The leafless tree stretches her numb limbs beseechingly to the harsh blue sky, begging the winter-thin sun to relieve the unending frozen pain that goes down, down, down into her roots. Does life still dwell in the dark underground? If so, she cannot feel it. Does the ravaged, winter-torn soul of the birch merely slumber? Will she waken to a fresh spring?

* * *

I waken suddenly, as always. As always, it is too early, and the sky is devoid of color. It is too early even for dawn's rosy fingers to begin to beckon to the world. But I cannot pull the covers over my head and pretend, for it is far too late to pretend. All child's play has been burned out of me, burned with a fire so scorching that I am left with the constant smell of singed flesh in my nostrils. I cannot pretend, not even to myself, especially not to myself, not even about inconsequential things like wakefulness.

Sighing, I rise, the heaviness of reality dragging me earthward with a gravitational weight that far exceeds that of our planet. My slippered feet clomp heavily on the stairs, even though I step carefully, because I cannot maintain any semblance of grace while so laden. I open the back door first, for my dog is old and needs to commune with the frosty grass.

The morning paper and my loudly hungry cat wait at the front door. “Hush, Frost,” I whisper as I pour food into his dish. Amazing, the noise of kibble dropping into a ceramic dish, when all the world yet slumbers. Poor Frost. His fat brother, Poe, deserted him months ago, preferring the opulent fare of an indulgent neighbor to the spartan kibble of my home. Eliot disappeared mere weeks ago. Did Eliot drift off in search of new adventure? Was he the victim of a careless car? I will never know, but Frost is now an orphan. He howls his displeasure to me every morning. Loneliness. He knows that I understand about loneliness.

A parting purr and I bring my paper into the kitchen. I love my 1920's kitchen and its well-worn floor. The floor is like me – scarred and pitted, but still able to perform its essential function. I hope the analogy ends there, because I prefer not to lead a walked-on life. What is my essential function? Another sigh. Perhaps the floor has the better existence, for at least it knows its purpose.

The morning coffee and newspaper is an American ritual. I cling to ritual – it is all I have left. The ritual of morning coffee, afternoon mail drop, and evening supper, where, if I am lucky, a friend or family will come to call, relieving me of the embarrassment of eating alone. I don't mind drinking alone. How is it that a glass of wine alone causes people to raise their eyebrows? Yet I am left, night after night, to endure alone that most social of events, the evening meal. This should raise eyebrows. This should cause neighbors to blush in shame. It is unacceptable. It is unendurable. Yet, most nights, I eat alone, as I do this night. Carefully, I rinse the dishes and wipe the counters. I blow out the candles on the dining room table, and retire to my room for the night.

Another morning. The sun climbs higher and earlier as sporadic rains punctuate the growing green glory of spring. Today, though, the sun awakens me with its beckoning rays. Awake! Awake! Remember who you are!

I remember. I remember that I am alone. After twenty-five years of nuptial communion, I am alone. Solitude does not seem such a burden this morning, though. I am curious. What else should I remember?

I remember, of all things, yogurt. Yogurt? It comes back in a rush. I always started my day with lemon juice and yogurt. Lemon juice to release the calcium into my pre-menopausal calcium-thirsty body. Yogurt to sooth the intestinal tract, to keep it healthy into a ripe old age. Tea. I always drank tea. Black tea. Green tea. Herbal tea. They all have medicinal value. Most importantly, they are a delight to the mouth. Such subtle flavors to enjoy.

There is no more time to indulge in philosophical wanderings. I wend my way down the stairs. Funny, gravity seems to pull less frantically at me this morning. As I tend the animals, I place my teapot on the stove and wait for its whistling. Tea. Where is my Darjeeling tea? Why do I not have my favorite, Darjeeling tea? I write it on the shopping list, along with yogurt. There are lemons in my refrigerator. I use lemon on my salad. I don't like the heavy, oily salad dressings that most favor. A drizzle of lemon is fine.

I never forget that God loves me, I muse. Intellectually, I know that God is in love with me. But my image of myself is so bruised and broken that it is difficult to realize just how in love he is with me. Yet I know that there is no place he would not go to be with me. He has proven this over the past two years. While I have walked the valley of the shadow of death, he has been with me. He is with me still.

“What do you have to say to me, God?” I ask aloud. “Why have you allowed me to be so completely crushed? What good am I to you now, crushed and broken? What good am I to you, alone?”

He answers me. He always answers me. Have I mentioned that God talks to me? He grants me sights and words and insights that I call knowings . “Oh, child,” he coos to me, as a mother to a baby, “It is only now that I can use you.”

Did I mention that his responses are not often comforting?

I remember the first knowing. I had a vision of myself, submerged in a viscous, light-filled pool. The liquid itself was imbued with millions upon millions of points of light, and each of those points were a tangible symbol of the love of God, love poured out through others. I could point to the points of light that were my husband's love, those that were my grandparents, and on and on. I drank the liquid, breathed the liquid. I looked down at myself. Through the thousands of cracks that were the fragments of my life tenuously pieced together, the light of love shone brightly through. I thought, “Surely, others must be able to see this love.”

What's more, I realized that the light would not have been able to shine through if I had never been broken. It was through the cracks that the light shone, creating dazzling, sparkling patterns on those around me.

I sigh with the memory of that vision. God speaks truly. It is only now that he can use me.

* * *

The birch's broken branches lie melancholy, twisted and bent in the wind. For now, her slumber continues. It may be that her winter will never end, but there is hope. There is always hope. There is only hope. Sitting alone in the crotch of the tree, a mourning dove coos an alchemic hymn.

 

---(c) 2005 Cherie Renae - may not be reproduced without permission