Tomorrow, July 27, is the longest lunar eclipse, a blood moon, of the century. As humans have done for thousands of years, many are predicting that this is the end of the world. But for me, the end of the world is not July 27, 2018. The end of my world, as I once knew it, the end of me as I once was, was July 27, 1994, the day my precious baby daughter died.
It was a hot summer day, July 27, 1994, when she died. I lost her that day. And I lost more than her.
I lost who I was as her mother. I lost my identity.
I lost trust in a just world.
I lost naivety. Innocence. Unadulterated joy.
I lost friends; at least those I thought were friends. I lost motivation and aspiration, and I lost music and colors.
I lost the center of my very being, my essence in the world.
I lost myself in losing her.
Yet, time marches on without regret. Though its an illusion, it propels us forward into new days, with or without our assent.
Babies are born, elders die, seeds sprout, and suns rise, again and again.
Grief is unfamiliar territory, often terrifying, when catastrophic death strikes someone we love so deeply.
The line between reality and imagination blur. The liminal space where our hearts long to be near our loved ones who died is hard to reach. We don't always know if we exist in the world of the living or the world of the dead.
And so, for me, this year, the longest lunar eclipse of the century feels symbolically apropos for my dark night of the soul.
The moon will bleed red on the day she died but the world won't end.
My world endured an eclipse of my soul, the longest, darkest night I would ever know. My world, as I knew it, already ended in 1994.
And I, thankfully and regretfully, was reborn.
I was lost. Now I am found.
Dear Cheyenne- I love you and I miss you. I love and miss you so very, very much. I wish you were here. We'd watch this moon together. Maybe we still can. Love, Mama.