Many artists experience silences, periods of public quiet, where the work continues, but it is private and often unprocessed. There is often no distinct beginning to the experience, only an acknowledged middle which often leads to an indeterminate end. Sometimes the era goes unnoticed in the buzz of life, other times it is defined by the simple ask, “what’s going on? I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

A few weeks ago staring at the birds on the lake, alone for a few moments, I thought of this … of words for a while. Time had seemed to slow for a few hours one morning on this lake I enjoy visiting every few years for several days with my beloved friends. Where were my words? They had always seemed like utility, accessible, nearby. They were not precious, just commonplace. Until they were simply gone like staples in an stapler. The words had disappeared and left the larger device decorative and useless.

I hear grief does that to people.

Over the summer, my two best friends died. It happened slowly and then fast. One a long decline, the other fast and violent. I had held his hand one day and we had talked about travel and looking at pictures and then he was gone. We had been inseparable for all my adult life and then we were not. I was not their blood daughter or granddaughter. I was something else and together we were a special trio for a long time. And now I was left alone with no guidance on how to move forward. So I just did. In a sort of heartbroken silence.

I stopped going up to the garden to paint. I stopped listening to records. I stopped walking around my neighborhood. I started to eat candy. I started to throw away papers. I started to think about what to do with all my crap. I started to feel that void, this distance from pleasure. I started to wonder again about the afterlife.

I like going to the quiet lake to just escape. To have simple times away from the world. I am reminded of my youth without the internet when there was nothing to entertain us but tactile objects and the vast world of nature. We are forced to converse with each other without interference. At the lake I love to cook for others and make an endless pot of coffee. On this day, I stood on the porch staring at the lake wondering at nature.

I spotted the birds as soon as they landed. We had tied the raft to the dock the day before. I don’t know why we had kept it there versus have it out of the water, but it hadn’t been my choice. I looked up through and loved that we had given the birds a reclining spot for a few moments, a brief respite from the challenges of the world, a short vacation from life.

I watched them entertaining themselves. I snapped a few photos. I alerted Aline to come check this comedy out. We all gawked. And then they flew away.

Could they have been my friends checking in on me? Perhaps? I never really considered it until now, weeks later. And I like that idea that they came to visit me by the lake, to plant the seed to speak, but with thought and care. And to inspire to move forward and keep doing what I do best: telling stories. The challenge of being the last survivor is the loneliness, but it is also the gift of freedom to choose how to live and what to remember and also what to simply forget.