A few days ago, I had a meeting downtown at Superior Coffee. On my way home, on a whim, I stopped by Carteret Methodist and picked out a big orange pumpkin. And a couple of little white pumpkins. And a gourd.
It was October 27th. I was lucky there were still pumpkins and gourds to be had… especially considering the Christmas decorations were already up on Bay Street.
(It’s true! Skeletons and Santas have been shamelessly sharing our public spaces. It’s unseemly!)
So, yeah. I was a little late getting my pumpkins. But I took it as a win, because I don’t think I got any pumpkins at all last year. If I did, they’ve gone down the memory hole with so many other First Year of Grief recollections.
(Either God, in his mercy, protects new grievers from complete despair by ensuring we forget two-thirds of everything that happens that year… or I have early onset dementia. I prefer to believe the former.)
Anyway, I set my belated pumpkins and gourds in my front yard by my azalea bushes, with my old clay pots and urns – the ones I typically plant with Begonias but are now full of weeds because I guess I forgot this year – and they looked very pretty, and that made me smile.
It’s cliché to say so, but it really is the little things.
Have you been paying attention to the little things? It can be hard, especially when the holidays start racing toward us while we’re still trying to book a Ghost Tour. Throw in election season, and the little things can get lost under a mountain of campaign flyers, public meetings, and general ill will.
But not for me. Not this year.
As I write this, election season is at full fever pitch. By the time you read this, it will be over. And I will probably feel exactly as I do at this moment. Because, for the first election season in my adult life – that I can remember, anyway – I simply zoned out. As hard as I tried, I just couldn’t pay it proper attention.
I know this makes me a bad citizen, and I am not making excuses for myself. I dropped the ball, neglected my civic duty, and I’ll have no right to complain about anything that goes awry – in my community, my state, my country, or my world – from here on out.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I voted. I will always vote. But I didn’t study the candidates and issues as deeply as I should have. I didn’t get into enough Facebook arguments, didn’t post enough provocative memes, didn’t send enough cyber smoke signals to my tribe.
This year, it all just washed over me like so much white noise. I promise to do better next election season. Maybe.
For now, the little things are just about all I can handle. I’m not sure why, exactly. It’s been a year since I lost my husband, so I can’t keep playing the widow card.
But y’all, the widow card just keeps playing me.
Here’s what I mean. Here’s what can happen after a full stinking year of widowhood…
You can spend a whole weekend, a LONG one – Thursday through Sunday – at the Pat Conroy Literary Festival. You can hobnob with big-time writers, swan around at parties like the cool girl at the senior prom (emphasis on ‘senior’), listen to panel discussions that set your mind on fire, connect with people who ignite your soul, even interview a famous actor on stage – Michael O’Keefe! – and have it go seamlessly. You can wear your funky velvet dress and your new boots and feel gloriously in your element. Like, you’ve got this. You’ve really got this.
And then you wake up Monday morning and all you can do is sob. I’m talking ugly, guttural sobs. Not because the festival’s over – you’re exhausted and it needs to be over – but because you had such a good time. Without your husband. Your husband is dead – dead – and you’re living again.
And it feels wrong. Like the end of an era. A terrible era, but an era. And you’re not ready.
That, my friends, is how the widow card plays you. Over and over again. It’s how the big things – the things that pick you up, engage you, and make your spirit soar – can also drop you hard.
So I’m easing back into the big things. But it won’t be the same this time. Because I am not same.
Because I’ve learned it’s the little things that sustain you. The last-minute pumpkin spree. The moment of whimsy. The kindness of a stranger at Publix. The changing light on the marsh in early morning. The humorous crow staring at you from a neighbor’s fence. The unexpected phone call from a friend.
The big things are important. The big ideas, the big arguments, the big elections. They matter. Sometimes, they matter a lot.
But when the life you’ve known and loved is utterly shattered by loss – when you have to rebuild it, piece by fragile piece, and you’re not entirely sure you can – it’s the little things that sustain you.
