Wide Open

Balch Creek, Forest Park

It has been 11 months today (I'm typing this on the 4th of May) since he left this earth. This morning was taken up by volunteering for the Audubon Society and I couldn't spend a lot of brain power on the significance of the date while I was looking for and identifying birds. And besides, every day is another day without him. Whether the calendar says "3" or "4" or "24", he's still dead, and my heart is still broken.

But later, as I walked in the woods, a place so sacred for us and so important in our relationship, the significance became more apparent. I experienced many so many stereotypical grief emotions in that one hour walk.

Denial: As I started out, it felt like any other hike and I could almost pretend that all I was doing was taking a walk in the woods, as normal as can be. Muddy shoes slapping on slippery trail. Rain dripping from leaves onto coat, onto dirt. Breath in, out, feet finding a rhythm. This is a normal day. Everyone carries on with their lives. I carry on. I hike in the woods. I walk upright. It couldn't possibly be that he is dead. Dead. Dead and Dave. No way those two words go together. No way in hell. No way that I'm still standing if he didn't live.

Anger: The woods were post-rains and the creek was swollen and raging through the valley below me. The new spring growth was chartreuse and actually glowed in the dim light that made it through the canopy. The green was something you could absorb through your pores. It was so vivid it almost buzzed. You should be here to see another spring like this!, I screamed silently. Can you see this? Can you see what you're missing? How could you be taken from me? How could life be that cruel? You will never get to see another spring like this with me and I hate that. I hate this.

Depression: As I hiked back from the halfway point, past some people I tried to hide my grief-ravaged face from, the rain began to pick up and I pulled my hood over my head. The drops battered the fabric, raising a roar inside the hood, filling my ears, and rice-sized hail began to ping off my head and bounce on the ground. My mind turned to a familiar groove. The "I don't want to be alone forever" groove. I thought for the millionth time that I want love again, but I'm so scared to risk feeling this way again. Maybe it's just not worth it, I thought. Maybe it's better to just be alone. Thankfully, this thought was quickly discarded. The thought of a life without my time with Dave because I'd decided love wasn't worth the risk is something I don't want to ponder. Miss out on love to save myself pain? I can't do that. I just can't. But the time I will spend without that kind of love feels eternal to me right now. To be loved so completely by someone for 15 years and then...nothing? To say that it's a shock to my system is a laughable understatement.

Acceptance: As I hiked along the banks of the creek, I imagined what he would be doing if he'd been by my side. He'd have been carefully inspecting the waters with a fisherman's eye. He'd comment on how muddy the water was and point out a pool or two where fish might find refuge from the current. But he's not here, I thought. We'll never have those talks again. We'll never be walking down the path together oohing over a chipmunk or hummingbird or marmot. He is gone and never coming back. This concept is one that I don't wear with ease. It's a new pair of shoes that I can put on and tolerate for a very short time, but all I can think of is kicking them off to end the discomfort.
My mind still bounces right off of this one, but it comes back to it more often these days, gradually getting more and more familiar over time.

As I left the trail for the pot-hole ridden parking lot, and climbed into my waiting car, I felt heavy with grief, but free of hopelessness. Sad but not bottomless-pit-sad. I realized that my heart is broken, but it's also been cracked wide open. While this makes me endlessly more vulnerable to pain, it also makes me more open to new things, too. New possibilities for ways to carve out this second life of mine. New empathy for others, new appreciation for the small things in life. New depth of spirit and softness of heart.

Maybe a broken heart can mean more room. I hope so.

Redwoods

I spent the morning yesterday hiking alone in Forest Park. I started at Hoyt Arboretum which has acres of trails lined with groupings of tree plantings. I walked through hemlock, fir and oak groves and eventually came to the redwood and sequoia forest. The light barely filtered through the canopy and the giant red trunks seemed to muffle sound.

 I walked out onto a newly built overlook, wrapped around the bases of some of the giants and tried to crane my neck back far enough to see the tops of the trees but finally had to lie on my back on the damp planks to see the canopy. Being surrounded by these ancient living things felt holy.

After taking a few pictures I got up and brushed the needles from the back of me. It was then that I noticed the memorial plaques on the benches around me.

I began to read them. Some were simple and just listed the names of lost loved ones. Some included quotes. I read each one, photographed the ones that seemed to speak directly to me and then pressed my hand against the cork-like bark of a redwood. Something too big for my heart to hold surged up inside of me. The pain of loss, and the knowledge of so many loved ones missing from our lives. The fact that these giant trees have been witnessing hundreds of years of humans living, dying, fighting, loving. The reminder that Dave was missing out on this hike.

My eyes spilled over and I heaved a huge sigh. Spring is coming, I thought, and Dave won't witness it. If he'd been on that hike with me, we'd have discussed the Indian Plum I saw all around me, sending the season's first tiny green leaves up to the dim light of the forest. We'd have commented on the beauty of the pileated woodpecker I saw fly to the top of a giant Douglas Fir. We'd have watched in silence as a Douglas Squirrel climbed over the branch arching above me to watch me as he twitched his tail, nervously.

We, we, we. The loneliness of no longer being a we stabbed at me. The thought Why is it so hard for me to be alone? kept playing and replaying in my mind. The answer came, in my own deep inner voice that sounds like a patient teacher...because you never have been before.

I had 15 years of Dave wanting to spend every hour of every day with me. How do you get used to the end of that when it happens so suddenly? I believe I can adapt and adjust to just about anything. But this? This is going to take a long time. Maybe I'll never get used to it. Maybe we aren't meant to be alone for too long. Maybe it's written into our genetic code to find a mate.

But, despite that, I wonder if this is a test. In order to learn from this terrible loss, I have to learn to be alone. I think the key to this is to learn to love myself and that is where my lesson really lies. The ability to love myself. That might just be my entire life's lesson.

As I left the redwoods for the light of the deciduous groves beyond it, I wondered if I'd ever be able to. Now, as I type this, I think of Dave telling me a thousand times how he could never understand why I didn't see in me what he could see. Why do I doubt myself more than anyone else, even when the proof that I shouldn't be doubted exists? I still don't know. But I suppose, in his death, he's going to get me to see, once and for all, what he could see.

Why isn't it enough for me to witness the beauty of those redwoods all alone? Because half of me is gone and I'm growing a new half. Not to replace Dave, but to be whole again.

Maybe one day, I'll be able to go back to that redwood grove (or anywhere) and feel as though my own company is all I need to feel whole.

Blessing

From here

I'm sitting in my new apartment while I type this. Soon, I'll have to go get ready to leave. Today I have to drive back to the house and work on clearing what I want out of the place before I can have an estate sale. I don't want to leave my new place, and this surprises me. I've lived here a week and already it feels like home. It's amazing how adaptable we humans are.

That's not to say that I don't still feel a bit lost here. I think there's actually a bit of shock, too. I feel an "out of body" sensation quite often. As though I'm seeing myself from outside of myself and I just shake my head in surprise. Wasn't I married, living in the country and teaching only 9 months ago?

But I'm here now. This is my home for the at least the next 6 months. I'm meeting people and the cats are settling in nicely. And to be honest, wherever they are feels like home, anyway.  I'm sleeping through the night, something that has always been a gauge of my emotional state. It's easier to go to the grocery store because there's less danger of running into dangerous memory traps.

I don't think longingly of that house itself all the time, like I worried I might.

I'm mourning the loss of an entire life and a person I'll never be again in addition to the love of my life, and that's the hard work, but actually transitioning to living here wasn't as bad as I thought SO FAR. As we all know, in the grieving process, we can always expect the triggers to be coming for us.

I think the move itself and selling the house was a good thing. I think I needed to be in a space that was all mine. I needed to see what was possible outside of my safety zone. I think most of all, I needed to prove to myself that I could do this on my own.

Best of all, I like Portland. It's fitting that I moved to a place with the only city wilderness in the United States. There are 29 different hikes for me to try in Forest Park. If you live in Portland, come join me. I'm going to check each one off until I've hiked 'em all.

And the other day, I spotted two hummingbirds soaring up and over my apartment building. It felt like a blessing.