On a forest path I walk most days, an oak tree is still clinging to its leaves. The tree is sheltered by the escarpment from the west, nestled in among trees that protected it from winter's winds. Through that season, the long brown leaves clinging to the branches seemed determined.

As the new leaves of spring unfurled, I expected every day to see the old ones let go a few at a time. But now, beneath the strong green leaves of early summer, the brown ones of last year are still clinging to the branches. While other leaves are on the ground, beginning the cycle of regeneration, these rattle in breezes that are not strong enough to pull them away from the tree they nourished last year.

I've begun to ask, what am I clinging to that gave life at one time and is now just a sign of what was?

Our son and his then fiancé had planned to get married August 2020 with a ceremony at the house and an evening reception. I got busy making wreaths for the doors, planning the gardens, making sure we had everything ready for a wedding. About May, it was clear that the border would not open, that restrictions on gatherings were not going to disappear. They postponed the celebration for eleven months and got married last July with all of us joining by zoom.

I clung to the idea of a one-year anniversary celebration until March this year. Everything was ready after all. But even before the April lockdown, it was clear that the border would not open, and the options for gatherings were going to be limited. They cancelled the celebration. A plan for family pictures was put in place. I started to plan food for twenty-five, the number allowed at that time. But I'm done with clinging. At this point, with ten people allowed outside, they will do two groups of photos, keeping the families separate and numbers under ten.

Why did I cling to each plan? The couple has been totally flexible, clear on what they wanted and able to judge what gatherings were appropriate as the rules changed.

The spring gathering of this region of the United Church was called "Being Kicked out of the Boat," based on the story of Jonah who was thrown out of a boat and swallowed by a whale. The context of this theme was the changes that Covid has required of us.

The church leadership talked about the changes that had been thrust upon congregations and church structures. They talked about the efficiency of zoom meetings and the lower carbon footprint. They talked about the innovations of congregations who had found new and inclusive ways to provide worship and gathering spaces. They talked with excitement about learnings that will shape a new future. Then, we went into break out groups, and the message was completely different.

In the conversations I was part of, people talked about maintaining contact with members, offering support and connection that was different but still reached their people. There was a sense that these contacts would ensure that when in person gatherings started again, they would not lose anyone. I felt people were clinging to the side of the boat.

I know that people are looking forward to in-person gatherings. For me, those church gatherings will be two and a half hours away, mostly beyond my reach. I hope that they will offer on-line options even if they don't have to.

This year, I've attended literary conventions virtually, gaining inspiration and wisdom. I've gone to poetry readings twice a month. I've attended webinars. Some of these I would do in person. Most, I would not be able to. I am highly motivated to find ways to use virtual meeting spaces into the future.

I have a feeling that my clinging to virtual spaces is going against the drift. And maybe some of my reluctance is an anxiety that has built up over the last year. I feel I will be less able to stand in line than I was before. I'm out of practice.

Clinging is a natural reaction when we fear losing something important. Letting go feels like defeat. But there are times we have to let go. Figuring out what to hold, what to release, and what adaptations to carry forward is one of the challenges of this time.

Cathy Hird lives on the traditional territory of the Saugeen Ojibway