As I approached the doors to my church this past Sunday, a shadow of melancholy flitted across my consciousness. It appeared and disappeared so quickly I might have missed it if I had been even slightly distracted. But, as luck would have it, I was in a contemplative place at that moment and keenly aware of my feelings.
The source of the melancholy is no mystery to me. It is the last remnants of a sadness borne of the grief of losing a dear friend. Like the smell of ash after the flame has been extinguished, it reminds me of a painful fire but has lost its power to burn. It is transforming and has been since its beginning. From its initial anguish and sorrow to grief and sadness and now to melancholy, it is changing, ripening. As the sorrow diminishes, the memory sweetens. Some day I shall look back and cherish that time without my heart feeling as though it is breaking. That is the hope I cling to. I've walked this path enough times to recognize familiar landmarks along the way. I also know you can't rush the journey or take shortcuts. That would be like trying to will an apple to ripen prematurely. There's a reason why my grocery store charges more for "vine-ripened" fruit - there is value in letting the process evolve naturally and fully.
My friend also went to this church and I feel her absence particularly strongly this time of year. She was an active sort, the kind to step in when something needed doing. In my memory, she was particularly active during Advent and Christmas and it doesn't surprise me that her shadow would make its brief appearance now. That's how it seems to work - the places and things where our lost ones were most present is where they now feel most absent. Remembering them can bring joy and sorrow in a single thought. A bittersweet apple not yet fully ripe.
