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I woke this morning to Nova, climbing into my arms to snuggle, as she does most mornings. Tony stirred soon after, and we lay there, the three of us together, resting contentedly with our arms intertwined.
“Are you awake?” I asked Nova. “Yes, I’m awake,” she replied, her crisp yet delicate five-year old voice slicing through the morning air. I kissed her head, squeezed her a little tighter. One at a time, we rose from the bed. Tony headed downstairs to make breakfast and coffee, as he does most mornings. Nova picked out a dress her daddy might like. “He liked red, didn’t he mama?” “Oh yes, he loved all the colors.” I helped her put the locket around her neck. Yesterday we’d found a tiny picture of George’s face for the inside, per her request. She had plans to put it around Buddha’s neck today. Buddha had become our altar for George. This is five years. A place I never could have imagined the day I kissed George’s body goodbye, tears raining over him, Nova in my belly, a future forever changed. That day feels a lifetime ago, and yet so palpable I can almost feel his hand in mine as I slipped off the wedding ring. I can almost hear our footsteps as we walked away. Most years felt like survival, though I tried so hard to illuminate the good, to expand and to thrive despite my incessant broken heart. I did not know which way to go, but I kept myself moving -- first this direction, then that -- through various projects, homes, and friendships. I reached out to the world, in full expression, vulnerably, patiently, waiting for something to stick. And then came love. I was adamant that joy and peace need not be inextricably tied to finding new love; I wanted to prove something greater, that my love for George was all that I needed. But the physicality of love is real, the need for human touch, for eyes to hold you, conversations to heal you. People need people. And so, despite my fear of letting go, I said yes. This was the three year mark. Today I am two years into a relationship that holds and supports me with love, patience and compassion. He honors me, and he honors George. He loves Nova fiercely. He accepts without question the deep, forever connection we have to the man who lives in our hearts. “Say hi to George for me,” he said as he kissed me goodbye this morning, leaving me to write at the kitchen table. His capacity to hold us all in benevolent light is some kind of transcendence. Soon, another chapter unfolds. In 5 weeks I will accept my diploma with a Masters of Science in Traditional Chinese Medicine. A journey that began long ago, connecting this life to the last, a completion of work that consecrates my soul’s purpose, one that would not let go despite my wavering. This I dedicate to George. Here’s to five years, a life that forges onward on with fierce love and honor and dedication. Weaving past and present, stepping into the light, waking up in love with arms intertwined.  One year ago this January 1, from the mountains of Colorado, I made the decision to move to Denver. What began as our annual family Christmas vacation resulted in a major life transformation -- easily one of the most dramatic decisions I’ve ever made -- landing me, my 2-year old daughter, and a trailer full of boxes in the place we now call home. I couldn’t have known then, that Nova would get a spot at our neighborhood’s full-time preschool in the fall. I couldn’t have known that this would afford me the opportunity to resume school and finish my degree in Chinese medicine and acupuncture. I couldn’t have known that I would fall in love with a man and experience the depth of connection* that had vanished from my life years ago. I knew only that there was a home waiting for us in Denver, and that despite the 18 years of roots laid in the Bay Area, it was time for me to move forward, plant new roots, begin again.  One hour ago, my entire life changed. I took my girl to school, and came home alone. From this day forward we will live by the school year, and the school bell, and for the first time since her birth we will begin leading separate lives. I will not know what happens in her day. She will not know what happens in mine.
This feels monumental. I am shaking with exhilaration, a heart full of gratitude and pride, a mind in disbelief that this day has finally come. I no longer have a baby. I have a heart-strong, tough-minded, independent child who barely looked up from her artwork when I left her at school today, a girl whose joyful spirit would never lead you to believe that her first years were steeped in heartbreak. Somehow, we made it through. We made something beautiful out of something tragic. As I take in my surroundings at the kitchen table this morning, gazing through our living room to the park outside, the sun streaming through the windows, soon to disappear beneath the shadow of the moon, I am struck by the multitude of turns my life has taken since George left our earth. Little by little, the decisions I’ve made for my family have culminated in this moment, in this home, in this new beginning that is no longer filled with hope, but with certainty. I am where I want to be. We win.  I have arrived. This is the moment when things begin to come into focus. The boxes are unpacked, the curtains are hung, (most of) the heavy lifting is done. My child, by some miracle, is asleep in her room at 3 o’clock in the afternoon, and I am here on this couch (this couch that is no longer my bed!) and for the first time in months I feel calm, and rested, and ready to explore.
 A few weeks ago, I thought I had finished the first draft of my memoir, and I was elated.
For about five minutes. That elation quickly turned to pride, turned to fear, turned to doubt, turned to shame. As I began to review the draft, starting from the beginning, the negative personal commentary began its long and relentless rant. |
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