The Ache of Aliveness

Ache of Aliveness

I feel it while scuffing through

the first leaves to blanket the garden,

feel it in sun that lifts the dew

from grass blades and fern fronds

beginning to rust at their edges.

I feel it in the thimble of a black

raspberry dangling just for me,

in the way you grip your lower back

as if touch could calm the pain.

But there is no cure for the ache

of aliveness that runs like a current

through each of us—we can only

embrace it, bittersweet as the last

ear of sweet corn pulled from the pot,

so golden and packed with sugar, 

I almost can’t bear to bite into

all that long-gone summer light.

There are many names for the feeling I call “the ache of aliveness.” But whether we say we are wistful or bittersweet, we are still trying to capture that sense of something fleeting for which we are nonetheless fully present. Perhaps the only way to enter full appreciation of our lives is to embrace what’s right here, at the same time realizing that it too will change, fade, pass away into something else. Mark Nepo has called this “the bareness of being,” though when a friend wrote to me about the phrase once, the autocorrect on her email turned it into “the bare mess of being.” Both are correct, of course, since this kind of aliveness to everything can feel quite messy, uncontrollable, as wild as nature itself. Here in the Northern Hemisphere, and especially in New England, the coming of autumn is always a time of transition. As I look around, almost every sign of fall reminds me of the passing nature of all living things—the browning grass, the rusting ferns, the pulled muscles in my husband’s back. I say there is no cure for this ache, and perhaps that is a good thing. Lately, when circumstances turn difficult, or even unbearable, I take heart in knowing that woven in with the grief, anger, or disappointment is also this current that runs through each of us. It’s a kind of electricity of spirit that, when we tune into it, keeps us connected to each other and the natural world, of which we too are an integral part. And sometimes, we feel it in something as simple as feasting on the last sweet corn of the season. We bite into those kernels packed with sugar, holding close the fact that this will soon be gone, while also closing our eyes with the pure pleasure of crunching into the corn.

Invitation for Writing & Reflection: What specific aspects of your life right now allow you to feel “the ache of aliveness?” You might start with “I feel it in . . . “ and keep repeating the phrase as you fill in all that gives you this sense of wistfulness for what’s still right here, but will someday fade or change.