Turning the page
There are many of them to turn right now, it seems. How are you handling life's transitions and bigger moments?
The first true cold run of fall, even after all these years of running, takes me by surprise. The brisk air as I stand on the porch, figuring out which podcast episode I’ll listen to, my body’s shivering at the start and for the first half-mile, the way the sun slants differently through the leaves and pools on the trail—all of this shows up on the heels of hazy September summer days.
It feels sudden.
But this is the first week of October, so it shouldn’t be a surprise at all. Really, this shift is right on time, if not a bit later than usual; we’ve been lucky to have especially warm, blue-sky days up until now.
As I veer off the main, wide trail onto a winding single-track path hugging the creek, I notice how I’m breathing easier without the thick humidity. The canopy of trees overhead remains mostly green, but the path before me is dotted with scarlet and butter-colored maple leaves. It won’t be long before the entire forest is ablaze.
Transitions, even the ones we expect, can be tough. I’ve often greeted fall with a mixture of optimism and relief—fresh start! renewed energy!—and a smidge of melancholy. Maybe it’s because I love summer so much and am never quite ready to bid farewell to sun-drenched beach afternoons with a good book. Also getting me: the shorter, darker days that turn shorter and darker far too quickly.
My sometimes meh mood about this new season doesn’t stick around for long, usually. Like that first frigid plunge underwater at the start of summer, entry into fall is jarring initially.
Soon enough, though, I remember how sweet it is.
The comfort of a slow hike in the woods and swirling leaves as they sashay their way to the ground.
The peacefulness that comes with easing into my (darkened) mornings by wrapping my hands around a second steaming mug of coffee.
The curiosity and joy of pulling a book off the shelf that I’d been looking forward to reading; one that feels best suited for the colder months and beneath a blanket.
The examination of my disorganized closet and considering—for the first time in months—actually tackling the misshapen stacks of sweatshirts and sweaters and scattered pairs of shoes. I realize I actually want to take the time to get organized.
I’ve started, stopped, deleted and added to this latest newsletter a number of times. Though revising is always part of my writing process, this one felt different and I could say it’s partly the transitional state I feel myself in. What exactly do I want to write about anyway?
I’ve decided it’s a bunch of things—an assortment of normal life happenings that I’m working through and processing. I suppose this is a teaser for what I’ll be writing about in the weeks to come.
A few hints: taking a long-overdue weeklong trip north with Joe, to celebrate our 25th anniversary (many emotions around reaching this milestone); navigating college decisions and plans with our two youngest (this is not for the faint of heart, and I thought I’d be better at this having gone through it with my oldest already); re-committing to a writing practice that will help me complete my novel (why is it so hard sometimes to invest in ourselves?); figuring out where I want to go with the idea of returning to running races (what do I really want with this?)
Maybe the theme is going to be something along the lines of When Everything is Happening All at Once. Or How I’m Losing My Mind a Little (Thank You, Perimenopause). Wait, aren’t these the themes of my life overall these days, these years?
All of this led me to decide to unlock one of my older essays—one of my more popular ones, about how we’re all going through something—and share it with all subscribers because I wrote it around this same time of year. Maybe that’s no coincidence?
I hope you enjoy this essay below, and I’d love to hear how you’re feeling about fall and your own life transitions. Are you hopeful? Panicked and overwhelmed? Inspired? Please share with us in the comments. One thing I believe deeply is that knowing we’re not alone in however we’re feeling is a wonderful gift. And we have a lot more in common than we may think.
We’re all going through something
I cried this morning reading the obituary of a person I didn’t know—a person I would have been incredibly lucky to have known from the beautiful words shared by those who loved him so dearly.
“He was passionately sincere and intolerant of superficiality. He had the soul of an artist.”
“He loved being in nature and the elements, building forts in the woods and sleeping under the stars.”
“Always on the move (and keeping us on our toes), Adam explored the unknown with an endless curiosity.”
“ … he was able to get his audience crying with laughter. He was captivating with his charm and way with words.”
Joe and I were still in pajamas, sitting in our living room with sections of the Sunday paper strewn about, mugs of hot coffee in our hands, when I turned to the obit section. As often as I’m reading something on a screen—4+ hours/day this past week, according to my weekly reminder, thanks much Apple—I’ll be a devoted mailed subscriber to our local newspaper for as long as it’s printed. I usually read the daily edition over lunch or in the evening during the week, but Sunday mornings are for drinking pots of coffee, snuggling with the dogs piled on my lap and legs, and poring over the local, national and world news, the weekend sporting results, the feature stories, even the special inserts.
I’ve always read the obituaries, partly because as a young journalist I was responsible for grabbing the notices from the local funeral homes—at that time faxed to the newsroom—and writing up pieces for the following day’s paper. I had to follow a certain template when writing these, so many ended up similar lengths and covered the same basic kind of information—date of birth, age at time of death, a modest summary of life events and family details—but every now and again the notice sent to us would contain more information. Sometimes a family member would share many more details and my job was to include it all while editing for clarity and the newspaper’s style.
I always felt it was such an important honor and privilege to write these stories of a life lived. Though this was a small-ish daily paper in Ohio, and I wasn’t the only reporter to write obits (our tiny staff shared the responsibility), I took this aspect of my job seriously. And I was always happy when more details were provided, and I could share even more about a person’s life. Sometimes I’d need to call the funeral home or speak with a family member about their loved one, to clarify something or obtain additional information, and as tough as those conversations could be, I was glad to have the chance to do what I could to make an obit as meaningful as possible.
Interesting tidbit I found while looking into the history of obituaries for this piece: In Latin, obit translates to a few things. It can mean “going down, or setting (like a sunset).”1 Other translations are “fall, ruin, and death” but I am liking the image of “sunset” most of all.
I moved on from that newspaper just over a year of starting as the cops and courts reporter, to take a job at a larger daily. I soon learned that bigger papers have dedicated and talented obit writers, which meant my time writing about those who had just passed away, at least for the obituary section, was ultimately a short stint in my daily newspaper reporting career. I was assigned to other beats.
Still, I’ve continued to gravitate toward this section. Once we returned to our hometown in 2001, and even more so in recent years, reading the obits in our local paper has meant seeing familiar names: neighbors’ and acquaintances’ relatives; a community member we knew somewhat through friends or family. On a few occasions recently: a good friend’s parent and a closer family friend. I’m equal parts saddened and uplifted reading these stories of others’ lives, and the older I get, the more I recognize the gift of getting to grow older—it’s not a given, even though it feels this way when we’re much younger—and also the varied ways people build a life. It’s all so interesting and fascinating, especially the longer, more detailed stories that reveal the small and big ways the person loved and lived.
This morning, coming across this particular story of a man’s life lived fully, if not heartbreakingly so at times—and lived not nearly long enough; he was just 35 years old—I cried because this individual sounded so special and the details shared by whoever wrote the obituary were so descriptive and real and intimate. The tears began falling in earnest toward the end, after the part where we learn who he is survived by. It was at this point when the family added these words:
“We feel compelled to express the following message from our family to all … please, put aside any and all reasoning and excuses for hesitating to reach out to those you know are struggling with addiction and/or mental illness. … Though you may not completely understand what they’re going through, it can only do good to let them know they are not alone, you’re there for them, and you love them. Keep trying. Who knows … you might save a life.”
I finished those sentences and set the paper down, staring ahead, my tears blurring my vision before I swiped at my eyes and took a deep breath in. I let out an exhale.
***
Later in the morning we walked our neighborhood trails with the dogs. We like to connect to the trails via a dirt two-track that starts where the pavement ends not far from our house. It’s about a mile into the woods, where we then get on the main trail that meanders through state forest land.
On that first mile-long stretch, before the two-track narrows and we reach a thicker swath of pines and maples, we passed a car parked to the left side of the road. It’s common for 4x4 vehicles, four-wheelers, and side-by-sides to pass us on this part of our walking route, but less so for vehicles to actually park. We noticed a man sitting in the front seat, but kept walking, minding our own business.
About a half hour later, as we made our way back toward the paved road and home, we noticed this car still parked to the side of the road. At the same time we began walking past the car—the man still sitting alone behind the wheel—another walker and his dog were striding toward us. In the shuffle of saying hello but keeping our three leashed dogs away from this walker’s one leashed dog, we picked up our pace.
A bit further ahead, about to turn a corner, I glanced back at the parked car.
“I hope he’s OK,” I said to Joe.
“I think he’s OK, just enjoying some quiet, I bet. He was smoking,” Joe replied.
Maybe it was the obit I’d read earlier, or that I worry, or that my writer imagination comes up with elaborate stories about other people sometimes. I wondered if the man in the parked car was in fact OK. He was alone. I like being alone at times. Don’t we all? It’s not my business to say anything. What am I going to do, knock on his car door and ask if he’s struggling, if he needs to talk with someone? It’s a beautiful fall day; he’s just having some alone time, soaking in the scenery.
We were quiet for a few moments.
Knowing me and my brain, Joe slowed and turned to me. “Everyone’s going through something, you know?”
How many times have we said these words as a statement of fact? Many. It’s happened when we’re sharing a frustrating interaction with a co-worker or stranger, sometimes even a friend or family member. We know we’ve got our own things we’re dealing with—things we keep to ourselves, or only share with those closest to us—so of course others do, too.
When to get involved, when to reach out, when to say something—this is the tougher part, especially when it’s someone you don’t know all that well, or at all.
***
Another thing I’m thinking about as I age: what kinds of connections—true and real connections—am I making? Am I doing all that I can do to help others? Where can I find more meaningful interactions, and maybe more importantly, what am I doing to search for and make connections and not just sit back and wait for them to happen?
Maybe it all comes back to a life well lived, whatever that ends up looking like for me, for each of us. So much of what I’ve been trying to figure out in recent months (and years) is what I truly wish for this life of mine. I’ve focused on what isn’t working, what I need and want to take away, and I’ve been subtracting. What, then, is it that I need—and want—to add? And how do I go about making this happen?
This path is one I am more interested in than ever, and I am going to keep walking it and seeing where it takes me. I’d like very much to keep crossing paths with others in search of connection, too, as they keep moving toward their own version of a life lived well. We’re all going through something. Can we do more of it together?
Thank you for reading and being here with me today. Please hit the ❤️ button to let me know you enjoyed this and would like to read more of these kinds of stories here on Moving Through.
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More soon, possibly from the shores of Lake Superior!
-Heather
