Hello beautiful people,
We're okay.
May arrived with two full moons and more than its fair share of emotion for the Clarke family.
My dad passed away peacefully on May 9. Three weeks later, on May 31, our beloved Frankie, who somehow made it to the remarkable age of 20, followed him.
The elders are guides now.
We knew, deep down, that they would likely go together. Beautiful passings, both of them. And still, beautiful doesn't mean easy. For those of us still here, it has been a lot.
I've been moving through what I can only describe as a dull feeling time. Not dramatic. Not constant tears. Just that heaviness that settles in your chest and throat and quietly reminds you that someone is missing.
A dear friend of mine, a powerful writer and wise human, once called grief "my tricky friend."
At first, I didn't understand why she used the word friend.
Now I do.
Because grief doesn't seem to leave when we demand it. It softens when we make room for it. When we stop fighting it. When we learn, however imperfectly, to walk alongside it.
The surprising thing is that while grief asks for a seat at the table, so does joy.
Both yes and no.
Both sadness and laughter.
Both tears and soft serve ice cream.
So we started looking for the glimmers.
The spark.
The thing that might make us smile for a moment and give our hearts a little room to breathe.
One afternoon, Grace and I were having lunch when a little white dog named Penny appeared at the table next to us.
She was all love.
Licking, jumping, wagging, and enthusiastically sharing herself with anyone willing to receive it. Her owners were all love, too.
When we first spotted her, we looked at each other with tears in our eyes and wondered if it would be too much.
Too soon.
Too painful.
Turns out, no.
We laughed. We cried. We soaked up every ounce of Penny's sweetness.
We were pretty sure Frankie had sent her.
Then there is soft serve vanilla ice cream with the chocolate dip (thank you, @heavyhanded.la).
Normally, this is something I think about twice a year.
This month? Four times.
No judgments, please.
Sometimes emotional support comes in unexpected forms.
Every single cone delivered exactly what was needed.
And then there have been the texts.
The emails.
The calls.
The flowers.
The cards.
The fountain.
The donations.
The hugs.
The care package.
The dinners.
The personalized Spotify playlist.
The creative ways our friends have shown up.
THANK YOU.
And the messages from people reading More than Millions.
You have no idea how much they've meant.
Because if I'm being honest, I've taken a bit of a pause from all things book-related while moving through all things May.
Every message has felt like a gentle tap on the shoulder from the universe.
A reminder that the book is still there.
Waiting.
That the conversation is still unfolding.
That when I'm ready, I'll step back into it.
Forward doesn't always look like movement. Sometimes it looks like resting. Sometimes it looks like grieving. Sometimes it looks like sitting still long enough to notice the glimmers.
So that's what we're doing.
Looking for the glimmers.
#GlimmerSummer
Trusting they'll keep showing up.
And practicing joy and grief sharing the same table.
Love,
Marcia
P.S. If you happen to see me this summer with a soft serve cone in hand, just know I'm doing very important healing work. Research is ongoing.
