Appreciating the fleeting

A few weeks ago we went apple picking, and before I made pie I took this portrait of them. That pretty much sums me up.

The grapes are from the vines in my parents’ backyard, which my father planted decades ago. He passed away 13 years ago this week. That experience also sums me up. A lot of who I am right now is a result of that loss, the good parts and the not so good parts.

Loss is painful. It’s also the abrasive surface against which we are molded and shaped. Our outlines change. If we’re wise, so do our outlooks. We are not the same. We become calmer, knowing what truly matters and what doesn’t; we become more skittish, knowing what truly matters is so utterly fragile.

The main thing grieving my father at a relatively young age taught me is that I am not special; I am not exempt from any of life’s darkness. It owes me nothing—not safety, not peace, not success. And if I want those things, and of course I do, I’ll have to do my best to create them for myself.

So I pick apples and take pictures. I make dough and pie. Like a man standing on the banks of a river, I step back and try to admire what’s passing. The apples are gone, now. So is my father. All that remains are the moments I took to appreciate them.