September's Caterpillars

I was reading in bed Monday night, finishing the third book in a series about a teenage girl who falls in love with a vampire (a nice vampire, of course. Who knew? A fun read - The Twilight Series by Stephanie Meyer). The end of the third book was sad, and I was somewhat ruffled. And then, all of a sudden, I was really ruffled, sobbing heavily. Ten days into September, this contentious month ambushed me. Tuesday was one of those days where I had to concentrate most of the day on holding myself together because the slightest breeze would blow away my leaves.

As much as I want to chalk it up to the book, to a theme of struggling with love and loving like your life depends on it, to missing Michael (he's out of town, and this is the first time I've missed his presence in some time), to fatigue, I had to admit it was more than that. Ten years ago, I attended a conference, which was in most regards quite useless and scary (scary in the overly conservative, Christian way), the speaker talked about our life cycles. When we experience good or bad things in our lives, those times of the year may echo that experience in later years. Perhaps it's really a mark on our soul and energy. Perhaps our unconscious is triggered by dates or weather or how the light looks at certain times of the year. Perhaps our memories are linked strongly to the calendar. In any case, September is one of those times of year for me.

Six years ago, I was turning on the radio in our apartment after a walk in Riverside Park in Manhattan with Michael on a beautiful early fall day when the events of 9/11 happened. I wasn't at the Trade Center (Michael was the day before). I didn't know anyone who was killed (though, working in Manhattan, it was one degree of separation, and many days I could hear at work, "Did you hear from her/him yet?"). I did see people and cars covered with the dust, have my school and work closed down for security, saw bus stops and walls covered with missing persons flyers and make shift alters under those flyers. I attended a staff meeting of all college staff and listened to one of the maintenance workers talk about his friends who died at the Trade Center, friends he used to work with there. Michael and I went to a peace rally with friends in Union Square, a quiet (in NYC) gathering. We carved messages on a large piece of metal, and, when it was dark, walked as far south as we could go before the street closures. We could see the continuing smoke, lit yellow by the search lights. For many weeks after 9/11, the subway trains were strangely quiet, the riders carefully tucked into their thoughts and grief. There was tangible grief for concrete individuals and for something ethereal, a sense that something in our lives had ended.

Closely following those events, I spiraled into a depression, the first symptom of which was an inability to read (which, if you know me, is unheard of - I HAVE to read). My depression lasted through the end of my graduate work, a move to Alabama, a month of living with in-laws, a move to Mississippi, a temp job at WorldCom (aka corporate hell), a job search and starting a new job until I started medication. For months, I pulled myself up by my boot strings.

Three years ago on September 17, my sister's boyfriend, Tim Griffith, was murdered. I was nine months pregnant, and my mom called our house. There was something funny in her voice, a forced calm, and she asked to talk to Michael. She told him the news, afraid to tell me. Tim had gone to a Giants' baseball game, his first night out after getting off house arrest, a young man sober after struggling with a drug addiction. He and his friends were walking back to their car after the game, and Tim brushed a car parked on the street. A group of young men got out of the car, and attacked Tim and his friends. Tim died at the hospital from a stab wound. My sister was at a horse show in southern California. Less than a week later, my sister returned from Iraq, relieving an enormous weight and a year of jumping when the phone rang at strange hours. It was bittersweet. My dear nephew, who had lived with us, become a surrogate son, rearranged our childless married lives would return to his mother shortly.

One year ago on September 2, my Executive Director's son died in a swimming accident. Things between Michael and me really started to fall apart, and I grieved for my boss alone when I heard the news at church. I took off my wedding ring that month.

There are two huge, bright, anchoring events that occurred on September 23, 2004 - my beautiful son was born - and September 24, 2005 - I found out I was pregnant with Harper the day after finishing a half marathon.

So it is that the date and memory of September 11, 2001 brings up intense memories of Manhattan on that day and an all too public representation of the trials of September and of the beginning of six years when life, a reconstructed life full of adventure and love and discovery, slowly started to be eaten away like a poplar set upon by leaf-eating caterpillars. Infestations usually aren't fatal, but successive years of attack can weaken a tree enough to kill it; and, certainly, ignoring the caterpillars, letting them move in without protest, finding small cracks to hide in from storms is a faster way to go. Somehow, I have to help these caterpillars methamorphose and fly away so the leaves can regrow. So September can be a time for fall, recovery and leaves full of fire.