 He was my knight in shining armor.
When I saw him standing there, holding his bicycle, among a sea of other strangers just beyond the grassy knoll, I knew. He was the man I was waiting for. He was the man who was going to save me. I never would have admitted that I needed (or wanted) saving. I was 3 years widowed, and I was just fine. I had lost a husband, raised a toddler on my own through infancy, purchased my first home, and moved from California to Colorado to start again. I was doing well, making a life for us, and playing strong, on the outside. On the inside, I was lonely. I wanted companionship. I wanted to feel like a woman again. To be kissed, admired, held, loved. I wanted to not be alone. I wanted the dream of a family that hadn’t been fulfilled, and I wanted to feel that I deserved it. I wanted a different life. 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.”  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.  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. |
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