 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.  Artist unknown. I had an epiphany today.
The George I have been holding onto is gone. He is free in the purest sense. He has no desire or attachment. Not for any of us, and not for this human life. He cares for me, but this relationship is largely out of balance. It’s like the movie Her, except George is not an operating system, he is a soul spirit. In my dream he was telling me that it is time for my heart to let him go. That it is futile for me to continue holding him so near, for he hasn’t the capacity to reciprocate. Though I have often felt closer to George since his death, it is impossible to determine how much of that is a true deepening of our love, and how much of that I have fabricated to satisfy my longing and disappointment, to cope with the reality that our relationship, as I knew it, is over. It makes no sense for me to consider him the way I used to consider him. I know only a fraction of him now. Human George loved me, and human George died. Spirit George is an entirely different entity, and he belongs to no one. Tonight George feels more like a man who is leaving me, than my love watching over me. This is another kind of heartbreak. It stings. And it sets me free.  I had a really beautiful and heartbreaking dream about George last night. I have a hard time remembering the exact narrative, but the emotions are strong. I was waiting for him to come. I was in a place with a handful of other people, and we were all waiting for something. There was a waiting bench, the kind you find at a bus stop. George didn’t come. He kept finding other things to do, other places to be. I would wait, and wait, and wait, and find other things to occupy my time. I began to wonder if he was ever coming for me. Finally, he appeared. He was wearing this green shirt of his, the one with a lightning bolt on it that I’ve been wearing to bed lately. I looked at his face, and it was illuminated. I have not seen him this vividly for a long time. His hair had grown long and wavy and he was smiling, unapologetically, and I thought, There you are -- where have you been? But I didn’t ask, and he didn’t explain. He just stood there with a grounded peaceful presence, smiling. I felt joy and disappointment and love and longing all at once. I went to him and embraced him and wrapped my legs around his waist, and I held him. I forgave him in that instant. But I felt my heart breaking. His energy was very quiet, not wanting or grasping or desiring anything, though I wanted him to desire me. As in all dreams I have about George, he was aloof and unattached, while I wished for him to reciprocate the joy and excitement I felt to experience his physical body next to mine. I held onto him until I awoke. Today I am sad. |
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