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“You can’t miss it if you don’t know it’s gone.”  Mom remains her pragmatic, equanimous self as we sit by the tree on Christmas morning after doing chores.  

She lost a chunk of her memories after a major heart surgery back in 2016.  This fall, she’s been in and out of the hospital a few times after having these…episodes.  The doctors have not been able to identify whether they are seizures or mini-strokes.  Regardless, more bits of her memories have flaked away, like hay from a round bale.  

It will be months before we see a neurologist and yet another cardiologist.  And we’re doubtful they will be able to tell us much more. 

“I don’t hurt,” she tells me plainly.  “I like my books.  I like my life.”

It’s the rest of us who hurt, who worry about losing her.

“I’d like to say next year will be better,” Dad observed a few nights earlier around our Solstice fire.  “But I can’t go that far.  Let’s just say that 2023 has helped us be ready for 2024.”  

“So did 2020,” I add.  

“So did 2021,” says Bob.

“So did 2022,” chime in the girls.  

I have moments of dread and anxiety as I think about the days, months and years ahead. 

But then I draw a breath and step back.

Red sky in morning, sailors take warning, Mom always taught me growing up.

I’ve seen many red skies that bring fierce storms.

But I’d be a fool to hide from them. Even when red skies bring hard times, they’re still stunning to behold.

This is a red sky time of life.

There are storms: visits to the hospital, diagnoses we won’t want to hear, prescriptions we will question, memories lost.

But, as I draw breath at the dawn of this new year, I gaze at growing beauty:

Dad slows down to point out the sheep’s rumen, having me practice my gaze to know when they have eaten enough.  He drives me up to the pastures to look at the thatch cover and evaluate whether we can squeeze in another day of grazing, cutting the hay bill.  I pour over transcripts of interviews I’ve done with Mom and Dad together, piecing together how they operate the parts of the  farm I’m most detached from, trying to learn for myself how to manage the land and livestock, while trying to put it all into words that our daughters and employees can understand.  There is so much I don’t know.  There is so much I get to learn. 

All through Christmas, my spirit is lifted by live music – music nights at home, caroling in West Fulton, concerts in the Capital district.  Each song reminds me of the resilience of the spirit.

I’m carried through my anxieties by  smiles and hugs from family and friends.  They nod knowingly when my tears spill out, just moments before I find another reason to laugh with joy.  They remind me that we are not alone, that we are not the first to walk this path, that we will not be the last.  

There is such tenderness I feel for my mom….Such pleasure when she sends me a text, and joy when everyone is well enough to gather for a Sunday dinner.  

And then there is the love I see between Dad and Mom.  The way he cares for her, the way she trusts him, the pleasures they take from each day – their morning cup of coffee while watching the bird feeder, their weekly klatch, the way their faces light up when we show up to do the morning or afternoon chores, inviting us to sit and visit.  

And I look out at this red dawn of a New Year, certain as I age that it will ask me to face things that I do not want to face.

But I am equally certain that each moment will offer growth, love, and it’s own unique, heart-wrenching beauty. 

I am not ready for 2024, no more than I was ready for 2020, 2021 or 2022.  

But I will not hide from it.  I will grow more still.  And with that growth comes deeper wisdom and deeper appreciation for all the wonders that this life offers.  Here’s to another amazing journey around the sun.