Writing about losing Garnet has been a long journey, unfolding in waves — long stretches of silence followed by sudden bursts of words. It seems to come only when the time is right. I began in November 2019, and only now am I nearing the end. What I hope to convey to the reader is that writing in this context isn’t linear — not at all. The best comparison that comes to mind is that of a sculptor shaping clay: envisioning something vivid in the mind yet struggling to bring it fully into form. The piece is reworked again and again, sometimes broken down completely after weeks or months of effort, until it finally looks and feels right. I’ve broken this clay more often than not. Some parts have hardened and need no more shaping, while others are still soft, slowly curing in the cold February air.
Like that sculpture, I too have been reshaped — through collapse, rebuilding, and discovery. As much as this book traces grief and loss, it also explores what endures and how my understanding of life, death, and the natural world has become clearer. For the reader, it may be like seeing through my eyes, shedding what has outlived its purpose. I’ve read as much as I’ve written. I’ve dug my hands into the soil to plant new things. I’ve brushed paint onto canvas, and watched honeybees take flight at dawn. I did these things quietly, not knowing why, simply following what felt necessary. Over the passing seasons — flowers blooming, fading, and bees falling away when their time came — I began, quietly and slowly, to understand what I could not have seen without this long practice.
My relationship with life, both inward and outward, changed completely after these moments. I could no longer remain in safe spaces avoiding the hard questions that hover at the edges of our awareness. Eventually, I found myself confronting a framework that no longer worked. Instead of burning it down, I carefully took it apart, keeping only the pieces still needed, and began again. I hesitate to call this a transformation — it feels deeper than that, beyond anything “new-age.” As I finish these final chapters, I can sense the relationship I have with this book — one that feels alive, breathing, almost companion-like. Writing it has been both cathartic and healing; it has become a friend I speak to, and ultimately, a friend I listen to.
There’s still a part of me that resists finishing — the familiar urge to say “I’m not ready,” or “I need one more chapter.” But perhaps it’s simply time. I’ve decided to take a few weekends alone, tucked away in a nearby hotel, to complete it in my own way.
More to come.