Unrepeatable

Unrepeatable

Why must it take illness or injury

to make us see how precious

these hours and days can be, how

uncommon our life on Earth is?

Just a week ago, I sat on the lumpy

couch that knows the shapes

of our bodies so well, cushions

conforming to every curve as rays

of late light reached through

to shine on my face, and I shielded

my eyes, taking it all for granted.

Until he came home saying he had

torn his meniscus while rising up

from a crouch in a friend’s garden,

the sound of a life ripped into two.

Now—the limp, the resting of the leg

on a pillow, the ice pack held to

his knee day and night. Now, when

I press my lips to his forehead, I think

of warm stone, bone and skin I wish

were indestructible. Now, when I say

goodnight or watch him wash

a head of lettuce with such care,

I whisper the word unrepeatable

under my breath, like a charm against

forgetting, against our own fragility,

knowing I will keep forgetting, then

remember, and forget all over again.


Often, it takes illness or injury to make us see how precious our days are, how unrepeatable and rare this human life on Earth truly is. As the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer once wrote, “Mostly it is loss which teaches us about the worth of things.” Just a week ago, I sat on the couch that knows the shape of our bodies so well, cushions conforming to every curve as I read a favorite novel and sipped from a mug of licorice tea, taking it all for granted. And then my husband Brad came home holding his knee, saying he must have torn his meniscus when rising from a crouch in a friend’s garden he was tending. His life, our life, suddenly ripped into Before and After. Luckily, the tear was not severe enough to require surgery, and would heal on its own. But in those first uncertain days, as he limped from room to room, elevating his leg on a pillow and icing the knee day and night, everything around me took on that rare shimmer that arrives when we are reminded again it could all change, it could all be taken away. It was then I noticed the rumpled beauty of our old gray crouch, and the resilience of the orchid plant in the window, appearing dead with its shriveled aerial roots, yet somehow sprouting a brand-new leaf. When I pressed my lips to his forehead in the morning, I thought of sun-warmed stone, the bone and skin I wanted to be immortal, indestructible. When I hugged him goodbye or watched as he washed a head of lettuce with such delicacy, I whispered the word unrepeatable to myself, like a charm against forgetting, against our own fragility, knowing that I will forget again, then remember, and forget. We all keep falling asleep in our human want for things to stay as they are now, our belief that we are exempt from mortality. The trick is to never stop waking up, and each time our eyes snap open, to enter the temple of every moment, absorbing the shimmer while we can.


Invitation for Writing & Reflection: How do you stay in touch with the unrepeatable nature of this one life we are each given for a limited time? What moments of vulnerability, loss, or illness have caused you lately to touch in on the “shimmer” of aliveness in yourself and everything around you?


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Ways to Gather This Summer

The Monthly Pause Writing Community with special guest Elise Powers via Zoom, Wednesday, June 10th, 1-3pm ET, $40 monthly.

Regenerating Joy: A Writing Retreat in-person at the Omega Institute June 14-19

Uncover grounding ways to meet both sorrow and joy through writing as a practice for staying open with Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer and James.

The Blessing and the Wound: 2-Week Online Poetry Retreat on June 23rd and 30th at 12-2pm ET

Join Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer and James for a 2-session retreat via Zoom in which we will explore writing as a refuge, seeing how our blessings and wounds can both become teachers. Space is limited. Some half-off scholarships available.