Every April, I try to set aside time to honor Earth Day with spaciousness and quiet, a sacred pause in the rush of life. I long to sit outside, plant, tend something, reflect, breathe. But this week, life arrived differently.
On Tuesday evening, a dear friend, strong, independent, and always giving, had been admitted to the hospital suddenly. The news came as a shock. She’s someone who rarely asks for help, someone who devotes herself to caring for others, both human and animals. The stillness I’d imagined for Earth Day turned into the stillness of waiting rooms and monitors, of worry and prayer.
I was scared, not only for her but for the many lives that depend on her gentle hands and unwavering care. Illness doesn’t always come with a warning. When it does arrive, it ripples through the lives around it. That night reminded me how delicate everything is. How love often looks like sitting silently beside someone. How showing up still matters.
And today, April 26, marks two years since I lost my beloved Joey, a wise, sweet senior cat who held on with fierce resilience despite his many health challenges. I still carry the weight of what I didn’t do: the times I said, “I’ll sit with you later,” and didn’t. The guilt of ever thinking that his blanket on my desk looked unprofessional. The ache of Joey’s absence is still so present. His bed and blanket are still on my desk, untouched, just like they were when he slept on them. If I could go back, I would stop everything just to hold him longer.
It’s also been eight months since losing Gustavo, the cat, my dear, steadfast friend. The grief still feels fresh, sharp in places. There’s no tidy way to wrap this all up. Loss doesn’t work like that.
Their memories still echo in the quiet corners of my day.
Grief and beauty tend to arrive together. They always have. Eleven years ago, we celebrated Earth Day in Amy’s garden, planting sunflower seeds and wearing a bright T-shirt that still lives in my drawer. I think of that day often, and how simple and full it felt. I’m learning to hold space for those moments and the ones that don’t look anything like them.
But Earth Day is also about honoring life. And that includes its fragility, its surprises, and its losses. It’s about remembering that even in pain, we are connected. Even when we can’t control the outcome, we can choose to love anyway, openly, with all our hearts.
So here is my late Earth Day prayer:
May we remember to pause and notice.
May we sit beside those we love while we can.
May we forgive ourselves for the times we couldn’t.
May we keep our hearts open, even when they break.
Thank you for reading, for holding this space with me.
With love