Time recreates itself into new ways depending on …
the times.
This isn’t the first time I have written about the subject, but time changes whether we look at it as seasons, months, days, hours or down to the second.
Some families are taking the time on a lake today, Labor Day. Time is lost while some lay out on a dock or boat, and others water ski.
Time is lost in the bare feet touching rocks below the water, and the longing to immediately plunge your aching foot into the sand after you stepped on a sharp rock.
For some of us, time is the transition from overnight Amazon shipping to the realization the world does not revolve around our desires.
For others, time is the part of the rock ballad when the love struck boy realizes his first girl and summer will turn into the leaves soon to drop at the end of October.
It is like that with grief.
There are times when I feel the devastation and a frost in July.
Then are times, like now, when I come out of the winter. I feel the joy of her life. I feel the pull of her spirit. Her strength and humor then remind me of how she would want me to be after her death.
As I wrote in The Hero and the Hummingbird, Corrie came to me in a daydream, a space divorced of any time defined by humans. She showed me the green spaces.
Most importantly, Corrie showed me the flashes of times that she wanted me to remember her by when she was swinging across monkey bars.
Corrie was the definition of joy. As I reach into some hope in my grief, I see the girl determined to stay at the park when I was almost to the car.
I envision the girl determined to hang upside down on the bar even if I thought she was too little.
The girl who wanted to dance in the rain.
Words and photos by Rebecca T. Dickinson
Corrie's Season 