Was it the publication of the book, simply having that task off my desk? Was it the journey upon which DH and I were launched on the same day the final sign off on the manuscript was in the works? I suppose it’s a combination of things that has made fresh writing a struggle for me over the past many months; in any case, I’m going to be taking a hiatus from the weekly MBOBs.
Sometimes we choose a season of life. sometimes it chooses us, and seasons sometimes come and go with little warning of either their arrival or  their departure.

Do you remember when you were headed west on the Oregon Trail and far off in the distance – finally – you spotted Chimney Rock in the middle of what is now Nebraska? That was proof that progress was being made, proof that you and your parents weren’t totally crazy to have entered the journey.
Then, some weeks after leaving Chimney Rock in your dusty past, there it is….the blurred afternoon shadow of the Rocky Mountains, the longed-for and massive obstacle that must be conquered. It was expected and yet a surprise. Day by day the range grew in significance and detail and finally, the wagon train was in the mountains – climbing toward the sunset at the end of every day.
Do you remember that being in the mountains was exhilarating at first? A few weeks later, it was challenging. At some points it was dangerous and for some it was fatal. It eventually became a one-day-at-a-time numbed determination to simply press on, and they did – until they topped the pass that had seemed elusive.  And then they saw the next range of mountains in the distance.
Even seasons that are expected may contain elements of pleased surprise mixed with apprehension. The first crocus. The first morning glory. The first frost. The first thirty-below-zero day. They are all predictable and expected yet can be re-experienced as pleasantly new, perhaps because something in us longs to be surprised by a memory now representing prospect.

The northern lights faded bright to dim,
like a distant torch
flickering across the cold, night sky.
….
In a morning meadow far away,
fog tiptoed in without a sound.
Dew sparkled on fragile webs
where a deer family grazed.
A soft breeze crossed the meadow and whispered,
“Do you know what’s happening?”
….
“Are you listening?”
asked Mother Doe standing quietly.
“It’s happening.”
The frost had silenced the wings of the dragonflies.
“The new season is here,” she bleated softly.

[ from First Snow in the Woods, Carl R. Sams/Jean Stoick]

In mid-June I decided that I needed to put a small and silent Thanksgiving Altar in the raised garden built by DH that is visible from the kitchen and my office window. It would be a declaration of thanksgiving for the years of loving and walking together that we shared until he left us on March 1. And so it is.
At the time I was struggling with the need to accept that our marriage is over. I don’t mean letting go of the fact or the benefits or the internalized gift of his love for me, but I sensed I was still holding tight to the marriage itself and of course, it was no longer.
The Thanksgiving Altar, the fourth I’ve built in my life, would be a place to express gratitude for the blessing and also a place to let the blessing go because the season for it is past. So it moves into memory and the strong shadow it casts continues to anchor my heart.
I  used the dried  roses and wheat from the funeral spray that had covered the casket in March in Minnesota. I chose a variety of rocks from our lifelong collection including a sizable sample of obsidian that had split in two about four days before Grant died.
There is one large obsidian piece with a much smaller portion which had cleaved cleanly along a glimmering plane the day it broke, and it is marked with circular patterns that reflect the previously melded surface. Those two pieces lay within the little altar, still snugged together but no longer joined.
The wheat stalks were simply spread on top of the ground, arranging them in the general silhouette of a cross and then I placed the rocks, dried flowers, obsidian, and a chunk of black coke rock on top – intending and expecting that the entire arrangement would fairly become an unnoticeable  feature nestled under the blueberry bush that was planted about the same time, a spot to be noticed only by me. That was in mid-June.