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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.  It is September already. Somehow, we survived the summer. 11 weeks of cramming, racing, barreling through -- the result of me being in school full-time while Nova was out for the summer -- nearly did me in. Thank goodness for Moms, and Tonys, and Aunties, without whom I could not have succeeded. One summer down, one more to go.
It’s taken me the entire past month to decompress, to find a new calm. But just this week I caught myself singing a tune in the car on the way to class, tapping to the beat while waiting for the light to change. It’s amazing how these little things can bring joy in the most mundane of moments. I delighted at my ability to sing again, to feel music in my body, to feel joy without cause. This in stark contrast to the hyper-focused, muscles-clenched, don’t-let-things-fall-apart mentality that I adopted to survive the summer. It wasn’t by choice (necessarily), but it was my default. I kept dreaming of ways to do things differently, to be differently, but my patterns got the best of me. Do, Achieve, Work, Stress, Push, Worry, Repeat. I let relationships fall to the wayside. I abandoned self-care. My need to get every little thing just right, to have all the pieces securely locked into place, to outperform, to prove something, to achieve competence, and to also be loved by my daughter -- meant that there was nothing left for me, or anyone else. About halfway through, I felt rather lonely. I wasn’t the person I wanted to be, and this affected my ability to authentically connect with the people I love. I was running a rat race that I had created, and I was running it alone. Sitting here, on the other side, in a quiet house with my thoughts and a laptop, I ask: Why do we do this? Where is the joy in pushing ourselves to the limit? Why are we constantly competing, even when nobody’s watching? Here is what I know: When I die, I will not care about the accolades, or who I was able to impress, or even how successful my ventures were. I will care about the people I loved, whether I loved them well enough, whether they knew it, and felt it. I will not care about how hard I worked but rather what and whom I worked hard for, that it was meaningful, and resonant. I will wish that I hadn’t depleted myself as many times as I did, to achieve a false sense of security. And I will be incredibly grateful to those who stood by me while I learned this lesson, perhaps more than once, because they are the only reason I care about this life after all. Our people are everything. Life is a constant barrage of trials and errors. We will not do many things right, but we can use the gift of hindsight to do it better next time. Never perfect -- just better.  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.  Three years ago, I dreamed of this day. I somehow knew, even in those first few days, that things would be okay. But I didn’t want to live through the beginning. It felt like purgatory.
I was desperate to get to the other side. To have permission to start over. To fall in love. To be happy. To laugh unapologetically. To bury the widow. But grief is not a mountain. There is no summit, and there is no other side. Grief cannot be conquered, or left behind. Nor can the people that you loved. There is no starting over, because you are forever changed. You cannot go back to the person you were. And the person you become through grief is an ever-evolving wonder. It’s challenging for us to accept that there are races we cannot finish. Our minds want to untangle the past from the present, the sadness from the hope, the gratitude from the regret. We want to move past that which did not fulfill our dreams and expectations, or find resolution in death as the inevitable ending that we must embrace. Moving on is the mantra. But as the years change, and we along with them, so too does our relationship to the grief, and to our loved one cemented in time. Moving on deems impossible, for we take all of it with us. Every day, every year, a new experience of the past; a new understanding of the present. Three years ago, I dreamed of this day. And if you’d told me there was no other side, I’d have been crushed. But maybe you could have told me this, too: You are on the other side. Because the minute George crossed over, so did I. There the journey began, and so it continues, evolving and informing my life with infinite teachings. The last three years have not been easy, but they have been important. Like the butterfly’s struggle to emerge from the cocoon (without the struggle, it cannot survive) -- grief sits at the cornerstone of my human experience, challenging me to become a better version of who I thought I wanted to be. With love and peace in my heart, I step into this new year. A new season of evolution and wonder, with my beautiful and precious grief.  I just had a strong cry, the kind of cry that shakes you. The silent kind, the one that takes hold of your body and surrenders it to the unbelievable truth: Your love is dead. I had been writing about George.* Our first months together, in particular the afternoon I went to him to “end things” and ended up under his covers instead. That afternoon I needed not so much to break up with him, but to tell him: I know I’m going to break your heart, and I’m sorry. But that never happened. Who broke whose heart? George, my sweet George, it has been almost 3 years and I still ask myself this question: Where have you gone? How could you have left this world so suddenly, so easily, so spotlessly? Poof. And you were gone. Poof. And my life was to go on without you. Poof. Life would never be the same again. When I think of you like this -- these memories, recreating their image, placing my body back in time with yours, allowing myself to feel you, to recall the details; what we wore, how you smelled, the sound of your voice; the way you spoke to me, softly and with certainty; the way your eyes lit up, the way you closed them when I touched your hair; it is all so familiar to me still, and that surprises me, and I am grateful. I fear the day when I will no longer remember. When the words on these pages will be my only way in. The interesting thing about a cry like this is that, while gripping and painful and seemingly unbearable, it brings a notable sense of relief: I have not forgotten you, I have not moved on from you, I still feel for you, I still love you. You mean something to me. It was not all a dream. *I am writing again. It is the same book, and it is a different book. Stay tuned for updates. |
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