Now comes the long blue cold and what shall I say but that some bird in the tree of my heart is singing. ~ Mary Oliver

This week, I am reminded how often our bodies carry secrets our lives are able to shield from the dozens of eyes upon us, and how thickly masked our grief can be, even from those who search our faces with compassion.

I never intended to have another child. In fact, I hadn't even left the hospital with Adela before I'd decided one was enough. Perhaps it was the stress of my pregnancy, or the difficulty of delivering her, but it was true and certain in my heart and mind that one child was all I'd have.

So when I found myself pregnant again, my mind instantly re-wired with a whole new set of realities and I prepared myself to love and learn about this second little being. I felt the same peace I had while carrying Adela, my worries hiding a sense that everything was going to be ok. I knew that this time, too, my body was strong and ready -- everything was in check.

I went straight into preparation mode, knowing full well the impact a baby has on a life. I told some of my closest friends and my parents so I wouldn't have to hide the daily turmoil of early pregnancy. My boyfriend and I ricocheted from one conversation to the next, looking for ways to balance our excitement with our fears.

I made doctor appointments, did the necessary blood work, began eating a variety of different foods, and shared the news with my employer. I slowly started putting the building blocks in place for this next life-changing adventure.

And at night, while I lay in the dark, I listened to my body with an ear that hears only the inaudible sounds of the universe working its magic. I felt pride in that sense of creation that comes when a life is nesting deep and sheltered within. Everything felt safe.

Mary Oliver, in her poem Sometimes, writes:

I don't know what God is.
I don't know what death is.
But I believe they have between them
some fervent and necessary arrangement.

Last week, as I embarked upon the agonizing journey of miscarriage, I settled in close to the space where life and death meet within the body. My senses, which had been so attuned to the profound process of knitting together a life, switched into helplessly monitoring the unraveling and undoing of a death.

At first I found that tender sweet spot inside of myself where I knew all would eventually be well. I knew the universe was caring for me, even while dismantling my pregnancy. And I knew that the baby, unknown to me for good, was following its own path and that its intersection with mine, though brief, was meaningful in some way. Despite the sharpness I felt inside and out, I saw the roundness of things I know to be true and I repeated to my mother in a voice message, "It's over, mom, but I am good. I am good. I am good."

And then, as if my ethereal harnessing of sorrow wasn't enough, that tender sweet spot cracked as the physical manifestation of this next phase took hold and the visceral grief began filtering in, slowly at first, and then as a rush of anger and desperation. "I didn't even have a SAY in the MATTER!" I screamed to myself as I did the dishes one night, shocked by the overwhelming force of an emotion I rarely feel. And just tonight, as I got Adela ready for bed and wished again for the bodily pain of this loss to subside, I suddenly realized that when the pain stops...it really will be over. All of this will be over. There won't be anything else to hold on to or feel. It will be gone.

And yet, in moments, I feel an odd sense of communion with the nature of things. This giant secret now ravaging the usual peace of my body, carving deep troughs through my every thought and emotion, is a devastating yet alarmingly sincere reminder that life goes on. Friends are traveling...colleagues are working...strangers are smiling...the world is turning. And whether it is life coursing through our veins or some sort of mutation of death, these very veins are meant to carry the current wherever it may lead.

I'm not ready, as Mary Oliver instructs, to put my lips to the world and live my life, but I am ready for tomorrow. I'm sorry that I won't meet this baby, and I'm sorry that my body continues to spike with the kind of pain that bears right down into the soul, and I'm sorry that this path I was excited to walk down with the people I love has disappeared into the wild. I'm sorry, too, that this grief sits deep in the center of those who have come forward to take my hand.

While Adela sleeps soundly in my bed tonight, transitioning gradually from one household to the other, I am grateful as ever that she's my daughter. And now more than before, watching her weave her way through her own young life, I am astonished by how persistent her little spirit must have been to have found its way into mine.

And so, as this next tiny life passes quickly through, pausing only long enough to bundle my affection and my commitment into a temporary home, I feel blessed to experience the range of wonders meant for me.

Thank you. Goodbye. I love you.............

~ Katie

Mary Oliver, Red Bird, Now Comes the Long Blue Cold (pg. 69); Sometimes (pg. 35); Mornings at Blackwater (pg. 57)