A Change of Seasons
by Sara Flitner
On perhaps my last morning in my home of 24 years, I watched a hummingbird land in the tall aspen trees behind the house. I had decided to rent out my home and try on something different for a while, and as I watched the bird, I felt fully the possibility that I may never do it – the watching, there – again. The trees, planted as saplings, are now taller than two stories, and that morning the leaves were still green, branches full.
Birds mean something to my two sons and me. Hummingbirds carry the energy of deep connection, because they delighted and uplifted our close friend, Shelley, as she watched them from her hospital bed in the last days of her 49 years. Over this past summer, my yard had been full of hummingbirds, and all the other messengers. Tanagers (family), lazuli buntings (beauty) grosbeaks (persistence), finches (delight in the ordinary)…The home is full of memories, created together and enclosed in our beautiful neighborhood on the creek, in my yard, in its walls, the aspen trees.
At 11 a.m. sharp, a calvary of competent and caring women showed up at my doorstep: my college roommate, friends from the baby years, the working years, the last handful of years. Grandmothers, dog mothers, artists and executives, divorced, single, married, undecided. Four decades of ages represented. One by one, they backed Suburbans, trucks and Subarus into my driveway, and 59 minutes later, the things I loved and would carry with me were sitting in my new condo, waiting to usher me into a new era. I took books, clothes, art, bikes, skis and gear. I left the lawnmower, the snow shovel, and a lot of dusty kitchen gadgets. I donated all the things I never wore.
These women were part of the colony of friends who sustained me after the year that stormed in on my divorce, raged with the gale-force winds of my sons’ moves away from home, and swallowed me into the eye of a ravenous hurricane of grief with the death of my 32-year-old brilliant and cherished nephew. From this heap, I finished 2022 by getting hit head-on by a drunk driver, in my lane of traffic on Snow King Avenue. These women and more, along with my sons and family, fed me and walked with me, listened to me, made me laugh, let me cry, showed up. Now, many of them were lifting boxes of books, unhooking my computer from the printer and modem, carefully safeguarding cherished art, and helping me leave a lot of things behind.
It was surprisingly easy to let go of things. I had a sorting method for when I got stuck between “store” and “donate.” “Could someone get more use or enjoyment out of this than I can?” The donation pile loomed over the storage items. All duplicates went. Against my sons’ advice over how many hammers I should keep (one is more than enough for me), I let go, let go and let go of things. I felt free. I felt no longer encumbered by the heaviness of having things I don’t need or use.
Today, as I peck out these words at my new office window, I’m watching different aspen trees turn golden before my eyes. Thanks to my colony, I have slept with ease since my first night here, in a freshly made bed. My older son comes most days for lunch and often for dinner, and we continue to create the things that truly last: connections, memories, love, the sound of laughter.
“How are you doing?” my friend Cecilia had asked, as the last boxes were being loaded into her car. Michelle, Amy, Kathleen, and Sharel came closer as the other women took the last of things: bikes, paintings, dog beds.
My mind was blank, red heat emerged behind my eyes. “I’m OK,” I replied. And through the thick emotions, I realized I really was. I had been happy there, and now I’m ready to be happy somewhere else.
I watch the birds in these new trees, hoping my old messengers will find me. So far, I’ve only seen species as common as mud — chickadees and magpies, ravens and robins. Still, they bring me beauty, company, an opportunity to see them anew. “Blessings overflow and are unceasing,” I repeat to myself, a phrase borrowed from one of the colony.
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