Ten weeks

Ten weeks ago today my beautiful baby came and left this world. Ten weeks, ten years, ten minutes, makes no difference really. Feels like eternity.

Fridays, always my favorite day of the week, feel forever tainted now. No longer does "Friday" represent expectation of the freedom of the next few days, it's the day my baby died, turned into an anniversary that occurs far too often. I'm sure, someday, when I've found the "new normal" everyone promises me is down the road, Fridays will no longer hold the dread and meaning they do right now. But I don't think they'll ever be quite the same.

This morning I went to the church where I'm organist; I'm playing this coming Sunday for the first time since January. They've been more than generous with my time off; I was on bedrest from January-April and since Charlotte died I've needed my peace and privacy. I felt like it was now time to go back. Sitting at the organ was foreign. The last time I sat there my pregnancy was perfect; I was mainly concerned with carving time in my busy schedule to get to the mall to by maternity clothes, grateful for the oversized organist's robe I wear each Sunday. This morning I felt somewhat like an imposter. I was not the same person sitting on the bench. I was performing the same functions, turning the same pages and pulling the same stops, but I am not the same. I feel, well, too sad to do this. Too pessimistic, too grieved, too broken, to try and play music that inspires people. Life has been laughing at me lately.

When I was trying to think of a title for my blog, I remembered a line from Anne of Green Gables, which has always been a favorite story of mine. The sun will keep rising and setting, whether you fail in geometry or not. That pretty much sums it up for me. I'm here, the world is spinning. I may not participate in it much right now, but it spins. Gradually I'll get back on, but I'll be looking at it differently, finding a new role, one where I can exist as the new me. Whoever that is.