Darkness slinks off with the snow, slowly receding, as the sun dominates the hours of the day. Light lingers when I lay down at night, light greets me every morning.
Rise and behold the day, it seems to say.
So I do.
One week into summer break and my hands show signs of the gardens to come. The columbine, golden globe, zucchini, dill. Himalayan Poppies and Tiger Lilies.
Calluses form on my palms from shoveling, dirt resides under my finger nails from digging; because even when I start with gloves, they always end up on the ground, as my bare fingers reach into the soil.
I need to feel the roots, the rocks, the worms. Skin to skin.
During Elias's critical beginning, back when he entered the world at twenty-four weeks, once we could finally hold him, we practiced what is known as kangaroo care--the medical staff placed his bare body against our naked chests, carefully removing him from his isolate, three highly trained professionals making sure he stayed connected to his oxygen supply, IV, heart monitor, skillfully moving wires and tubes so they could merge his body with ours, his parents.
I couldn't put him back in my womb, but I could hold his fragile body next to mine.
Right alongside all the medical advances that allow one-pound babies to survive, soars the healing properties of human touch. Mightier than medication, stronger than science, tougher than technology: the connection of one person to another.
Elias's tiny heart against mine, not only helped save him, but helped restore my hope for a baby to call my own. Allowed me to believe, again, in the possibility we might bring him home. Reminded me to breath, to feel, to love.
I remember one night during the first two weeks, before I could hold Elias, after watching him turn blue, stepping aside as the medical team restarted his heart, knowing there was nothing I could do, telling one of my favorite nurses, "I'm scared to love him, knowing he might die."
"If he dies," she replied, "I think you'd be more upset if you didn't allow yourself love him."
Later, she would tell me before she became a NICU nurse, she lost twins who were born months too soon.
Perhaps I need skin to skin contact with the earth as a salve for all our human suffering. For all the tragic life-altering events that shatter us to the core. The black holes of grief that rearrange our synapses, quietly line our eyes, lengthen our shadows of sorrow. I dig my hands in the dirt as a way to nourish my bruised soul.
When I work in the garden, when I dig, weed, plant, seed, water, prune, a part of me feels as though I belong amidst the daffodils, iris, columbine, kale. Amidst the butterflies, moss, bumble bees, and even the slugs. It's as if my scarred heart stops searching for solace and settles into its original home, roots and all.
And in my small way, here on the side of Foundry Peak, I toil to heal the mother of us all. To rekindle life and beauty amidst the ugliness and pain. To watch in awe as nature's colors replaces winter's black and white.
To reconnect with the earth, skin to skin, heart to heart.
Comments