthy and in her prime. And how grateful I am for every quiet, pain-free day she is granted now.
As two fellow dog lovers reminded me last week, “She will let you know when it’s time to say good-bye.” I will trust in the truth of that and hope, for her sake and for ours, that we are wise and gracious enough then to let her go.
Meanwhile, for the record, it’s Steve who’s right. The hard frost came and the last of the autumn leaves fell this month just as they did one year ago. It happened the very same week, in fact, while the October Hunter’s moon waned in a cold, clear, star-strewn night sky. It is only in my own imagination, faulty and greedy as it is, that I’ve been short-changed — yearning as always for a few more mild hours, another golden day, a little more sweetness, a bit more time.
News. . .
It is a special pleasure to contribute to a new venture, especially one as elegant and eloquent as the lovely digital magazine Compose. The second issue, just published, is a treat for anyone who appreciates good writing. It is certainly a treat for me, as I find myself here in the excellent company of some writers who are both dear friends and esteemed colleagues, including Beth Kephart with an excerpt from her terrific new book Handling the Truth, and Marion Roach, who offers some of the best time-management advice for writers I’ve read anywhere. My own essay, about mean mail (ouch, yes, I’ve gotten some) is here. Take a look, and then please do share the magazine with your friends. If ever there was a publication deserving of some good word of mouth, this is it!
Congratulations to Gina Ricks, winner of a signed copy of “Ready for Air” by Kate Hopper. And a heartfelt thanks to all who took time last week to share intimate, moving stories about challenges faced and survived, losses endured, and lessons learned in life’s darkest moments. Your comments touched my heart. If I could have answered every one of them, I would have. Instead, as things turned out, I was making many trips to the vet, nursing our beloved Gracie, and adapting in ways large and small to our own “new normal.” Meanwhile, you reached out and wrote to one another, offering kindness and compassion and conversation. Thank you, dear readers, for being here and for making all those caring connections in this space. I am honored to share this online “home” with you!
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