Always in Threes

14 07 2017

This week three people in my circles died. Over the years I’ve noticed that it often happens that way–if there is one death, two more follow. It’s a phenomenon I’ve come to dread, the reality that death arrives in groupings at the worst times. And isn’t it true that any time is the worst time?

Because my own loss is still raw even after four years, maybe I notice these things more than in younger days. And maybe, because I am aging, the reality of that final moment causes me to stop, remember the fragility of life, and appreciate the small, seemingly insignificant occurrences which once may have passed unnoticed; those little gems happening all around me, waiting to be seen.

Last night I went to an outdoor concert with a friend. We arrived early, laden with small coolers which held our sandwiches, drinks and snacks, and carrying our chairs and a light jacket for later at sunset. The music was that of ABBA, a popular Swedish group from way back, the songs were familiar enough that we sang along much of the time. The crowd was unusually large, with most being of my generation, the remember-when group still young enough to come to such an outing, but old enough to have been in our prime when ABBA burst on the scene.

At some point in time the beach balls appeared. They were batted around from person to person all through the concert, sometimes forward and sometimes back, but always with laughter and banter. There was a young man ahead of us with Down Syndrome, who had such fun batting the beach ball, and directly behind him sat a woman I’d guess was in her mid-eighties who was more than eager to have a turn. I enjoyed watching the two of them as much as I loved the concert. The woman was fully into the music, swaying in her chair, often with arms up and waving, and singing along to all the songs. At times she would stand and dance, a huge smile on her face, pure joy pouring out of her. And I thought, I want to be her when I grow up.

Not far from us a father was dancing with his daughter, alternately swaying and twirling her around as she laughed in delight. Beyond them a woman with absolutely no abandon was doing crazy dances, her moves exaggerated and hilarious to watch.

Kids ran around with drinks spilling all over themselves, as absent minded parents wiped their clothes with napkins and sent them off to spill once again. A church group beside us had unloaded a wagon full of trays, food, chairs and blankets, and they were dancing in the aisles on the grass. The boy with Down Syndrome was coaxed into standing and dancing with his mom, a huge smile on his face as he moved in rhythm to the music. As the sun began to set and the reds and pinks and blues spread over the horizon, I couldn’t help but think what precious moments these were.

We only get one shot at this life. Death is the one inevitable thing we can count on, but what we do with our time before that, how we cherish moments and celebrate those little things like batting a beach ball, dancing with abandon, and enjoying the company of family and friends, that is what is important. Living in that moment instead of allowing ourselves to project into tomorrow, that is the gift.














One response

15 07 2017

Yes, so true Terri. It’s just so good sometimes to enjoy the small details in our lives we often overlook. Sometimes those small miracles we overlook and we shouldn’t. So thankful that you can write so beautifully and put words together in such amazing ways. Thanks for sharing your life in your book. I read it this past week and It is an amazing look into the process of grief. Since going through such a sudden death with Lynda I know how difficult many days were. Thanks for sharing your journey.




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