🌳 My Tree of Life
Originally written: June 24, 2013
Shared again today, with gratitude.
There are times when I write a lot about a little, and other times when I write a little about a lot.
I think it’s because I always have these things inside of me that I want to say and share. In some way, this space has become my way of making a small mark in the world.
Before this blog page, there was another one—a simpler time where I shared silly little things from my day. Just snapshots of life, the little joys and moments that made me smile.
Then one day, you wake up, and the silliness is gone.
And for a while, it feels like you didn’t wake up either.
So I wrote about that.
My therapy.
My truth.
The good, as well as the bad—because both are part of dealing with loss.
And for a time, that writing became like an old pair of shoes.
You know the ones. Tucked under the bed. The ones you slip on without thinking when you fetch the paper or let the dog out. The backs are worn down, the laces tattered. And even when you bring home something new, you can’t bring yourself to toss them. You try, but they always end up back under the bed.
As I healed, my writing changed too. I found I was ready to return to me—
a different me, but still me. The me who wanted to share joy again.
Those “shoes” are still there, just tucked a little farther back.
Not forgotten, but not needed every day.
When I started blogging again, I began with one of my favorite things—
Bath & Body Works Insiders. It was fun, light, comforting.
But there’s so much more I wanted to say, so I created one blog with many categories—each a branch of my tree of life.
And like those branches, reaching out and upward, each topic reflects a different part of me.
The me that loves, that grieves, that grows.
The me that remembers.
🌬 Below is a blog entry from another time—May 5, 2009.
It’s part of a blog called A Finch in the Willow, one I don’t often visit...
But today, I did. And I read this. And I wanted to share it again—because I’m grateful for my new shoes.
🕊 sometimes the wind reminds me — Entry for May 05, 2009
The cold wind and dampness permeate everything it touches. I am no exception.
Days of rain have greened up my lawn and dampened my spirits.
I long for the sun to warm my core.
That... and I need to get over 200 plants planted.
It is still raining as I type, the kind of gentle rhythm that lulls you to sleep,
as it pitter-patters on the shingles and taps against the gutters.
It soothes me.
Sometimes.
My headache continues, and my left eye aches deep into the socket—
likely from crying yesterday. Not for long, but hard.
Emotional. Cleansing.
I discovered that only part of Amber’s video had uploaded on the site.
For a year, it played incomplete.
So, I fixed it...
and then I watched it.
Her life will always be hard to view, even in photo collage form.
I’m still not strong enough to watch the recordings of her and my mother,
tucked quietly away in a green camera bag on my closet shelf.
They haunt me.
I see them every week when I clean and fold laundry,
and I tell myself, not today.
Tomorrow marks 13 years since my mother’s passing.
Her death didn’t destroy me like Angel’s did.
My mother’s loss made me stronger. I took over what my siblings needed...
or tried to.
But I wonder: Did I fail them? Was it my job to carry everyone?
Still—I am blessed.
Blessed to have had Angeline. Blessed to have my husband.
Blessed to not have walked this grief alone.
Yes, I’ve wondered what life might have been if I’d chosen a different path.
And after Angel was taken, I blamed myself for even thinking those things.
As if the universe had heard me.
It’s part of grieving—a cruel part—but real.
With every loss, we grow stronger...
and somehow lonelier.
Maybe that’s the price of endurance.
Maybe that’s how the story goes.
Angel once joked she needed to marry quickly—everyone around us was getting older.
Now, she’s the one who’s gone.
Some days, it feels like I should be strong enough to lift this entire house.
Rain stirs something inside of me—
sadness, yes.
But also, reflection.
It washes things clean.
And sometimes...
the wind reminds me
that I am stronger than I ever knew.