Thank you for sharing this Tara. This is such a small tangent but I’ve wondered about the rules of cemeteries. I visit my mother’s grave a few times a year (she died when I was 10). Over the years my sons and I brought agates and interesting rocks that they’d find and lay them on the stone. Every time we return the rocks are gone. Finally my father told me that it’s some vaguely Protestant rule about adorning graves. For some reason it really ticks me off. It’s not hurting anyone, it’s not in the way of the guy who cuts the grass…it just seems cruel when it’s obviously something that a loved one put on the grave of a woman who’s been dead since 1978. But we keep bringing the stones. I have a pile in my glove box from Lake Superior and I’ll drive them 5 hours south in a month. Anyway. This is what lurched up out of my heart when you wrote about the yellow flowers being pulled out. 😕
I find it nutty that we can put flags and shrubs and plastic lights that blink on and off around graves (at least here), but some flowers get ripped out? If they're plastic, that's cool. Just makes me more angry, really. I do have stones that we bring from places we go and they've left those alone. Maybe they're worried that the flowers I planted might spread to the weeds they pretend is grass around the stones.
I feel this in my heart, every day. You put words to this in a way that’s swirled around my soul, and I’ve longed to see reflected.
I feel that this is the magic of your work, for me. Since I first began reading your essays (what was at, at least two years ago? Maybe three) I just felt, “Oh. That is the thing I’ve wanted to say and heard said to me.”
Thank you, Tara. From the bottom of my heart. I’m sending love, through the branches of the trees around my home to the branches around yours 🕸️🕯️❤️🔥
What an honour. That I can grab onto those feelings and words floating around and put them where we can gather around and find our shared and common experiences feels like such a gift to me. I love finding one another in that way. It's hard to do in real life (at least for me). It's such a treasure to be able to do that through words with wonderful humans like Ms. Olivia. :)
You make my heart sing ❤️🔥 I had a dream last night, that we sat together over a bowl of rabbit stew. My baby lay, tummy down, atop a rabbit pelt near the fire in front of us. We gabbed and laughed— and cooed while we watched my baby fiercely work to hold her head up. It was a heavenly dream. I pray it could come true one day ❤️
Mia. I suppose there is a true coincidence here and there in this world but the fact that I woke up thinking of her and then opened up my phone to your story probably is not. For some reason, I was remembering your posts of what you would feed her before her games. The pictures of those beautiful plates spoke volumes: her strength, your love, her health, your involvement in your world, her vibrancy, your relationship with her. She may not be here physically but she lives on in the hearts of those who were inspired by her through your eloquent descriptions of her boldness, beauty and sweet quirkiness. Love and peace to you, Tara. Thank you for always being so honest and open.
That's so touching, thank you, Sandy. That truly means everything to me. I love hearing about how these things live on. It's such a balm for a mama's heart.
Dear Tara, as always, I am full of emotion after reading your post, but at a loss for any meaningful words. This particular post reminds me of our ritual when we visit my Babicka’s grave. It’s surrounded by forest, it’s quiet, sometimes there are deer or a bear, we gently clean her granite stone, trace the engraved cross upon it with our fingers, and replace the flowers. We stand and remember her joie de vivre and all the good memories. Next time I’m there, I will think of you. A daughter is far different than a grandma, and my heart goes out to you. I just can’t put it into words how much. ❤️
I loved reading this, Petra. It is different, yes, but she was your beloved Babicka, and she is loved and missed. I understand that and I loved the imagery you painted here. In the winter, when there are no flowers to pick to bring to the cemetery, I bring five apples from our storage and we line them up on the back of the headstone for the deer. Luring them in for a visit to Mila. They're always gone when we return so we imagine a beautiful, snowy moonlit scene with a delicate deer, unbelieving of her luck, chewing sweet apples by the grave of our daughter. Still hard to believe that last part. ❤️
What a privilege to be part of such an incredible community. Tara’s essay and these comments have just touched my heart so. I have not had much physical death experience in my life, but one right now where cognitive decline is stealing my mother. All of these words have helped ground me as these last two weeks have been rather hard. Thank you thank you for everyone’s vulnerability, it does not go unnoticed.❤️
Thank you, Maya. My heart really goes out to you with this situation with your mother. I have friends in similar positions and it's such a difficult thing to go through on so many different levels. Praying for you and your family.
Thank you, Tara ❤️. As I read these comments I realize what a profound difference you make in all of our lives: I too think about you and your family often. I have delightful conversations with you in my mind. I know your teachings have inspired me whenever I make a lovely braised beef roast. I’m so thankful to know you and grateful that you take the time to teach and inspire all of us. ✨
Thank you so much, Janene. What a lovely thing to receive from you. It makes me feel so connected to our bigger human experience because of these smaller relationships we all have to one another. What a thing, this life. 💕
Sending you love amidst your rushing rivers, Tara. The night before last I dreamed you and I were walking in a wood together amidst the tallest of trees, talking of Mila, and a mother whose teen daughter had died in the aftermath of some destruction came running up to us. She was incoherent in her grief and covered in riverwater and mud. In my dream you said not one word, just put your arms around her and held her while she wept. I woke with tears on my cheeks.
I’m sorry to hear about the pulling of the flowers around Mila’s grave. Our own mother is in a graveyard (not by the choice of her children) in which the grass is uniform and any other plant presence is treated as an unwanted invasion; I always remind myself that the earth will have her last word & landscaping regulations will not.
Thank you for sharing this with me, Jan. It brought me to tears. I know that dream-mother's pain. I can actually feel her desperate embrace. How much grief can a body endure? More than our mind's can imagine.
You're right. The earth will have her last word. One day it will all be gone, swallowed whole and softened by time and winds and rain. That's when I will like it best.
You have such a gift of putting your feelings into words. And I hung on every one of them. What a beautiful tradition every Sunday afternoon to visit Mila and beautify her place of rest. It made me think of my son whom we lost six years ago. His ashes are under a stone heart in the walkway leading to our house...where he lived for 32 years. Not knowing what lies beneath, people will comment on the beautiful heart. And his was beautiful...and big. And mine goes out to you now as I think of your family. Thank you for your sharing and openness that touches us all and adds so much to our world.
What a beautiful tribute to your son, Candy. I'm always touched when you comment and share of your son. I know you know this pain and your sharing and vulnerability means so much to me, too.
Next time you visit Mila, let her know all of us say, "Hello!" I almost lost my firstborn when he was 2 weeks old. I can only imagine the depths of your grief as a mother. Thanks for the beautiful share.
Beautiful as ever Tara, thank you for sharing. What a beautiful way to be with and remember your daughter. I can't say I know how this feels, only thank you for sharing and to wish the best for you and your family.
We took our first two pigs to the butcher yesterday and I cried and I wondered how many people show up to the butcher crying. People we know won't eat our meat because they knew our animals and I can understand because we have gotten so far away from our food. Getting to know and care for these animals and then saying goodbye so we can feed ourselves and our families is such a great privilege and honor. And it's a huge learning curve. I'm sure it's never easy but I believe it's right.
I appreciate this wonderful community you created Tara and the all the beautiful words and thoughts you share with us. Sending love to you and yours.
It’s amazing how much can transpire and be remembered and felt in a moment, a moment like sharpening knives. And such a beautiful reminder that everything and all of us are connected. Thank you Tara, I love to read the way you experience these moments
Mila always has such a place in my heart and mind, along with you and your family. It's unusual for me so I can only guess as to the why.
As far as your day of harvesting, I am so in awe of your ability (and others) to both raise and harvest. So far I have helped friends harvest their chickens but always wonder how I would go about it if I were to have raised them as well. Small steps in learning and growing, I always fall back on that. For me, for all of us.
Thank you so much, Nina. The more little bits of Mila in the more hearts there are in this world, the more of her. Thank you for carrying some small part.
You're right, it's all small steps in learning and growing. That's all we can ask of ourselves and we need to be appreciative of that growth instead of chastising the speed of it. ❤️
Thank you for sharing this Tara. This is such a small tangent but I’ve wondered about the rules of cemeteries. I visit my mother’s grave a few times a year (she died when I was 10). Over the years my sons and I brought agates and interesting rocks that they’d find and lay them on the stone. Every time we return the rocks are gone. Finally my father told me that it’s some vaguely Protestant rule about adorning graves. For some reason it really ticks me off. It’s not hurting anyone, it’s not in the way of the guy who cuts the grass…it just seems cruel when it’s obviously something that a loved one put on the grave of a woman who’s been dead since 1978. But we keep bringing the stones. I have a pile in my glove box from Lake Superior and I’ll drive them 5 hours south in a month. Anyway. This is what lurched up out of my heart when you wrote about the yellow flowers being pulled out. 😕
I find it nutty that we can put flags and shrubs and plastic lights that blink on and off around graves (at least here), but some flowers get ripped out? If they're plastic, that's cool. Just makes me more angry, really. I do have stones that we bring from places we go and they've left those alone. Maybe they're worried that the flowers I planted might spread to the weeds they pretend is grass around the stones.
I feel this in my heart, every day. You put words to this in a way that’s swirled around my soul, and I’ve longed to see reflected.
I feel that this is the magic of your work, for me. Since I first began reading your essays (what was at, at least two years ago? Maybe three) I just felt, “Oh. That is the thing I’ve wanted to say and heard said to me.”
Thank you, Tara. From the bottom of my heart. I’m sending love, through the branches of the trees around my home to the branches around yours 🕸️🕯️❤️🔥
What an honour. That I can grab onto those feelings and words floating around and put them where we can gather around and find our shared and common experiences feels like such a gift to me. I love finding one another in that way. It's hard to do in real life (at least for me). It's such a treasure to be able to do that through words with wonderful humans like Ms. Olivia. :)
You make my heart sing ❤️🔥 I had a dream last night, that we sat together over a bowl of rabbit stew. My baby lay, tummy down, atop a rabbit pelt near the fire in front of us. We gabbed and laughed— and cooed while we watched my baby fiercely work to hold her head up. It was a heavenly dream. I pray it could come true one day ❤️
I pray, too!❤️
Mia. I suppose there is a true coincidence here and there in this world but the fact that I woke up thinking of her and then opened up my phone to your story probably is not. For some reason, I was remembering your posts of what you would feed her before her games. The pictures of those beautiful plates spoke volumes: her strength, your love, her health, your involvement in your world, her vibrancy, your relationship with her. She may not be here physically but she lives on in the hearts of those who were inspired by her through your eloquent descriptions of her boldness, beauty and sweet quirkiness. Love and peace to you, Tara. Thank you for always being so honest and open.
That's so touching, thank you, Sandy. That truly means everything to me. I love hearing about how these things live on. It's such a balm for a mama's heart.
Dear Tara, as always, I am full of emotion after reading your post, but at a loss for any meaningful words. This particular post reminds me of our ritual when we visit my Babicka’s grave. It’s surrounded by forest, it’s quiet, sometimes there are deer or a bear, we gently clean her granite stone, trace the engraved cross upon it with our fingers, and replace the flowers. We stand and remember her joie de vivre and all the good memories. Next time I’m there, I will think of you. A daughter is far different than a grandma, and my heart goes out to you. I just can’t put it into words how much. ❤️
I loved reading this, Petra. It is different, yes, but she was your beloved Babicka, and she is loved and missed. I understand that and I loved the imagery you painted here. In the winter, when there are no flowers to pick to bring to the cemetery, I bring five apples from our storage and we line them up on the back of the headstone for the deer. Luring them in for a visit to Mila. They're always gone when we return so we imagine a beautiful, snowy moonlit scene with a delicate deer, unbelieving of her luck, chewing sweet apples by the grave of our daughter. Still hard to believe that last part. ❤️
What a privilege to be part of such an incredible community. Tara’s essay and these comments have just touched my heart so. I have not had much physical death experience in my life, but one right now where cognitive decline is stealing my mother. All of these words have helped ground me as these last two weeks have been rather hard. Thank you thank you for everyone’s vulnerability, it does not go unnoticed.❤️
Thank you, Maya. My heart really goes out to you with this situation with your mother. I have friends in similar positions and it's such a difficult thing to go through on so many different levels. Praying for you and your family.
Thank you, Tara ❤️. As I read these comments I realize what a profound difference you make in all of our lives: I too think about you and your family often. I have delightful conversations with you in my mind. I know your teachings have inspired me whenever I make a lovely braised beef roast. I’m so thankful to know you and grateful that you take the time to teach and inspire all of us. ✨
Thank you so much, Janene. What a lovely thing to receive from you. It makes me feel so connected to our bigger human experience because of these smaller relationships we all have to one another. What a thing, this life. 💕
Your writing is a beautiful balm to my soul. I hope it is to yours as well. I love you, all my love to you, and your beautiful, extraordinary family.
Thank you, Kathleen.
Sending you love amidst your rushing rivers, Tara. The night before last I dreamed you and I were walking in a wood together amidst the tallest of trees, talking of Mila, and a mother whose teen daughter had died in the aftermath of some destruction came running up to us. She was incoherent in her grief and covered in riverwater and mud. In my dream you said not one word, just put your arms around her and held her while she wept. I woke with tears on my cheeks.
I’m sorry to hear about the pulling of the flowers around Mila’s grave. Our own mother is in a graveyard (not by the choice of her children) in which the grass is uniform and any other plant presence is treated as an unwanted invasion; I always remind myself that the earth will have her last word & landscaping regulations will not.
Thank you for sharing this with me, Jan. It brought me to tears. I know that dream-mother's pain. I can actually feel her desperate embrace. How much grief can a body endure? More than our mind's can imagine.
You're right. The earth will have her last word. One day it will all be gone, swallowed whole and softened by time and winds and rain. That's when I will like it best.
You have such a gift of putting your feelings into words. And I hung on every one of them. What a beautiful tradition every Sunday afternoon to visit Mila and beautify her place of rest. It made me think of my son whom we lost six years ago. His ashes are under a stone heart in the walkway leading to our house...where he lived for 32 years. Not knowing what lies beneath, people will comment on the beautiful heart. And his was beautiful...and big. And mine goes out to you now as I think of your family. Thank you for your sharing and openness that touches us all and adds so much to our world.
What a beautiful tribute to your son, Candy. I'm always touched when you comment and share of your son. I know you know this pain and your sharing and vulnerability means so much to me, too.
Next time you visit Mila, let her know all of us say, "Hello!" I almost lost my firstborn when he was 2 weeks old. I can only imagine the depths of your grief as a mother. Thanks for the beautiful share.
Thank you, Saucey. I am so genuinely glad that your little one is safe and loved with you. ❤️
Absolutely beautiful as always. Such a wordsmith ♥️🕊️
Thank you so much, Madeline. ❤️
Beautiful as ever Tara, thank you for sharing. What a beautiful way to be with and remember your daughter. I can't say I know how this feels, only thank you for sharing and to wish the best for you and your family.
We took our first two pigs to the butcher yesterday and I cried and I wondered how many people show up to the butcher crying. People we know won't eat our meat because they knew our animals and I can understand because we have gotten so far away from our food. Getting to know and care for these animals and then saying goodbye so we can feed ourselves and our families is such a great privilege and honor. And it's a huge learning curve. I'm sure it's never easy but I believe it's right.
I appreciate this wonderful community you created Tara and the all the beautiful words and thoughts you share with us. Sending love to you and yours.
Thank you so much, Julie. I appreciate you reading my words and sharing with me parts of your story, too. ❤️
It’s amazing how much can transpire and be remembered and felt in a moment, a moment like sharpening knives. And such a beautiful reminder that everything and all of us are connected. Thank you Tara, I love to read the way you experience these moments
Thank you, Kristen. Yes, we are all connected. It's our great gift and we need to remember and nurture it. ❤️
Mila always has such a place in my heart and mind, along with you and your family. It's unusual for me so I can only guess as to the why.
As far as your day of harvesting, I am so in awe of your ability (and others) to both raise and harvest. So far I have helped friends harvest their chickens but always wonder how I would go about it if I were to have raised them as well. Small steps in learning and growing, I always fall back on that. For me, for all of us.
Thank you so much, Nina. The more little bits of Mila in the more hearts there are in this world, the more of her. Thank you for carrying some small part.
You're right, it's all small steps in learning and growing. That's all we can ask of ourselves and we need to be appreciative of that growth instead of chastising the speed of it. ❤️
Beautiful. Thank you for sharing.
Thank you, Shaye.
Beauty, my heart ❤️