I have so many things that require “doing” right now – especially before the rapidly approaching holidays – and yet, here I am. I think it’s because I can’t get this out of my head, like a pesky fly you’ve batted away once only for it to return. And then return again. And yet again.
So here I am. Or maybe I should say, here we are.
Strangers are fascinating. Perhaps that’s simply because people are fascinating, so distinct and unique with these wild collections of life experiences through which they’re constantly filtering their present reality. But maybe there’s an extra level of fascination because “stranger” implies an unknown quantity. You can observe outward characteristics; like a middle-aged man, hurrying along the sidewalk head bent against the wind while his right hand fumbles with the fraying edge of the sleeve of his rumpled sweatshirt. I mean, you don’t know this man, and I don’t know this man – but I already have some thoughts about him.
Living in the Midwest, there’s typically an added layer of “friendliness” when it comes to strangers than you’d likely experience in other parts of the country. Pretty sure most people who’ve spent any amount of time in Chicago can speak of situations where they’ve had full on conversations with complete strangers, whether it be in a park, along the lake, or any other random location. Then of course there are all those “is it more or less awkward to talk or not talk to this person” situations, like on an elevator or in a shared Uber.
Now, in my world, I’ve gotten to the point of realizing and subsequently accepting that my mere existence and way of moving through the world is reason enough to inadvertently give permission for commentary and assessment. What do I mean? Well, for starters, I wish I could tell you the number of times I’ve just been rollin’ to the grocery store or to lab and have been told I better slow down or I’ll get a speeding ticket. (In full transparency, it’s been 10 years and I’ve never gotten a ticket 🤣). In most instances, the comments are kind enough or at least I can acknowledge they’re said with good intentions. Other times they are entirely unnecessary, like revving the engine and shouting out your car windows, “let’s go hot wheels!”. Now don’t get me wrong, 90% of the time I love a good conversation with someone I’ve never met and will likely never see again. Honestly, I think that’s one of the reasons I find airports so great (but don’t worry, I’m not *that*person on the plane who doesn’t stop talking when you’re clearly trying to read a book, or sleep, or get work done).
So where am I going with all this…
You know how someday’s you’re just in a really good mood? Like, there’s no particular reason, but when you leave your house, even though it’s a bit cool outside, you can’t help but think it feels fitting and that’s good. You look up, and even though it’s an overcast day, it feels right for a Friday in November, perfectly meshing in concordance with the fallen leaves you crunch through, a few more on the ground than yesterday, as you move to cross the street. This is me, painting my headspace as I left for school at the end of last week, moving along the same route I always go in my predictable routine. It’s early, but not ridiculously so and there’s a few other individuals out and about – all pretty typical, so naturally my mind is wandering, glancing at the newly placed Christmas decorations and thinking through what I need to do for the day ahead. Theres an elderly man walking towards me, a cigarette hanging freely from his mouth as he moves at a fast quip, one hand in the pocket of his jeans and the other swinging at his side. We come parallel to each other, me moving at my own rather accelerated pace, and I notice his free hand moving to his mouth where he removes the smoldering cigarette, looks down at me, and growls, “GIMP!”
I look down at my phone, swiping the familiar combination of the lock screen before clicking on my contacts and scrolling to the one I need. I take a quick breath and press the green phone icon to begin the call.
“Hey, it’s Sam. I’m here – any strong people arrived yet?”
I listen as the voice on the other ends tells me they’re so glad I came and they’ll send a few people down. “Sounds good, see you soon!” I respond, before hanging up the phone and letting out a long exhale. My wheelchair is already backed up against the brick wall of the apartment building as I’ve come to expect this moment. Maybe or maybe not relevant, but the typical progression of events before making that phone call usually involves five to ten minutes of me sitting in my car listening to music as I debate if I should or shouldn’t get out at all and make my way to the door, even though I know ultimately, I will.
I look straight out in front of me, taking in the blue cloudless skies and noticing the ever increasing density of the vivid green leaves on the trees as we progress farther into summer. I close my eyes and rest my head back against the wall, feeling the solid support of cement as I try to calm my racing heart and anchor my thoughts on something stable instead of my own anxieties about helplessness, inadequacy, and burden.
You see, on the other end of the phone call was the voice of someone standing in a room filled with people, people I have come to love and consider some of my closest friends in the city of Chicago. Friends I have no doubt I could call at 2am and (assuming they heard their phone ring) would pick up. More importantly, they’re this beautiful group of friends, each with unique life experiences and stories, coming together to learn about, grow in, and worship God in the comfort and intimate setting of someone’s home that was generously opened up to share with us all. It’s a beyond beautiful picture of what doing life together in friendship, love, and faith looks like.
The challenge, however, lies in the reality that said room and I are separated by two solid flights of stairs. And well, I can’t say stairs and I are on good terms…
I’ve been thinking about this post for a long time.
Not necessarily the exact words I would say, or even the general theme of what I would write, but more the “idea” of writing this post.
A ten year injury anniversary post. Ten. Years.
You’d think with that much time to contemplate what I’d write about, I’d have things planned out, my words flowing freely, and all the inspiration I could ever need to say something that was simultaneously authentic and impactful. But if I’m honest with you, I find myself sitting here, typing a few words of some hesitantly emerging thought, and then deleting them — repeatedly.
Where do I even begin.
You know, I can’t help but chuckle at the irony of that statement and my present struggle wondering how and where to begin given ten years ago those words and that thought were being used in a profoundly different context. A context where what felt like everything I had once known, how I had done the simplest of tasks, how my body worked, how people looked at me …. was instantly different.
Yeah. Where do I even begin.
I’ve jokingly commented to friends over the past few days that I can still remember when ten days or even 10 weeks with a spinal cord injury sounded like an eternity — but here we are. Here I am. At ten years. It seems and feels a bit strange to pause and realize I’m so far away from “that beginning” and obviously only getting farther away every passing day. I’m well aware of the old adage “time heals all wounds” and more than recognize how time often has this beautiful way of blurring the sharp edges of a memory into something more palpable and a little softer to the touch. Yet there do seem to be those certain life moments that refuse to fade. Goodness, I even say that as someone who has no memory of the entire first month post injury — lying in the critical care unit in Fargo, ND after a 10 hour surgery to stabilize my spinal column, on a ventilator, with a few broken ribs and a chest tube for my collapsed lung. Heck, I was actually restrained since I was apparently pretty agitated and had a tendency to want to pull out some of those very necessary tubes (pretty on brand that even konked out and injured Sam is feisty). I don’t remember any of that but I’ve seen the pictures and thank God for my lack of memory of that first month. But I do remember the vivid night terrors. I remember the pain, both physical and emotional, when I “woke” up. The exhaustion. The fear. All of the unknown and the questions and the worries and the wondering and…and…and.
How odd it feels to be sitting here ten years down the road thinking back to that beginning which feels simultaneously foreign and acutely present each morning when my alarm goes off and I begin moving my immobile legs to the edge of the bed as I transfer to my wheelchair to start the day. Like a beginning that both has and hasn’t ended. I mean, I’m still having “post-SCI firsts”…. some undeniably more enjoyable than others.
I don’t think it’s a surprise to anyone that right after an SCI your first and most important question is what’s next. What WILL things look like when you’re past the ominous “beginning”? What will or won’t heal? Will you always use a wheelchair? All those questions just edging around the actual question you’re both desperate and terrified to ask and have answered – Will you ever walk again?
I know now that walking is one of the lowest activities on my list of functions I wish I could have back, but that doesn’t change how I felt (or even the questions asked of my family members) ten years ago when *maybe* this wasn’t a permanent ordeal. When maybe my body wouldn’t be “broken” forever. When maybe my walking and sensation would be restored and I’d be fixed.
Restored. I’ve been thinking about that word a lot this week.
It’s come up in my science, as I think about restoring a particular “phenotype” or immunological environment by giving one treatment or another to a mouse. It’s come up while scrolling through instagram, seeing one of those before and after photos of an old worn out dresser now all spruced up after a bit of elbow grease and fresh paint. It’s come up as I’ve thought about and meditated on God and the ways he promises to and does restore.
“And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.” 1 Peter 5:10
How often we look around at our lives, the physical objects, the situations, the relationships, the experiences and we just want all of them to be fixed. Repaired. Restored. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, but it does make me wonder about our expectations around such restoration. What we think about the process to restore, or maybe more importantly if we even think restoration is a process. What we envision a “restored state” to look or feel like. How committed we are to participating in the act of restoration or if it’s something we feel should just happen, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.
Ten years is a lot of time. It’s a lot of time to have experienced; a whole collection of years that are now quote “under your belt.” It’s also a lot of time to wait. Waiting and wondering if restoration can or will happen, all while phrases like “new normal” or “you’ll adapt,” become a constant refrain.
I’m writing this while I sit on the balcony of my apartment, my back to the outside world as I attempt to get a few extra rays of sunshine on my shoulders as I face my reflection in the sliding glass door that leads back into my living room where the cat kids are both glaring at me (don’t ask me why, they hate it out here….). I see that girl in the reflection, a computer on her lap and her arms leading towards the keyboard as she sits with her wheelchair backed up against the railing. For all intents and purposes, she looks largely the same as she did ten years ago. Sure, a few more grey hairs, extra wrinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiles, and yea, much to her hard work and pride, larger biceps (Yes Mom, that was absolutely necessary to comment on). But the point remains, you put the reflection I’m currently facing up against a picture of Sam version 2013 and that exciting “Woah! Look at that dresser, it looks brand new!” reaction wouldn’t happen.
Well, at least when you look at my physical being…
2013: Transferring into a vehicle without a transfer board or help from another person 2014: Going back to school for a business certificate and contemplating the direction of my future career 2015: Traveling around the country with Mom as Ms Wheelchair America while learning a very different meaning of the word disabled than is so often assumed 2016: Integrating myself into the world of adaptive sports, including racing in my 2nd and 3rd marathons 2017: Beginning my training as an MD PhD student while also living on my own in Chicago 2018: Deciding which lab I will complete my PhD in and beginning to ask questions and look closer at the way medical students are educated to take care of patients with disabilities 2019: Passing Step 1 (one of the medical board exams) and transitioning into grad school to begin my PhD, proving to one of my interviewers from way back when who said it wasn’t possible, that you *can* do research while in a wheelchair 2020: Slowing down with the rest of the world, re-examining the things that matter and don’t matter 2021: Getting more engaged with my community at church as “in person” gathering becomes a reality again, recognizing how vital these people are to my life and the way I experience it 2022: Opening up my mind and my heart to experiences I haven’t been willing or confident enough to pursue or consider post injury while learning to lean deeper into the unique and worthy person God created me to be
Yea, my physical self is largely the same. But this woman, this woman who has weathered ten years of spinal cord injury life…she certainly is not.
I think most people would say they’re a different person than their self of ten years prior, but in my biased opinion, adding a spinal cord injury into the mix is like adding a catalyst to a chemical reaction. You find yourself desperately needing to ask and answer some of life’s most challenging questions. Your view of the world shifts (literally and figuratively) as you learn to roll with and through some ridiculous obstacles or statements made about your now disabled self, acknowledging a much larger picture of your existence and purpose.
To me, restoration after a spinal cord injury is not and never will be about my physical being.
It’s the relationships with my family members that have only grown stronger, and the friends that I know I could call at 2am for anything. It’s the ability to see myself as a proud disabled woman, my wheels both a critical and beloved accessory to any and every outfit. It’s the confidence to know that my injury has not and never will make me “less than” another, regardless of the actions of others. It’s the gratitude of being a child of a God who decided it wasn’t time for me to leave just yet and has kept me protected in his arms ever since.
This week and this anniversary hit me a lot harder than I expected. Maybe it’s the double digits and realizing there is no going back. I don’t know, I mean, yeah, I do sure look the same. But on this ten year injury anniversary, even after all the tears and reflection and memories of the past few days — I’m feeling a whole lot of restored.
A related/unrelated aside: I’m currently raising funds for Dare2Tri, a national non-profit adaptive sports organization that I serve on the Board of Directors for. If you’re interested in donating or learning more about them, check out the link below! https://p2p.onecause.com/2023r2rchimarathon/sam-schroth
When I moved to Chicago, one of the top items on my “must have in my apartment” list was a dishwasher. Well, that and being able to get into the bathroom which actually proved to be more challenging than I had anticipated. Funny story though, while I’m grateful for my dishwasher, the thing I can’t imagine living without is my in-unit washer and dryer. It sits tucked behind these cute little sliding paneled doors in its own little cubby, hidden but available whenever I need it.
I went to pull out some clean clothes from the dryer as I was getting ready for church last Sunday morning and in one swift pull those cute little doors came out of their track and began their rapid and simultaneous slow-motion decent to the floor. There wasn’t a thing I could do to stop their inevitable crash, aside from hoping it wasn’t too loud that it would disturb my neighbors. Out of place, lying on the floor and taking up an obnoxious amount of my wheeling space all I could do was shake my head as I looked at the bottom left corner. Splinters of wood, metal connectors rolling haphazardly across the living room floor, and a busted side piece….. well, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit thinking the whole situation felt like a bad omen for the day.
Things break sometimes. Granted, depending on the week or the month “sometimes” feels more like “always.” A bearing on my caster wheels that have called it quits on life, a glass bowl I managed to drop and shatter into way too many pieces, a dryer vent adapter destroyed by a feisty and obnoxiously naughty orange cat (yeah, there’s a reason those doors are important). So often our “stuff” falls apart or breaks.
Obviously, the same thing can be said about people.
I’m pretty convinced its a human requirement to have one of *those* weeks every so often.
I’m sure you know the ones… The weeks where no matter how hard you try, things just don’t go right. Nothing seems to fall in your favor. You question what you’re doing and why, wondering (while also already being convinced) that where you are is the result of pure luck and happenstance.
It’s especially exciting when one of *those* weeks stretches past the 7-day boundary and all of a sudden it’s been a month. A month and you’re still stumbling around trying to find your footing. Looking for an anchor. Haphazardly throwing your arms into the abyss hoping you’ll miraculously find something to grab onto and give you a sense of reason.
No no no, now don’t worry, I promise I’m fine (and yes Mom, I’m talking to you). But I also very deeply relate to those feelings.
Things are going fine, I mean yes, I’m making progress in my degree(s) which is great. And yes, I am STILL in school and STILL working towards that PhD. By way of an update, I’m currently in year four of my time in the lab and while I had hoped to be able to finish things up this spring, it’s gonna take me another year. All that to say, currently aiming for PhD completion spring 2024 after which I’ll return to medical school for two years to finish up my MD degree. Funny how sometimes you think you know what you’re getting yourself into and then you realize you actually had no idea.
This isn’t a letter you ever expected to receive. It’s also a letter you won’t want to read, let alone accept. Yet, the reality for you and countless others who will acquire a disability during their lifetime is that you don’t really have a choice.
One moment, the “accident” – a loaded word that you’ll struggle to use, has dramatically altered the trajectory of your life, disrupting the entirety of your future plans, interrupting all you had worked so hard to achieve. You were just standing there, in that front yard on that beautiful day, and it happened. The injury. The onset of disability. The moment.
That moment will exist on an infinite repeating loop in your mind over the next year as you search for a reason, trying to identify why you were the sole victim of that falling dead tree. You’ll wonder why it was you who had their independence stripped away, forced to contend with the challenges of navigating life on wheels instead of your own two feet. After all, a spinal cord injury isn’t for the faint of heart, a lesson you’ll rapidly learn as some of your assumed college “friends” become increasingly distant and ultimately disconnect. It hurts, it stinks, and even your mom’s “then they weren’t true friends to begin with” attempt to comfort you won’t help. But she IS right, friends don’t leave you in the doldrums of life. Try not to worry, you will find your people, and they’re so much better than your mind can even imagine.
Nine years of disabled experience down the road, I can say with certainty that you’re in for a ride (pun intended). That first year, well, it’s rough. You’ll have to re-learn how to do tasks parents are teaching their toddlers, glaring at your immobile lower body as you pull on yoga pants wishing they were jeans. Especially those jeans with all the extra bling above the back pockets — you’ll never stop missing wearing those jeans. There are exciting highs, like when you learn how to drive with hand controls, alongside undeniable lows. Lows that pulse deep into the soul of your being, gnawing at your insides until tears feel like a worthless currency. Yet as the years pass, you’ll be surprised that despite the numerous physical changes that accompany your new life as a paraplegic, the most drastic shift will occur with total strangers. A trip to the grocery store to buy eggs and your commended for being inspirational. A conversation in the park and it’s assumed you’re a hospital patient instead of your actual role as a medical student. Another day in that same park and someone tells you how impressive it is that you use a wheelchair and aren’t overweight. Assumptions. Bias. Ignorance. A triple threat that will continue to persist regardless of the growing comfort you feel in your own skin.
Not gonna lie, I don’t think that exhale was long enough to be able to process such a reality, but here we are, the end of my first day as a thirty year old. I’d guess a few of you reading this are chuckling to yourself thinking, “yup, been there done that” or perhaps you’re on the other side thinking “eh, I’ve got time.” I mean, increasing in age and reaching another milestone is just something you *know* will happen eventually, but those markers in time usually seem so far off that why even bother thinking about them?
And then it’s here. Face to face, smack dab in front of you, your-age-begins-with-a-new-number, here.
It’ll be a surprise to no one that while pausing to reflect on my entry into this new life stage, I’m humming along to the “this is not what I expected thirty to look like” song. But then again, I doubt there are too many people in existence (now or ever) who can say with sincerity that their life turned out exactly the way they expected and planned.
It always amazes me to think about the contrast between our expectations alongside the present reality. While I don’t remember having an extensive “this is what thirty will bring” thought session in my younger years, I know I had a number of assumptions. I was pretty convinced I’d be married, maybe even have a kid or two. I was definitely going to have a number of four-legged creatures under my ownership, some that slept in bed with me and my husband and of course a growing flock of wool covered ruminants. I’d be a veterinarian, out in the workforce, growing my practice and impacting the world by keeping the livestock that are so vital to our society healthy and happy. I’d be 6-foot tall, healthy and active thirty year old Sam, who wrangled sheep, laughed too loud, and drank more coffee than was recommended for a single person.
Funny how easy it is to paint pictures of the lives we once imagined. Less funny the little pangs you still get in your chest when you drift back to the present and feel those images fade. Then comes the indescribable guilt of acknowledging those feelings are even there and realizing the loss of something you never had still hurts and probably always will.
And yet, here we are. Well, here I am. Here I am at the beginning of year 30 looking back on 29 solid years (plus 1 day) of an unpredictable life that has filled to the brim (and beyond) with adventure, tears, excitement, frustration, and joy. A life chock-full of experiences that I don’t think anyone could have imagined. From countless 4-H meetings to Monday night swimming lessons at the YMCA. My own tiny flock of sheep (well, flock may be too generous of a word) and a never ending list of high school extracurriculars. Late night rounds as a community advisor in my college’s dorm and an acceptance to veterinary school. Of course that all drastically changed with a sudden and unexpected injury. Paralysis. ICU. Rehab. Then the agonizingly slow and exasperating process of figuring out how in the world to live and who I was in this body that worked much differently than it ever did before.
Regardless of who you are or what your life looks like, I think we all experience moments where our life seems to come to a grinding halt. Like if your life is this tiny little snowball that was gently pushed off the top of a hill. It moves slowly at first, but with each revolution it gets a little larger, adds some extra “experience” and gains momentum, rolling faster and faster and faster and then suddenly, someone just picks it up. And holds it. And everything stops. It’s a jarring experience, even if the “stop” is from something good. But eventually, that snowball gets set back down and starts its leisurely roll only to pick up more and more speed once again.
I moved to Chicago a little over four and a half years ago which oddly feels both like it was just yesterday and also a lifetime ago. To say I (and my parents) were a bit nervous about such a move would be a rather large understatement. It was my first time living alone… ever (I always had roommates or lived in a dorm situation). First time being on my own as a disabled woman and manual wheelchair user. First time living in a busy “downtown” urban environment. Needless to say, when I officially moved into my new humble abode, my Mom was generous enough to spend that first full week helping me get settled complete with numerous freezing treks to and from the nearby Bed Bath & Beyond and local grocery stores (I brilliantly moved in the middle of winter). During one of those treks to Trader Joe’s, Mom added a little orchid plant to our shopping cart saying it would “help bring a bit of life to the place.”
Naturally, she wasn’t wrong and that little orchid found it’s home on my desk where I saw it day in and day out, it’s delicate white flowers a little reminder of that first week in Chicago and the start of my next life adventure. Sadly those flowers, so paper thin and pristine, didn’t last forever. A few months later, their once vivid cream color began to fade as the petals began to wilt and slowly fell, leaving behind a solitary stalk and some lonely green leaves. Yet that orchid plant continued to sit on my desk. It sat there while I studied for my first medical school exam. It sat there when I got a kitten and those lonely leaves naturally received a few punctures. It stayed on that desk for those first two years of being in my first Chicago apartment, not blooming since its first appearance but just “being.”
I moved to a different building and that unflowering orchid plant made the move with me. I continued to water it (with a respectable amount of organized frequency) and it continued to grow, sending out new leaves while allowing the old to wither and die off. Year three and nothing. Still alive, still being watered, still receiving occasional teeth punctures in the leaves, but still no blooms. Year four and nothing. We’re talking 1400+ days with this plant and seeing zip, zilch, nada flowering excitement.
I know, I know, I haven’t written for a literal year (whoops, I promise that wasn’t my intention) and I’ve spent the last three paragraphs talking about a plant. Yet, as I sit on my couch this evening on the eve of my “eighth year with a spinal cord injury” anniversary looking at that very plant, I can’t help but chuckle and shake my head. It looks a little different today than it has for the past four plus years, and in some ways, I swear it’s showing off. A proud stem with those gorgeous little blooms standing tall, the soft but vivid creamy yellow hues a reminder of what its always been capable of and made to do.
Memorial Day — it’s already here. Or maybe, depending upon your perspective, it’s finally here. If you identify as a service member of the US military, my heartfelt thanks and prayers to you and your family. I can only imagine the sacrifices made by both you and those you hold dear, let alone the experiences you’ve had and memories that likely cross your mind today (and everyday) as a result of that service. I would guess today carries a lot more meaning to you than the “average” individual. A date viewed as the “unofficial” start of summer and an excuse to grill excessive amounts of brats and burgers shifts to poignant memories of decisions made and people you spent many long and difficult hours with. I can’t and won’t pretend to know what today must feel like for you, but know I (and so many others) are especially grateful for all you have done and continue to go through.
I think days to pause and remember are good things. A time to reflect, process, and let go of some difficult memories or maybe revisit and laugh at others. This Memorial Day is a uniquely special one to me as it lands on May 25 — the seven year anniversary of my injury. I was injured at age 21, so as of today, I have officially lived in this “wheeling existence” for a third of the length of time I lived walking. Such a, dare I say, accomplishment may not seem like a mark worth noting, but thinking back to a time when living seven days as a wheeler seemed impossible…. well, making it and thriving (generally) for seven years is a beautiful thing.
Unsurprisingly, this anniversary feels quite a bit different than the previous six. Sure, perhaps some of that is the result of the classic “older and wiser” adage, but I’m pretty sure I can give a large nod to the state of the world and our country as we’re forced to contend with the unknown of the coronavirus pandemic. I’m experiencing this anniversary some 200 miles away from my family as I continue to “shelter in place” in IL, social distancing from friends, and spending more time with my cat than is probably healthy (though I don’t think she minds anymore…). I’ve had anniversaries away from my family before, all of which could be attributed to the grind and commitments of a dual degree training program, but this, “you probably shouldn’t be at home right now” is obviously a bit different. It feels strange to not be able to laugh side-by-side with my sisters, shake my head at some ridiculous remark made by my Dad, or give my Mom a huge hug and tease her about her “convict” ways when I was in the rehab hospital and she would “steal” forks and mayo packets from the cafeteria so we could make egg and/or chicken salad in my hospital room (true story). I guess I just didn’t expect this to be the way this anniversary would go down. And you know, I’m pretty sure I’m in the same boat as the majority of the US when I say I didn’t ever expect something like this to happen.
That’s the funny thing about life and expectations, right? They rarely align.
While I don’t intend or want to minimize the implications and impact of a global pandemic, I can’t help but notice the parallels that exist between the experience of now and what I went through seven years ago. A world seemingly turned upside down. Questions of if things will ever feel normal again. Wondering how and what it will look like to return to work or school. Having to adjust and adapt on a daily if not hourly basis as you learn more, enter a new environment, or want to perform a different task. Having to maneuver and go out into the world with some additional physical items (though I promise you, masks are much cheaper and easier to manage than wheelchairs…even if they consistently fog up your glasses).
I know today isn’t actually the end of the year, but there’s something about the winter solstice that feels like a conclusion. The shortest “day” of the year, marking the end of that slow march towards less and less sunlight we’ve all been experiencing since the middle of summer. Funny thing about conclusions, they often serve as both ending and beginning.
For example:
I finished my first quarter of graduate classes, and I’ll begin my next quarter after the holidays.
I just burnt through my Christmas tree scented candle, and now I’ll light the wick on another wintery smelling candle (literally, the candle is called “Winter”…. don’t ask me what winter smells like).
A Hallmark Christmas movie ended a few moments ago, which means another one with basically the same story line (just different actors) starts in t-minus two seconds.
Endings and beginnings, they’re almost hard to separate but we do it anyway. Maybe it’s to help compartmentalize all the experiences and stories our lives contain, setting them in boxes and storing them away, maybe to be opened or maybe to avoid opening. I know I have a “my walking life” box that gets opened on occasion, memories and experiences I love to remember sitting right on top, ready to be pulled out and put to use. But of course, there are those memories I shove down deep into that box’s corners, forgetting they even exists until one gets caught on something and is unexpectedly brought into my consciousness.
It’s that ending of one part of my life and beginning of another that I can’t stop thinking about today; contemplating the threads found woven through both pieces and those abruptly cut off and never restarted. Perhaps its the shortness of the day and temporality of the daylight that are serving as a reminder of all those things that came to an end much earlier than I had ever expected. Expectations, maybe that’s where I’m going with this post (I’m a bit out of practice…it’s been awhile). Continue reading →
I know today isn’t actually the end of the year, but there’s something about the winter solstice that feels like a conclusion. The shortest “day” of the year, marking the end of that slow march towards less and less sunlight we’ve all been experiencing since the middle of summer. Funny thing about conclusions, they often serve as both ending and beginning.
Never Sitting Still 