Autumnal Grief, Autumn Gratitude

Yesterday I went back to the campus of Spartanburg Methodist College.  I am determined to give my students opportunities to get back on track:  for my English 100 students, we'll spend this week and possibly next writing the missing paragraphs and for my English 101 students, we'll write one less essay and their highest essay grade will count 20%, not 10%.

As I was going over deadlines in my English 100 classes, I wrote Nov. 1 on the board and realized that it's a week from Friday.  Some part of me wanted to sob.  I feel like I've missed one of my favorite months and one of my favorite seasons.

Of course, I haven't.  I went on plenty of walks during the weeks just after the hurricane.  However, I wasn't marveling at beautiful leaves on the trees, but trying to avoid all the trees on the ground.  I've been noticing all the changes in the weather, as I always do.  I've made some autumnal treats and enjoyed those made by others.

When I say I've missed autumn, I mean that I mean is that this autumn has been so very different than the autumn I was expecting.  Hopefully I will be able to look back and savor the unexpected good:  I had many more opportunities to have meals with my neighbors than I had planned, for example.

I think of the poems I haven't written, the poems I didn't send out in the increasingly brief window of time that many publications are open for submissions.  But there will be other poems to come out of all of this.  Traditional publication is increasingly precarious, so missing a submission season isn't really a huge deal.

I could continue telling myself to look on the bright side, and I will, but I also want to remember that it's O.K. to feel some grief.  I feel grief mixed with survivor's guilt--my house is fine, and eventually I'll be able to use the water without boiling it, and eventually I'll have in-home internet again.  I'm not trying to navigate contractors and insurance and home repairs, the way I have with past hurricanes.  It could be so, so much worse.

I feel grief, though, not for just myself and the ways that autumn will be different, but grief for the whole region.  I feel grief for my students and colleagues--we're still struggling, and I can see the weariness on our faces.  I feel grief for all the artists and farmers and restaurant owners and others who have lost their whole livelihood--and all the ways that loss will transform the region.

I think it's important to acknowledge the grief, to let myself feel these losses, to let them move through my body--for all the reasons we know why it's important to do that.  It's important to feel what I feel, while trying hard not to bog down, not to be able to move forward.

Above all, I'm trying to remain present, in this present moment--never an easy task for me.  I'm trying to remember the practices that can help me:  counting my gratitudes/blessings, praying for those who are not as fortunate, extending grace to one and all because we're all going through a lot.