Kind of fitting for just before Easter

It's been quite a few weeks. Just when I'm trying to sort out work/school details, life keeps happening...a memorial service/celebration of life, baby shower, poetry workshops, two fundraiser events (MS Walk and CN Tower climb), and I've had a lingering cough on top of everything. There hasn't really been much time or motivation to write...and I don't even have kids or anything...how do people do it?

I need to intentionally scale back some of my social stuff- it's not like I'm tremendously popular but I like to attend different events or activities and have a hard time saying no, and that doesn't tend to go well with studying lots, I hear:)

The lady in my church who died, whose celebration of life I attended on the weekend- it's hard to believe she's gone. I don't think I grieve well, if such a thing is possible- I tend to regress to five-year-old capacity and have a hard time absorbing loss, even if I'm not close to them. I have a number of close friends who have experienced significant loss close to them, and it's not something I can fathom. I don't know what I'd do, and I don't want to think of the possibility. See what I mean about acting like I'm five?

One thing I've noticed is that coming into contact with death makes me want to go visit my family more often, spend time with them, not miss out on anything I'd regret. It's that urge to hold them tighter as if to keep them safe. It's a big part of why I'm seeing my family at Easter, admittedly.

I came across a poem a number of years ago, in Patricia Maclachlan's book, Baby, which pretty much sums up my reaction to death, or expresses it the way I can't. I've returned to it several times because it's so honest, and I'd like to share it here:

Dirge Without Music

Edna St. Vincent Millay

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains - but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,
They are gone. They have gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

I don't mean that to be depressing, but rather an affirmation of life with all its joys and small moments of beauty. You should read it in context (borrowed, albeit) in Baby; it's a poignant tale told beautifully by one of my favourite authors.

Wishing you a warm rest of the week (come on, Spring!) and a happy Easter with loved ones.

xo.