Regarding the Fallen Apple

Microblog_MondaysI want to curl up inside this little gem from Louise Erdich’s The Painted Drum:

Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.

Sometimes what we really need is that unblinking acknowledgement of life’s cruelty and a nudge to find the courage to stay vulnerable anyway. We have no choice but to adapt ourselves around “what the universe gives” (Thank you, Mel) ideally without sacrificing the quest to rediscover joy in time. Here’s my foot, which I am placing in front of my other foot, repeat, repeat.

36 thoughts on “Regarding the Fallen Apple

  1. Life will break you indeed. Lord, I know I’ve felt that way on more than one occasion. Breathe in, breathe out. Foot forward. Other foot forward. Some days, that’s the only way to get through the day. I hear ya. I definitely hear ya on this one.


    • Yes, it’s like for awhile, just surviving the day and then the next day and then the day after that is all that can be managed. At some point the haze begins to clear and we can set our sights on bigger goals.


  2. You are doing amazing… And like I say.. I know there is joy out there for you still. It’s in the darkness now but the light will illuminate it soon enough. You’ll be vulnerable but try to lean on everyone around you who cares deeply for you … That’s probably not in your character but sometimes it’s very healing to have others pick you up for a change. With love-


    • The “yearning” thing struck a chord because I think the worst possible outcome would be to go through all this and STILL never get to be a mom to a live child. That means getting back on the treadmill with my embryos at some point, which is, like, oh my gaaaaaah right now, but I will because it makes me too sad not to.


  3. This is a small, but beautiful, albeit painful, post. I hope that in due course you will be pleased that you had the joy even if for a short time, that you will remember the joy with such love, that the pain will recede, even as you seek further joy.


  4. I wish there was a way to offer you some comfort, some consolation at all in this dark moment. For what it’s worth, I’m thinking of you and hoping for that baby that will bring you light and end this dark, dark period. If there’s anything you need of your “friends in the computer”, please let us know.


    • I’m working at the vulnerable, fear-facing part. There’s the issue of these 4 frozen, genetically screened embryos that feel like little lives to me plus my absolute terror at the idea of going through this again and my desperate need for this part of my life to reach a conclusion as quickly as possible. Conundrum…


  5. I’ve been away from the blogosphere. And to return to this. I’m sobbing. Tears and more tears pouring for you … a woman I’ve never met for the loss of the boy she never met. None of this makes any damn sense, and I have no elegant platitude of condolences. Just fuck.


    • Reading your words in “Reminders” gives me reasonable expectations as well as hope for a life that’s “full and fascinating” down the road, so thank you for that.

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  6. Shit sandwich indeed. There’s a really cheesy poem (nothing awesome like what you would write) in a book by Mary Engelbreit called Don’t Look Back. The first part goes “As you travel through life there are always those times when decisions just have to be made, when the choices are hard, and solutions seem scarce, and the rain seems to soak your parade. There are some situations where all you can do is to simply let go and move on, gather courage together and choose a direction that carries you toward a new dawn.” (I told you it was cheesy and it rhymes.) The end goes “So keep putting one foot in front of the other and taking your life day by day. There’s a brighter tomorrow that’s just down the road. Don’t look back – you’re not going that way.” It’s painful for me to even write that part, it seems a little too soon and too raw for you right now. I hope, in time, they are true for you. Hugs through the computer.


    • Thank you for the poem; it’s not too soon or too raw. The longing for a child is more powerful than ever now, so I have to admit I spend as much time hoping for something better in the future as I do grieving my boy and managing the wordless sadness I feel in the wake of his loss.


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