That Point in Time or Space

I have a love-hate relationship with beginnings and endings.

I love beginnings. Hate endings.

Favorite things: Boarding a vacation plane with a suitcase of clean clothes and unread books. That package of Ticonderoga pencils and crisp college-ruled notebooks on the first day of school. First day of a new job: projects I don’t know yet that are like presents to be unwrapped. The buzzing excitement of a first date, meeting another soul who could be the one.

Least favorite things? Last day of college, going out into the world and having to grow up. The day I signed divorce papers. The last bite of a waffle cone that once held chocolate peanut butter ice cream. My son’s packing up to move out to his first apartment (a beginning for him, an ending for me). My mother’s passing—she was the matriarch that held our crazy family together.

See how much better beginnings are?

I was in a meeting this week where the theme was beginnings and endings. This group had been connecting twice a month through the pandemic, and it was time for new leadership to emerge. People shared deep grief and love for each other—for those who helped them find their ground during a challenging time. And yet there was also hope and excitement at what was next, the community evolving into something new.

As we processed the beginnings and endings of this group, people talked about how there is grace in both.

I’m not so sure about that.

I have been watching ash trees around our house dying from emerald ash borer beetles. Each year, leaves continue to thin and the trees look sicker. The blonding of the bark makes me want to cry. These beetles are destroying tens of millions of ash trees across the U.S.

But at the same time, there is new life taking root in the forest. I see oak seedlings, maple saplings, sturdy baby pines emerging at the feet of the dying species.

Nature has much to teach us about embracing endings. When a tree’s last leaves fall to the ground for its final season, does it weep? When the tide makes that turn from rising to falling, does it mourn? Or as creatures die, the moment after pain is gone, are they sad? Or do they simply sink quietly into the earth?

In the U.K., they call a period a full stop. But an ending is not really a full stop.

It’s more like a semi-colon. A pause before a new idea.

I am starting to see how there is an inherent beginning in every ending. After an ending, there is a moment of emptiness, waiting for something else to emerge. Even that space is a beginning. It's clinging to the loss of what was before that keeps us from celebrating every new beginning.

I read this anonymous quote this week: “We cannot write in water….we cannot carve in water. Water’s nature is to flow and that is how we should treat life…emotion, positive or negative. Do not deny it but always let it flow through and then away.”

What if there are no beginning and endings? What if—like water flowing—life is always evolving into other life. Which evolves into other life. Which evolves into other life.

In that spirit, it's not right to have an ending to this blog. Instead, the reflection must remain open to whatever is to come next....