For Thor - 74 - Thanksgiving

There isn't enough room in my skin for everything I feel today. It's Thanksgiving Day, and I'm home alone, by choice. It wasn't easy to decide to stay here while Dad and Xanny are in Pennsylvania. But as this day drew close, I knew that I didn't have feasting and celebration in my heart. Myriad emotions and states of being tug and pull at each other in a constant battle. One moment my heart overflows with gratefulness and the next, grief smashes in to steal all the air and energy. Then I manically run from the pain; busy being busy, filling the moments with anything that keeps me from focusing on the one dreaded fact I cannot outrun, ever. No matter how many projects, people, plans, or holiday feasts come and go, you, my beloved boy, are dead. And I live on, rooted in the bottom of the well of grief.

My mind is at once my tormentor and my friend today. It takes me on a poignant journey through the memories I have from your nineteen years with us. I recall your sweet face, beautiful blue eyes, bright smile and the total love you showed to your family. You adored Thanksgiving; it's as if this feast day was made for you. Autumn, hunting, friends, family, food, laughter, joy, and appreciation of the bounty showered upon us, appreciating what is; enjoying what is in each moment. Then my mind turns darkly and pulls up the starkness of the empty chair where you should be. That glaring empty hole is not just in my imagination; it is in my heart. I visualized going through the motions of our traditional observance and it feels so hollow to me. I mentally walked through the preparation of a Thanksgiving meal, making the dressing, the gravy (your favorite!), setting out all the plates and silver and all the effort…without you. Every time my heart broke all over again. I ended up in sobbing tears, wracked with pain. It's too soon for me to set a feasting table, a celebration of bounty and plenty.

It's not that I'm not thankful. I practice gratitude every day as part of my way of living, again. Every day I write or recall the reasons for being grateful, and I touch on some of the millions of beautiful gifts for which I'm thankful. To be honest, this is the single most important thing I do to keep going day to day. When it comes to you, I am thankful, so deeply, utterly grateful for each precious moment we had together. I am working to forgive myself for not being "present" enough for many of them, living as I was in a state of complacent disbelief that anything bad could ever happen to us. I took too many of those moments for granted. I assumed I'd always have you, it never crossed my mind that life would throw such an ugly twist into the story. And now here we are. I'm mourning you with hot tears streaming down my face and my heart broken into a million pieces. There isn't anything of myself that I wouldn't give to hold you in my arms again, to hear your voice and kiss your cheek.

Dad and Xan headed to PA, I stayed home (with Chaz). I don't have it in me to pretend to be okay-ish, nor to be around everyone and cry all day, either. I want to hibernate deep in the bottom of the well and feel what I feel without distraction. I want to commune with you, Thor, for a while and remember the beautiful gift of your life with us. I want to be here, where I can look at the family pictures and say your name out loud and cry and wish and lament and just be sad, broken-hearted mom. Because this is what is, this is what I am every day, but more so today.

Yeah, there is too much to feel for my skin to contain. Stretched paper-thin any little thing pricks that surface and taps the grief that waits there, barely contained. The silliest, simplest, random things set me crying. Yesterday it was a stupid news story that made me angry, and I burst into tears. The day before that arguing about politics with friends on Facebook was a distraction that felt better than how I feel inside. This morning the day dawned into a family-based holiday, and I can't stop crying. My heartbreak is leaking out of my eyes. There's nowhere to hide or run. I have to endure the day. And I will somehow, I have options available for any moment. Opting out of the "todo" of traveling and preparing a feast makes it more bearable. I only have to worry about myself today and not how the rapid-fire emotional changes affect others. They say that it might be good to create new traditions in the wake of death in the family. Maybe it's time for that to happen.

Chaz stayed home, too. He was worried about leaving the Metro side of the family without any Stishes on this first Thanksgiving, and he wanted to be close to me, too. He's coping, too, with the company of his cousins and friends. What a sweetheart. He's been ready with a hug more than once already and held my hand for a while in silence. Lady is on high-alert, too. She is such a sweet little being. She cuddles her little furry self right next to me. And I can feel you, my beautiful angel, hovering nearby and wrapping me in your wing.

Oh, Thor! I can hardly write as I can't see the screen or keys for crying. I want you to come through that fucking door! I want you to here in our home, eating dinner with us and kicked back watching football. I want to hear you and Dad and Pap play guitars together again. I wish so badly that I could be irritated with you for wanting to spend most of the holiday hunting and then would be proud of you for getting a deer, too. I want to chide you for putting too much whipped cream on your pie and laugh as you goad me by adding even more. I want to snuggle down after the Thanksgiving revelry is all over to watch A Christmas Story and Christmas Vacation with the family; a tradition I can't imagine keeping this year without crying the whole way through and laughing ruefully at all the jokes you loved so much. The glaring hole of your absence is too much for me. It swallows me whole and delivers me to that dark, breathless place where grief is thick and cumbersome.

The weather is supposed to be pleasant today; it may beckon me to take a long walk. Or we may decide to see a movie. Or we may just stay here and chill. Chaz and I are playing it by ear, minute by minute and he's cool with whatever the moment needs. I'm not sure what the day will hold, Thor, but you can be sure you are indelibly on our minds and in our hearts no matter what we're "doing."

Today I give thanks for all that is. Even if it's impossible to understand. Even if it hurts because I miss you so terribly. I offer thanks in the form of tears and remembered the joy and with an eye to life yet-to-be-lived, in each moment.

It is with a GREAT, FULL heart… that I offer thanks to Life for letting me be your mom, a happening that transformed me completely. For bringing you here to be my son, a relationship that continues, still. For the nineteen years of life and love, we shared here, together. For the eternal love that connects us, beyond the realm of the living and into the unmanifest realm of peace and divine love from which we all spring. I give thanks for my broken-heart that shines love through the cracks even as it weeps bitter tears. I offer undying gratitude for every single moment with you. I am so breathlessly grateful for the sweetness of life with your brothers and with your dad - our family. I am thankful for faith and grace that shower me with inspiration and strength in the moments when I'm unsure I can walk ahead.

I am thankful for the sun that shines through the front-door glass, a ray of hope that cuts through the gray clouds like a golden sword. 

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 73 - Starlight

I'm supposed to be working. Instead, I'm here writing to you. My new job started a little over two weeks ago, and while it's amazing to be a part of something so cool, in all the hectic activity I've missed you more keenly, more deeply. There is no place for my tears in my new day. And when I get home there is the rush of activity that naturally follows an intense full-time job; get supper on the table, debrief from the day and plan for the next, collapse and try to get some rest before doing it all again. I have two hours each day in the car, and on many days this is the time for tears to fall and for us to pick up our conversation. A conversation that is all too one sided for me, Bubby. But today, I have to set aside work for a spell and write. The whirl of emotions has reached a crescendo and is spilling out beyond tears and gut-wrenching agony to take the form of words on a screen. My to-do list will have to rest unattended for a bit.

The leaves on the trees glow with sunlight filtering through them in hues of amber, gold, and ruby. They dance and spin through the air in an autumn breeze. I watch out the window as nature once again shows me the total impermanence of anything in this world. A leaf that lay on the ground today, riddled with holes and crisp with frost was once the harbinger of a new season, unfurling to greet the spring. Our lives so very like these leaves celebrated in each expressive phase. Your leaf was a whole, healthy, bright green beauty, torn from life's branch by a terrible wind of fate. I long for you to have lived a long, full life greeting so many more sunrises before falling to the earth, my boy. My heart overflows with love, but also anger and regret. How is it that such a fine, strong son is struck down before he even gets going? Where is the sense or justice or fairness or reason or anything that tells me how to find my footing when you are gone? How do I reconcile a broken heart and a joyful life?

Thanksgiving is on the horizon, and I'm a wreck inside. I don't want to think about family gatherings. Our collective presence shines a stark light on the edges of the hole, the empty place, left by your death. Every day it's there, but on these holidays it looms larger and more painful, pointed up like long shadows cast by a bright light. Christmas ads, carols, invitations to parties, hints at the celebration that typically bring a smile and spark anticipation are like a million terrible knives cutting me all at once. I want to run away to somewhere where these holidays aren't in the culture. I checked airfare to Fiji and Bali, I don't have a passport, so it's a rhetorical exercise. The horrible thing is that no matter how far I run, I'll never outrun the fact that we are closing in on the worst time of the year and there is nothing to be done. I have to endure it, somehow. That's what has me short tempered, uncertain, quick-to-cry and lacking resilience.

Each day dawns with new promise, and I try to find footing to walk ahead into that possibility. I sit in meditation and visualize peace washing over and through me, I pray for Grace and vision to see the way. I long to see your face and hear your voice in my heart. Then I get in the car and drive into another flurry of activity, putting my heartbreak aside for a few hours. I've gotten away with it for a couple of weeks now, but today meditation brought tears that rose out of the depths of love and sorrow. The drive to town took longer because I had to stop along the way when I couldn't see the road for sobbing.

We had a work party putting the barn on the roof last weekend. The trusses went up, and the sheeting went on. Dad is thrilled to have his things under cover. We missed you greatly, darling. Chaz discovered that he could wear your Red Wing boots. My heart was in my throat as he laced them up and strode out with determined, proud steps. All day long, we could have used another pair of hands, and it went unsaid, but clearly understood that those hands should have been yours. You would have eaten that shit up! These are the things that twist my heart in new agony. It was a gorgeous day with friends and family working together, and yet, there is an undercurrent of sadness that just won't fade.

I went to the "launching pad" the other day and hung a new wreath on the tree. I straightened the myriad offerings of flowers, candles and little trinkets collected near the base. I still sit on that little patch of earth where you left us, where your heart stopped, and you breathed your last. I sit there because it is the last place you touched on the actual earth. I have a handful of this earth in a little jar at home. People wonder how I can stand to be there. To me, it's sacred, holy and eternally ours. Maybe I'm crazy, but I do what feels right at the moment.

One morning I went into the bedroom to wake Xanny. His face nestled under the blankets in just the right way to reveal only his hair, brow, and nose. He looks so much like you, Thor! At that moment I couldn't breathe. I just stood there looking, reveling in the gift of seeing "you" in the flesh, seeing how you live on in your brother. And you do live on in your brothers, in many ways. In memories, and music, hobbies and movies and most of all in the love we have for you.

I don't know what I'm going to do to survive the upcoming holiday season, Thor. I don't want to celebrate. And I don't want to let it all go, either. Maybe we need to change things up and do something different. Traditions seem to fly in the face of my grief this year. Gifts and candy and cookies and lights and decorations and parties. God, it all sounds so contrived. My heart isn't in it.

Maybe it's just going to suck, and that's all there is to it. I pray for the strength to walk ahead when all I want to do is fall on the floor and sob.  Maybe the joy will infiltrate the sorrow like stars on a night sky; it seems hopelessly dark, but if I give it time, those stars can show the way.

I renamed the constellation Orion to Thor and it rises high in the sky this time of year. Lead the way, boyo. I'll follow as best I can. 

I love you, Mom

For Thor - 72 - Solace by the Sea

Hi, Bubby, my love.

So much has happened since I last wrote to you. The main thing is that Dad and I went on a retreat for bereaved parents down in Kill Devil Hills, NC. I knew we needed to go, Dad was not so sure about the trip, but he was willing to be there for me. He would walk through fire for me. As it turned out, that level of dedication wasn't needed. The retreat lived up to its name, "Solace by the Sea." We gained new insight into how to walk this terrible road of grief as both individuals and as a couple. Thinking about this time together later, I realized that this was the first time he and I had the space to grieve, together, without anything else going on. In all these months we haven't found space, time or safety to be together in grief. This past weekend we were free of the usual stressors that block us from feeling how we feel and being able to talk about it. This fact alone made the trip worth it. But there was so much more, and it took a lot of courage to be open to what might happen.

Before the retreat I could maintain a somewhat conceptual view of you being dead, it seemed dreamlike or surreal. I could imagine you had gone on a trip to Mars and were hurtling through space in cryo-sleep. I could suppose you had somehow tricked us all and cheated death and were alive and thriving among The Fae. I see you in my mind's eye whole and hale and so full of life that I can refute the evidence that you died. But something happened when I placed your photo, fireman's badge, guitar pick and a few other little items on the altar alongside the photos and treasured mementos shared by the other parents in remembrance of their beloved children. Your handsome face shone forth from a picture frame surrounded by the beautiful pictures of your new tribe; a tribe of child-angels who look over and guide their parents from the other side.

My mind didn't want to grapple with it at first. How is it possible that we were there and that your picture was on that table? How is it possible that Dad and I have to learn to talk to each other about you, our dead son? How is it possible that we became part of a story that is so intensely eviscerating without our consent? We had lived blithely in a bubble of secure protection for so long; sure tragedies happen, but not to us. Right? Well, that bubble blew the fuck up on Dec 31st and left us broken, bloody, naked and ill-equipped to face the storm, the aftermath of your death. And even after all these months of writing to you, crying, floor pacing and hand wringing, I can still imagine it didn't happen. Right up until I saw your photo on that table and began to listen to the stories shared about each of those precious lives cut short. I heard the stories of Theo, Joel, Austin, Michael, Logan, Nicholas, Brooke, Nikki, Jacob, Madalyn, Tyler, Matthew, Julia, Matt, and Charlie. And as Dad and I shared your story right along with them, a new level of knowing clicked into place. We are bereaved parents of our dead son. We share the sacred journey of loss and love with the parents who've had to say goodbye to their sons and daughters too soon.

And that was just the beginning, something profound happened when we did an exercise where we paired up, and each had 30 minutes to tell our partner about our children. The idea was that later we would each share what we heard about our partner's child with the rest of the group. I was eager to talk about you, Thor. I don't often get to do that. I wanted the group to get to know you, how brilliant and awesome you are. So I rambled about various things for 30 minutes while my partner took notes. When the time was up, I felt like I could have talked so much longer, like I had so much more to say. And when we came back together later I listened as my partner related what I had shared with her about you; the snapshot into your life here with us and what kind of amazing person you were in life. She had listened well.

Later when I went to bed, I broke down in tears and sobbed. I hadn't done you justice. I hadn't told the most amazing things about you or even the most iconic. I forgot to say how much you loved to play guitar and loved anything with a motor. I didn't tell her how you captured everyone's heart with a flash of a smile and those lovely blue eyes, including the lady at Giant Eagle when you were just 2 years old. I forgot to say how you used to hate cheese until you discovered pizza. I didn't tell her how you fit so perfectly in my arms when you were a baby and that we took naps together. I didn't share how much you loved machines and trucks and guns and the outdoors. I hadn't remembered the best parts of the story of your life; I had generalized and conceptualized your character illustrated by only a few tales told in a rush of words.

A sickening realization dawned on me; I had no idea how to talk about you. As a matter of fact, I don't think anyone has ever asked me, "Tell me about your son, Thor." I didn't know how to relate the funny, real, interesting, quirky, loveable details of you, Thor. I have to practice sharing the details that made up your life and shaped the man you had grown into being. In the morning I told one of the other mothers how I felt and she said she felt the same way, so I didn't feel quite so alone in my self-beratement. We had come face to face with a new aspect of the journey, learning how to talk about our dead children. Totally intense.

Thankfully, the ocean was our constant touchstone and she offered her vast expanse to absorb the heartache, pain, sorrow, regret, guilt, sadness, loneliness, endless tears and so many emotions or states of being. We threw rocks into the ocean after writing a word on them that encapsulated something we want to leave behind. I wrote Loneliness and Uncertainty both of which stem from this feeling of being utterly broken and somehow irretrievably damaged. I wrote those words on the rock and flung it into the sea. Then we picked up a shell or another stone to write word symbolizing something we wish to take with us. I wrote Love. Self-love, Universal Love, All-encompassing Love. Love of Family. The Love that binds you to me and all of us, Thor. It's the only thing I could think of that is changeless and could remedy the loneliness and uncertainty I feel in my heart.

Dad and I took some walks on the beach, and one time we headed out across the highway and over to the top of the Wright Brothers Memorial. The last time we were there was with all of you boys in 2009. Ghostly echoes of that beautiful May day played in my mind as we ascended the top of the memorial hill. I remembered taking one of my favorite photos up there, the one where you three brothers stood beneath the words "THE BROTHERS" etched in the stone. I opted for a selfie in front of the word FAITH; it just felt right. It's gonna take a lot of faith to keep moving through this process to where we can live a life with joy, again.

On the last night of the retreat, we did a simple remembrance ritual, lighting a candle for our children and saying their name. We stood in a circle under the night sky full of shooting stars and the sound of the surf pounding the shore. Our faces lined by tears and the warm candle glow that represented the lives and love of our children. I realized that we hadn't done any formal ritual for you, Thor, since the funeral. And once again, I was struck by the fact that I have now joined the ranks of "candle lighters," of the vigil holders that I could only peripherally imagine before. And I was so moved, opened and shifted in that simple gathering. The flame that represented you, Thor, shone brightly alongside the others as we arranged the candles in the shape of a heart. Each child's life, legacy, love, and memory were added to the whole like a bead on a wire. Each candle shone brightly as a treasured piece of our collective heart, the new tribe defined by shared loss, utter heartbreak and our ultimate transformation.

I learned a lot, Thor, some of which I won't understand until it unfolds and unpacks itself in its own time. The way continues to reveal itself day by day, moment by moment. As solitary as this journey is, now I don't have to walk it alone all the time. Your dad and I are finding new ways to reconnect through and across the ocean of grief that swells and rages between us. And now we have connected with other beautiful souls who understand the daily struggle to find the courage to take a step, and then another and then one more. We step bravely into the new way of being that incorporates and encompasses all the grief as a beautiful expression of the deepest love. It is a terrible and magnificent road we walk now hand in hand and heart to heart. I am so grateful to have found Colleen, Doug, Cheryl, Tamera, Cindy, Susan, David, Joanna, Karolane, Michelle, Tamara, Karrie, Karla and Jamie.

What a journey, my boy. What a trip. I'm leaning in, staying open and being simultaneously brave and vulnerable. I say Our Family Blessing every day, several times a day and it really helps me connect with you and, well, everything. I feel you most clearly when I am still and open-hearted, and that's the best feeling of all. 

I love you, 

Mom

For Thor - 71 - The Line Between Bravery & Foolishness

I cried myself to sleep last night. And the night before that. I woke this morning to see the sunrise through teary eyes. Tears fell in the car, at the soccer field, in the shower and while cooking supper, yesterday.

Friday night was family night at the funeral home for Uncle Dick's mama. I wanted to go, for the family. This is the first time one of our generation (my sibs and spouses) has lost a parent, and it was important to me to be there; like they were there for me. It was the first time I'd been in that room since your service, Thor and I tell you what, it might have been brave to try, but there is a fine line between bravery and foolishness. I landed just a bit on the foolish side of that proposition, I'd say. As much as I love my sister and Dick, I think it would have been better if I hadn't tried quite so hard. But we never know our limits unless we test them, right? And now I know a little more about myself than I did on Friday morning. Even foolishness has its benefits, I suppose.

Would it be bad never to go to another funeral as long as I live? I don't know that this is the answer, but right now I'll do just about anything to avoid a full-sensory flashback like the one triggered on Friday. The whole experience was surreal, from walking up to the door of Dunkum Funeral Home and catching the first whiff of the smell in the room to the lighting and the energy vibration, I was transported in time, space and emotion to January 4th. I could not clearly see what was in front of me, the sweet family of a lovely woman who had left this earth too soon. Her photo and the flowers surrounding it floated like a ghostly image superimposed over other images; terrible images, seared forever in my mind. All I could see was you laying in that damned box with a gazillion flowers in a stunning array around you. All I could smell was the mums, roses, and sunflowers that draped the coffin and lent their natural beauty to make this worst moment just a little bit brighter. I shakily hugged a few people, the ones I had braved this environment to see, but the tears wouldn't stop. Hugging someone in that space, the space of grief, was like hugging people from that night in January when I embraced over 800 folks who came to say farewell to you.

It was clear I had to leave. The evening wasn’t about you and me, Thor. It was for someone else's pain and loss as we come together and take a moment to cherish a particular life. But for me, there was nothing else happening other than the vivid Technicolor replay of your funeral. It felt like I was going crazy with an alternate reality running alongside the one my body was currently occupying. All my senses turned traitor, adding to the full immersion experience. I could feel your cold hands, and I marveled at your beautiful hair as I caressed it one last time. I traced the funny little curve in your ear that I've loved since I first nuzzled it, you just a newborn babe. I stroked your cheek and tried to make believe it was not ice cold and hard…I tried to remember the last time you hugged me and how you smelled then, warm, clean sweat, laundry soap and you. I tried to block out the formaldehyde smell that clung to you as you lay lifeless in that damned box. Oh, yes. I had to get out of there.

My goodness. People are kind. Aunt La, Aunt Poorna and Aunt Radha along with your sweet dad and many friends, they helped me get done what I came to do; pay my respects and offer my love for the family. So many kind smiles and feelings of tenderness came our way, as everyone knew that it was hard for your brothers and dad to be there, too. So even though my mind was stuck in a dreadful place, there were lifelines of love that helped me get back to the current moment. We stepped outside into the twilit evening to head home. I breathed out forcefully, clenched and unclenched my fists, and shook my head. Dad offered to drive, but I welcomed the distraction of engaging my mind in an ordinary task. Riding as a passenger would allow me to linger with the pain.

I had escaped but not before uncorking a fresh bottle of memories and emotions. Holy shit! It hurts so badly, still. As we were driving home, Dad put his foot down and forbade me to attend the service the next day. He knows the signs of a crash coming. He's only ever firmly stopped me from doing anything two times in twenty-two years. This is one of them. I knew he was right, so I acquiesced without my usual defiance and let out another cleansing breath.

That night the moon rose fat and bright over the horizon. As I lay down, the silvery light drenched my bedroom. It looked like Angel Light to me, radiating with a soft glow that felt like angel wings wrapped around my heart. I sensed you right there, lending comfort as my tears slid silent and unending to soak my pillow.

I'll never stop missing you.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 70 - Melty Edgelessness, For the Win

Do you know why the ocean is the master of all the waters? It's not because it's the largest and it's not because there are whales. Although whales are freaking cool. And dolphins. I adore dolphins. The ocean is the master of all the waters because it rests beneath them. All rivers and streams run their sparkling courses through hill and wood to eventually end their journey in the vastness of the ocean, where it waits with infinite patience in the total knowledge that it already encompasses them all.

A few days ago my little skiff was bobbing wildly down a raging river. Anxiousness and worry spun the river (my mind) into frothy whitewater. A raging river is loud and distracting, and like a drunk monkey, it demands attention. It threatens to dash me on the rocks and tumble my raft in the rapids. I naturally rise to engage and fight the current, battle the waves and stare down the boulders in my path. I take on the identity of a person who needs to gain control of the situation. The terrible thing about this is that it's a no-sum game. I would be doing battle with my mind, the illusions of demons that don't exist outside the thoughts that bounce around in my skull; the lies I tell myself about how I'm not good enough. If I continue engaged like that, I will end up where my attention was set, dashed on the rocks. Instead, I remembered a lesson learned on the night you were born, Thor. And it calmed that river right down.

Hurricane Fran had pummeled us with over ten inches of rain in one day. The trees swayed in the wind and bent starkly under rain-soaked leaves. As the storm approached it did more than just knock out the power and flood the rivers; it triggered labor. Planning to have a home birth, I called the power company to see how long it would be before I could flick on the lights. The man advised me to evacuate to a hospital since the substation that supplied our area was under ten feet of water and that it would be at least three days before we could expect to have power restored. Oh, holy Lord! I was unwilling to consider a going to the emergency room to give birth to you. It didn't feel right; it was not our story. So, your dad and I decided to stay and make do with what we had along with heavy reliance on the advice of our midwife, Nana and Aunt La.

At one point Nana and our beloved midwife suggested I stop walking around and try to rest awhile. I laid down on the sofa, sweaty in the sweltering humidity of late summer in Virginia, and had a conversation with the Great Unknown. I thought about the countless numbers of women, my ancestral sisters and mothers, who had given birth under the stars, on the plains, in cabins, caves, yurts, teepees, and igloos. I thought about the countless mothers who breathed in and out to tap the power of the Earth so they could bring their babes safely to life. Mentally, I linked arms with this vast sisterhood and turned my attention inside. I would do this freestyle, without the carefully wrought plan we had created over the past months. And without running water, or power or anything else save the love, support and experience of those who attended this blessed event. (Your dad was a rock star, btw!) I breathed in and out, in and out, innnnn and ouuuut. Surrender it to God. Surrender it all. Accept no blame, nor praise. Just be here now and allow life to be lived through me. Breathe innnnn and ouuuuut….all the tension left my body rendering me edgeless and free. You and I were so connected at that moment, Thor. I felt you saying "we got this mama." And so I was resolved to a primitive homebirth with whatever resources we could garner at the moment. With a final exhale, I let it go.

In that very instant, the power came on! The ceiling fan started spinning, and the air conditioner sputtered to life. I laughed aloud and whooped! I don't know if surrendering allowed the power to come on or if it was coincidence, but I can tell you that taking a position of surrender was the best thing I could have done for me, and us. It's impossible to fall off the floor, right?

The lesson is one of surrender and faith. All rivers lead to the ocean. If I wish to be the master of my life not a refugee in it, I need to cultivate a state of being that allows for the continuous experience of love. Allow my stance to remain humble, vulnerable, kind and patient. This means being kind to myself, too. We are often our own worst enemies. My thoughts can cut like knives into the tender places in my heart, bleeding me dry of precious energy, disconnecting me from Peace and Love. The anxious thoughts and passing fancies are not real; they are fabrications made up of old tapes, old stories, old hurts. They are the ghosts of the past coming to haunt the present and seeking to derail the future with fear and doubt.

This week I grappled hard with the concept of resilience as I tried to pick myself up from that sad, angry, low place. In the months since your death, I've gained a measure of resilience as it related to me, individually. I can focus inside to tap in and find that calm, deep peace from which all creation springs. It's like cold, clear water in a desert. Nothing is better. The rub for me is when I get involved with the world and have to find this resilience when faced with all the various agendas, ideas, needs, struggles, pain, suffering and terrible beauty that surrounds me. In these interactions the connection to peace is tested. I'm out of control in these situations, and that makes me edgy, not edgeless. Other people's decisions, actions, and timeline can affect the daily life of my family, and this vulnerability spins up anxious thoughts and cues the frantic doingness that I just don't want anymore.

I went for several long walks along sun-dappled lanes and tree-lined rivers to spend some time in silence and prayer. I intentionally worked to reconcile the truth of the situation with the inner dialogue that was running amok. It took some doing, and I didn't get it right the first time out. I still struggle with this at times, because being vulnerable, open and bright is hard to do when one is looking for a job. Job-seeking seems to bring out the bullshit adjectives splashed across a resume and forces us to cover the soft places in our beings, to leverage interactions. It spawns a tendency toward fakeness that makes me physically ill. I want to do it differently. There is something attractive, like a magnet, in people who are authentically strong and vulnerable, humble and wise, silent and yet so clearly heard. I want to be like this in the world, melty and edgeless and also clear and focused. "From an authentic state of being with love and open hearts…" Right out of the Family Blessing, right? This is it. This is the next level of reconciliation work I'm doing, Thor. And it all stems out of the work I'm doing as I mourn and grieve you, my sweet boy. There is a heart opening that has let me glimpse the connectedness of all that is. To let that go unexplored and uncultivated would be to walk away from you and the spiritual call to expand, grow, learn and radiate light.

I played with some images to envision and empower this idea of having melty edgelessness in juxtaposition to being clear, focused and incisive. The best thing I could think of was spicy, hot nacho cheese! Delicious, memorable, goes with just about anything, totally useful. The idea had me tipping my head back to whoop with wild laughter, only the trees and the outline of the mountains bore witness to what might have looked like a mad woman in the wood. But I know you were laughing too, shaking your head and wiping tears from your eyes. I imagined you saying, "That's nacho mama, that's my mama!" Cue more giggles.

I'm no longer seeking a job. I put myself out there in a way that was as honest and clear as I could be. I stumbled and fell as I grappled with the insecurity and vulnerability of that position. But the risk paid off, a job offer rests in my email inbox along with several other rich possibilities for additional collaboration. There is always energy behind the right thing, and this is the right thing, with the right people and at the right moment. I am not sure if crying "Uncle" is required for the gift of grace to be bestowed, but as soon as I surrendered and smiled from the melty nacho-cheesy Love in my heart, the call came.

Why take a chance? Surrender it all now. Give it up, now. Accept no praise, nor blame. It all belongs to God. My only job is to keep showing up, with that empty cup, like the ocean that rests beneath all the waters. Let Life be lived through me.

Be the ocean. Be humble. Rest beneath everything in a position of infinite love and patience. Everything comes to you there.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 69 - Stumble & Fall

Trying to keep my head above water feels like a full-time gig. As if dealing with the constant disbelief and grief of losing you isn't enough, I am now unemployed. Shit happens, they say. The money runs out, and things move on; the company pivots and leaves some of us behind to figure it out on our own. I am grateful for the time, space, afforded me to catch my breath. But it's too short; the world spins with a sickening lurch. It's too quick, and there is no warning, no sign; End of the Road Ahead. There is no solid ground under my feet as I frantically seek traction, like Wile E Coyote when he realizes he's off the edge of the cliff. I have to keep up, catch up, man up, pony up, get up…get up off the fucking ground where I fell when they told me you died and where I've been mentally for all these months…and walk ahead.

How am I supposed to do this? I still feel broken. Damaged. Not whole. I've made progress; it's true. I'd say was at 50% of the functionality, rationality, execution, decisiveness and the flat-out badassery that I had before Dec 31. But now I face a steep re-entry curve that looms over me. I read adverts for positions, jobs that I once would have eaten for lunch, and I feel threatened by the language in those descriptions. The list of must haves is intimidating and shines a harsh light on the jagged edges of the hole in my heart, my absence from the workforce this past year, the rusty skills and troubled mind…I feel unfit…and scared. The world is hard, and I am too soft.

Grief has tumbled me in the waves until I am smooth and edgeless. I lack the sharp elbows and pointy thinking that the world values so much. Wanted: Go-getters with can-do attitudes. Wanted: Sharp, professional, high-energy, high-performance Olympians with no emotional strife. Wanted: Someone who's mind is analytical, clinical, architectural, logical - not reeling and blown-away by the loss of her son. Good lord. What am I good for now? Being a grandma? Canning pickles? Raising sheep?

The urgency of finding a job has me scurrying in a rapid succession of "doings." And as that pace picks up, I am more and more despondent. I could hardly get out of bed this morning to face another day of "doing" something, but I'm not sure what and I'm not sure why and I'm not sure if it’s the right move for my family and me. I am not supposed to be "doing" like that. I've learned that in the past ten months. But if not that, then what? What? What the hell am I supposed to be doing? The bedcovers can't protect me from the harshness of the dialogue in my mind.

The energy is ALWAYS behind the thing that's right. Waiting for it to reveal itself is the hard part. Not filling the moments with frantic activity is impossible as the old paradigm of my chronic "do-ership" takes over. My heart is screaming at me to STOP!!!! I can hear you, Thor, telling me to STOP!!! And I do, for a nanosecond. Just long enough to realize that I'm freaking the fuck out and that won't help anyone. But then it starts all over, again, spinning up to drown out the sense of peace and connection I've worked so hard to reclaim over the past ten months.

I don't know the answer. I just know that the universe has decided to push me off the edge one more time. The journey toward the new me is not complete, so there is no point in resting here. I would start homesteading if I had found a single place where I could settle in and look around. Cue Universe: "Not so fast there, Cassandra!" a voice says as a bony finger reaches out to fling her into the unknown. I feel like a refugee in my own life some days; that's just sad, and I hate it. Or maybe it's inevitable for a seeker to be ever on the move, never settling down, always evolving, growing, learning. But what does that look like in practical, bill paying, grocery buying terms? I have no flipping clue.

All of this upheaval, as stressful as it is, is merely an echo of the explosion I realized when you died. I thought I might be stronger than this…and that may be true, but I don't feel strong. I don't feel good at all. Paper mache is more durable than how I feel today. I bullshit my way through, donning a mask over the swirling, sucking whirlpool of grief, and now uncertainty, that spins in my heart. Gut wrenching agony still grips me in the middle of the night when the memory of your death comes calling. All of this and I'm supposed to go forth and reinvent myself? Holy shit. "How?", I ask. What more can I give?

The worst part of all of this is that when the cacophony blares in my mind, I feel disconnected from you. And that breaks my heart all over again. I've tried so hard to face this head on, to feel everything, to learn how to live and breathe again. I feel more adrift than ever now. I've stumbled and fallen, hard, Thor. I need a hand up. But more than that, to have the way forward revealed would be great. I feel like I'm wandering around in a desert with no map and no destination.

A deep despondence blows in with the cold wind of early Fall; it is insidious and toxic. I know this, and I'll need to untangle myself from its tentacles if I am to survive. Grief and despondence team up in horrible ways; they make me feel that nothing is important, that nothing matters, that the struggles of life are inane and pointless. Yeah, I'm pretty fucking low right now, Bubby.

Glimmers of Faith and Grace do shine through, at times, like stars peeking out on a cloudy night. I know they are there and I can feel them working for and through me. But it's like I'm a patient in surgery, anesthetized and unresponsive, while they perform their transformation and healing. All I can do right now is keep showing up, with that empty cup. I check my mind for the wrong and hurtful thoughts, try to replace them with something positive. I sit in meditation, as futile as that is lately with the runaway team of horses in charge of my mind, for a few moments and say Our Family Blessing. I write to you, here. All the while I feel like I'm riding a tiny skiff down a raging river. I can hear you saying, "Hang on!" and "Have Faith!" The river must go somewhere, right? I just hope I don't drown before I find out where.

If you stumble make it part of the dance, right? Sigh... Here, I'll try...

I pray for bold, courageous daring to flood into my sails and for inspiration to set the rudder toward a shining star. That's all I got for now. It'll have to do.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 68 - Autumn in the Air

The weather turned chilly over the past few days. We shut off the air conditioner and opened the windows to let in the smell of wet leaves and rain. Yesterday was the first day of archery season, and our hearts broke, again. It's your favorite time of year, and you aren't here to sift through the storage bins of hunting apparel and gear. You aren't here to don yourself in camo from head to foot and perch in a tree stand for hours waiting for a buck to pass by your line of sight. Hunting season lit a fire of childlike enthusiasm and genuine excitement inside of you; a time to be outside, in nature, with your friends and doing what countless generations of humans have done through the ages, hunting game to feed the tribe. It called to you from the very first time you heard the stories and saw your Pap and Dad head out into the woods.

Many nights the family casually gathered in the basement at Mimi and Pap's house or around the fire pit outside, and you'd say in your little four-year-old voice, "Let's tell hunting stories, Pap." And Pap would bring the hunt to life for you, how he and his buddies were here or there and the nature of the day, the hunt, the sighting, the kill, and tracking. Then your dad would tell a story about when he and his buddies went out. Uncle Daren would have us doubled over laughing with the tales he shared. And then you'd take a turn spinning up a story of your own, entirely imaginary of course since you hadn't ever actually been hunting at the tender age of four, but it was entertaining has hell to hear it! We didn't dare laugh; you were so sincere. The lore of the men in the clan is passed down to the next generation through storytelling. As Chaz and Xan came along and grew old enough, they got in on the stories, too. It was hilarious because you would make Mimi and me share one, as well. We appreciated the inclusion and could usually manage a decent tale, even if it was made up. And you'd laugh at us because we usually got something terribly wrong; my deer usually got away!  You paid rapt attention to Pap, Daddy, Daren, Dwight, Jerry and so many others who you considered your man clan. God, what precious times those were.

Your dad, brothers and I went outside and shot our bows for a while after I got dinner in the oven. You were in all our thoughts, I know. You should be here helping find stray arrows and cheering the great shots - especially mine, Ha! I nailed the target at 10, 20, 30 and 40 yards with the crossbow. Every time the bolt found the mark, I imagined hearing you say "Damn, Mama!" your brothers really did say, "Damn, Mama!" and someone piped up with "Don't piss her off!" And dad called me Belle Starr, his moniker for me when I prove I can shoot. I especially missed hearing you laugh and the mandatory bragging banter between brothers that always ensues when target shooting is involved. Chaz is fantastic shooting his recurve bow, he looks like an Elven warrior from a Tolkien book and is just as deadly accurate with that thing. Xan has the same casual approach you do and some of your swagger, too. He and Dad are spot on with their compound bows. All in all, we put a lot of holes in that target.

I plan on hunting this year alongside the fellas with the aim of putting food in the freezer, just like you always did every year since you were old enough to hunt. Golly, you were so proud to do that! We have just a few small packages of deer chops remaining from your last successful hunt. You and Travis were a force to be reckoned with whenever you two went out. Those last few packages of chops, well, I've been saving them. They have your handwriting on the outside paper, and I think of how happily you wrapped and labeled this meat for the benefit of the family. It's surreal to eat a meal provided by you, when you are ten months gone. Ten months! How the hell is that possible?

The temperature is dropping and the nights are growing long. The calendar rolls with an unstoppable current into this final season of The First Year Without You. This season will be the hardest one as we deal with the Big Holidays, and the worst day of all, the anniversary of your death. New Year's Eve is a holiday I doubt I will ever celebrate again in this life. I'll just quietly hang a new calendar the next day, and that will be that. So many thoughts about you and your life and death run in the background of my mind, a constant sidebar conversation and sometimes blatant interrupter of the moment. I still crumble in tears without warning, like on the first day of archery and you weren't here. Or the smell of a cold rain blowing in that makes the deer run in anticipation of the upcoming rut.

We find ways to connect with you, each in our way. Xanny played his guitar the other night, going through all the songs you were teaching him like "Life By The Drop" and "Die A Happy Man." He brought you to life in a bittersweet moment through the strum and pluck of guitar strings. I burst into wracking sobs in the living room, Xanny never knew. Chaz was putting away dishes and stopped to give me a hug. Dad did the same thing, one evening he just picked up your guitar and started playing it, running through the songs you two sang together. It broke me up as he sang "The Conversation" and had to sing your part, too. I can still hear your voice in my head. My Lord, we miss you, Thor. 

Autumn is in the air, my boy, and you feel more absent than ever. This feeling pushes me to seek you out in the places you loved best. I'll look for you in the woods and listen for you in the wind. Come hang out with me there, okay?

I love you,
Mom

The Ranch. More than Land; a Legacy of Love.

"The Ranch is sold." my dad told us the other day. I hadn't really thought of what this would mean to me all this time it was on the market. So when I heard these words of finality, I was stunned. Change is inevitable and there is nothing any of us can do to slow the river of time.  Still, I find that I am full of profound and mixed emotions as I think of this big change in the history of our family. It brings me some peace to know that the new owners intend to restore the old homeplace to its heyday glory, the woman who is buying it having spent her youth riding her horse past the fields full of frolicking foals. It seems she is as romantically sentimental about it as I am, and for that I am grateful. The Ranch will retain her wild, casual beauty and will continue to offer safe harbor to horses and those who love them. 

If one place on this earth could be called my home, it is The Metro Ranch. It is a small place, compared to other spreads that bear that grand title, its footprint barely covering fifteen acres. But to me, and to all who found shelter from the harshness of life under the ancient cottonwood trees and in the company of Mimi while sipping iced tea on the porch swing, well, the Ranch was much more than what a casual onlooker might see.

The Ranch rests at the foot of the Rocky Mountains just north of Golden, Colorado and a bit south of Boulder. My grandparents, Mimi and Papa, bought this place to put down some roots and draw an end to the somewhat nomadic lifestyle they had lived up to that point. After decades of zig-zagging across the nation as Papa's baseball contracts dictated, they wanted a place for the family to feel at home, for good.

In the early days, this area was an outpost for horse and cattle folk. Smallish homesteads peppered the landscape in a patchwork of corrals, pastures, fence-lined lanes, barns, dairy and beef operations serviced by old pickup trucks and tractors. And, of course, there were the animals; cows of every breed and horses of every color, it seemed. There were rabbits, llamas, goats, and donkeys living good lives in the fresh air. No suburbs encroached on the wild and scrubby wilderness that framed these farms in green and yellow-gold. The view to the front range of the Rockies was unimpeded. And to my eye, the Metro Ranch shined like a beacon, a bastion of modest excellence, quiet pride, open-doored friendliness, earnest hard work -- and the unconditional love of family. 

I came home to the ranch from the hospital after I was born. It is the first place I called home and to this day, the Ranch is part of my very being. Winemakers tell us how grapes take on the qualities and taste of the earth they grow in; they call this effect "terroir." Well from day one, my feet were planted in that soil, and no matter where I would later roam, the Ranch seasoned and influenced the flavor of my life. I am a Coloradoan, raised on The Ranch. I grew up free and loved and unfettered in this safe harbor, protected by the family's love and a million blessings showered upon my head from the cottonwood trees above. I was a country kid raised in what was, then, a flyover state. I knew the clean, tangy smell of hay and horse sweat and dung in the hot summer sun, the sound of lazy flies buzzing and the sound of horse's tails swooshing them away. My nose learned to smell snow coming and could tell if a warming chinook wind was on the way.  I knew the deep love and bond of family as I played countless make-believe games with my sisters and cousins under the bright, blue bowl of the Colorado sky.

The family flexed and grew and the Ranch stretched and grew to accommodate all our needs. My dad had inherited a bit of a nomadic spirit, no doubt left over from his early days of life, so we moved around quite a bit. But we always seemed to land back at the Ranch in between adventures. Mimi and Papa welcomed us with open arms, even if there was some question of how to make it work. One time when we came back our family was too big to stay for long with Mimi and Papa in their house. There were three of us kids at that time. I was seven, and Sumati was four, and Lakshmi was three.  So, the project to remodel the old milking barn into a dwelling began, in earnest. When Papa, Dad, and Uncle Mitty finished their work the new place was dubbed, The Bunkhouse. True to its history, upcycling and new purpose, that little building had personality, and that's for sure. There used to be two big sliding barn doors that would let the cows in to eat at the milking stanchions. One of the doors was left hanging, but sealed off to become a wall, and the other door was left working. It opened out onto a concrete pad (perfect for biking and roller skating!) that sat on the edge of the back pasture. Papa and dad knocked the stanchions out with sledgehammers. By the time they got it done, there was a slope in the floor that ran the length of the room. It was quirky, but we kids liked it. We could slide on it in our slippers. Kids are more interested in fun than in flat.

The concrete block walls made the house hard to heat in the winter, so we wore warm pajamas. Sometimes we would wake up to find our blankets had frozen to the wall! But we didn't care. We just got up and jumped into our clothes as fast as we could or, if was a Saturday and there were cartoons on TV, we'd settle in the living room wrapped in our blankets. Our ears would prick up when we heard Papa outside feeding the horses, and often we'd go out and help him with the chores. He'd sing, and we'd skip along behind him.

The giggles and shrieks of little girls filled the air at the Ranch as we were almost always outside. We wandered around fearlessly barefooted and barely dressed, like aborigines, from the moment we left the house until mom called us in for supper. There was a line of cottonwood trees that are probably as old as the planet itself that ran the length of the Ranch along the ditch bank. The ditch bank was a high berm that was broad enough to drive a truck along and was controlled by a water authority. Mostly we liked it because the earth was soft and easy to dig in as we basked under the shade of those big ol' trees. Usually, there was a cluster of horses following us around to share the shade with us. We climbed fences to look into the deep brown of a mare's eye and pet her soft nose. We'd feed them handfuls of grass or clover that we'd pick and we'd laugh when the huge animals would gently pluck these sweaty offerings from our grasp.

There was a line of old box cars that ran down the center spine of the Ranch. These were more than merely horse shelters, to us they were access to the top of the world. We'd climb the sides of the boxcars because they had ladders built-in, to run across their tops and we'd leap from car to car like you see in the movies. We didn't know then how lucky we were for the absolute freedom we felt on those days. Never ones to miss a chance to build a fort, we'd drape sheets or towels over the tree branches that hung over the top of the boxcars and would eat peanut butter sandwiches in our little abodes. We were literally on top of the world here - our world, anyhow. And that's all that mattered. When we were up there, we could see everything for what seemed like miles.

On one side of the boxcars were the paddocks and the lane that ran from the main house to the bunkhouse. On the other side, there was a marshy area that we were not allowed to play around. The marsh drained into a little pond where we were allowed if we were careful. We plucked cattails and broke them open delighting in the billowy seeds that burst forth and then blew away on a breeze. We caught frogs, newts, pollywogs and garter snakes and brought them home to be pets for a day. We found out just how dangerous the sucking mud that surrounds the pond could be when a couple of horses sunk into the ooze and had to be pulled out with the neighbor's tractor. That scared the crap out of us, and we were more cautious around the pond after that. But that didn't stop us from strapping on ice skates in the winter when the ice was thick and the air was frigid. We'd go round and round that tiny ice patch until we nearly had frostbite and then would run home to huddle in front of the propane heater to warm our toes.

The winters were white and windy with snow drifting like meringue along the lane that connected the bunkhouse to the main house where Mimi and Papa lived. We would wade through it, our breath puffing out in clouds while the cold air made our nose hairs freeze. It was quiet in the snow, the sounds of horses chuffing and even our own usually shrill voices muffled by the white insulation. We tramped up and down that lane to and from the bus stop each day. There was hardly ever a snow day in Colorado. They put chains on the buses and away we went.

When the earth turned in her slumber and spring came it was mud season! Everything was drippy, wet, soggy, sloppy and cold. The icicles that used to hang on the horse's manes in February melted away in March, replaced by mud stockings that went from hoof to high above their knees. As messy as this was, we didn't mind. The snow melted into the earth, filling the underground aquifers and the grass in the glade began to look green again. But what was even better about spring for us at the Ranch was the baby horses! In the quietude of late winter, the mares had given birth. There is nothing quite so sweet as the nicker and whinny of a foal. And because we lived in the bunkhouse on the edge of the back pasture we got to see them every day. Baby horses are curious, and because the mares knew us so well, they'd let the foals come right up to us so we could pet their velvet noses.

As years went by, we eventually moved away from the Ranch, landing in other places that added their terroir to my life.  We moved on, and it was someone else's turn to find shelter from life's storms at the Ranch. Everyone lived in the Bunkhouse at some point; all my dad's siblings and their families, if they had them. My aunt came with my cousins after her divorce, my uncles both lived at the bunkhouse with Geoff staying on long after we'd all gone to continue helping Mimi and Papa. Some of us grandkids even came to the Ranch as young adults, in between chapters of our lives. There are countless stories of hardship and sacrifice as each of us landed at the Ranch in need of a place to get our feet back under us, find our way or make a new start. We weathered family squabbles that melted into family forgiveness and happy reunions.  We helped with the back-breaking work required to run the place, when we could, out of appreciation and gratitude for the gift of this haven bestowed upon us by the patriarch and matriarch of Clan Metro.

I came back to Colorado virtually on the eve of my 21st birthday, penniless, but strong in body, rich with ideas and full of aspiration. I found shelter at Mimi and Papa's and with Uncle Geoff in the bunkhouse. Geoff, being only four years older than me, was more like a big brother. We had a blast hanging out with his friends, riding dirt bikes and shooting bows, cooking out and fixing cars in the shade of one of those, you guessed it, big ol' cottonwood trees. Geoff and I shared the responsibility of taking care of the place when Mimi and Papa went traveling. One summer I repainted the sign out front for them as a coming home surprise.

The late winter and early spring brought foaling season. For a couple of seasons, I slept in the barn next to Mimi so I could help her do her most important work; bringing those foals safely to life. We cleaned stalls and fixed new paddocks for the moms and babies to feel cozy. We administered shots and oral medications which usually involved me or Geoff rolling in the mud with a 150lb foal while Mimi deftly gave the shot. At the end of the day, we'd retire to the house, cook supper and get ready for another night in the barn waiting for the next foal's feet to hit the ground. As spring warmed up, Mimi and I would sit on the porch swing sipping coffee or iced tea, depending on the time of day. We'd watch the squirrels and birds scamper about in search of the corn she'd thrown them. Papa would usually be cutting wood but sometimes he would join us in conversation. These were peaceful moments before the next flurry of chores that kept the Ranch thriving and alive. We fed it so that it could feed us. 

For fifty-five years this little patch of earth has been the real and metaphorical beating heart of the family. It remains a fixture in our memories as the place where we, The Metros, were established, grew strong and bonded so tightly together. I know I romanticize how I feel about Christmases here and playing hide and seek in the hay barn. But that's okay. It is a romance. I love this place, the memories and the way I felt when I lived there. There is not one single place on this earth, well until George and I built our place, where I laughed, loved and lived more fully. In no other place did I learn more about myself and what kind of person I would be in the world.

To this day, when a summer storm rises out of the west and frames sun-limned trees in stark contrast with deepest periwinkle purple, I smile from my very soul. I am transported to my youth and those carefree days on the Ranch with the sound of horses running before the storm and the cottonwood trees singing as the wind blows through their leaves. 

For Thor - 67 - Death. It can ruin a life.

Last night I was up. Lady had to pee, and I was restless. I wandered around the living room and kitchen for a while, and Lady wandered around the bushes in the yard. Both of us roused from sleep in search of relief. Happily, for her, a patch of grass that smells just right will do the trick. For me, well, I'm not so lucky. I'm churning through the rough emotional seas that rage and swell inside me like some ill-fated tugboat in a storm.

The light switches remained untouched; there was light enough to see by coming from the single perpetual candle that glows like a beacon from beside the box that holds your ashes. In these small hours of the morning, I feel your presence around me more strongly, and the warm glow of a candle envelops me like a honeyed hug. In the small hours of the morning, I don't have to ask, "Where are you?" You're just here, waiting for me to be still enough to listen, to feel, to know. I exhale once, twice and a third time before I feel my shoulders fall, and my chest expand. When I sense you near, the tears spring from my eyes like a well-spring that waits just beneath the surface.

A month of milestones has come and gone. Three birthdays and an anniversary have seen the sun rise and set without your smiling face to celebrate with us. With so much activity, it's been hard to find time to settle down inside, just to be with whatever comes up. A buzzing feeling grew in my chest over the past week as I tried to focus back on work. By the time Friday came around, I was agitated and cranky, off-kilter and seriously questioning the intelligence of universe that has my feet walking this road. The day had many demands of me, too; it was a marathon of back to back networking events meeting with important work colleagues and new potential clients. The events ranged from professional casual to high-level political to music festival tech mixer. By the end of the night, I was a mess - and I still had and hour to drive home.

Saturday brought more opportunity for fun and distracting activity. Shopping, picnicking, friends, music, another party without you here. Another family event that you would have loved, but no. You're gone. You're gone in a way that I still can't get my head around. Starr and I talked about this, we both keep thinking you're gonna walk in that damned door one day. I keep thinking about all the close calls that I've had in my life, that you had in your life. From fevers and ambulance rides to you being a two-year-old trying to drive the dang backhoe and countless hours on the road in stormy weather. We escaped tragedy so many times. Grace smiled upon us and carried us safely to the next moment of life. Even the scare of your birth and wondering if you were going to breathe or decide to join us in this life was a close call. And then came that night when it was no longer a close call, there was no deliberation by the Great Umpire in the Sky - you were clearly out at the plate. You left the game, left us to play on without you.

So many people tell me how strong I am, Thor. I say I don't feel strong. I feel tired. And crabby. And like a failure at times, too. I pray for Grace and peace and love to radiate through me. But those prayers are sometimes choked by bitter tears and a mother's broken-hearted longing. Is it the strength that keeps me waking each day and showing up? Maybe. Some other friends tell me, "I guess you have no choice but to…be strong." To that, I say no, I do have a choice. I can choose to ignore how I feel and bury all this pain deep inside then wrap it up in some numbing coping mechanisms. I could decide to shut out the thoughts that make me wonder "What the hell were you thinking when that truck went airborne? Were you scared? Did you know you were going to die at that moment? Did your life flash before your eyes? Did you cry out for help? For me?" I could choose to walk away from the memories of your sweet life because it causes such pain to contemplate that this is all we get of you. I could want to shut-down, shut-out, shut-off from anything that makes me feel too much. But I don't. I don't because I know making those choices is how death can ruin a life. My life.

My life is full of purpose and meaning. I know that. I just don't know what it is at the moment. Your death delivered me a new agenda with new priorities and a new direction; the details still hidden. The work of establishing clear interiority and reconciliation continues. The world tugs and pulls at me with all kinds of possibilities for distraction, opportunities for involvement and some of them resonate as possible pieces of my new life. It's hard to engage in anything with any seriousness when the world is so temporary and fleeting. Life is short, and all that matters is love. My questions about how to spend my day are "Does this bring love into the world? Does this bring light into the world? Does this make my heart feel light?" I have to muddle my way through sometimes. Because like this past month, the pace is fast-moving and the emotional waves are high. I feel like a blind whitewater rafter; I know the rapids are fierce and laden with deadly boulders, but I can't see them. The current of grief rages, tossing me in random directions.

It's true; death can ruin a life. Will I allow it? I say no, that is not what you would want for me. I choose to walk toward the pain, learning to smile through the tears and gain strength from each day I survive this agony. I lean into the grief and sink with it to the bottom of the well, where the spring of love flows with sweetly with sustaining succor and solace. I just have to remember that I need time, time to settle in this space. I need to remember to unplug and retreat when the buzzing agitation has me restless as a fly-stung horse.

This is when it's best to be still, in the small hours of the morning. I listen for you in the deepest chambers of my heart to tell me it's going to be okay.  I remember that all I have to do is keep showing up, with an empty cup. It will get filled up. 

Have faith, Mama. Just have faith--and patience.

I love you,
Mom

For Thor - 66 - Kayak

People keep asking me what I want to do for my birthday and I can't answer them. I feel myself withdraw from the question as my awareness turns inward looking for something that sounds fun or festive or celebratory. The fact is, none of those things are how I feel right now. Celebrating is not in the cards. I don't want to celebrate the fact that I've lived another year, through the most painful experience a mother can endure. Singing and candles and cake and gifts for me seem so incongruent with the deep sorrow that is prevalent in my heart.

What do I want for my birthday? I want you back. I don't want to have to keep living with this horrible burden. I am tired, Thor. I am tired of trying to rise above it and look for the silver lining and always staking out some ground to stand on to declare "I'm doing better today." It's exhausting because I always fall back. One step forward three steps back and maybe one or two off to the side.

What do I want for my birthday? I want to run and run and run and run until I outrun this fucking pain. I want to stop crying all the damned time because my broken heart bleeds out of my eyes in salty tears. I want to see your face again and hear your voice. I want to worry about you and fuss at you for making the brash decisions of the young. I want to dance with you in the kitchen and eat a pile of nachos while cheering on the Broncos.

What do I want for my birthday? I want for your dad and me to be able to love, live and talk again without this vast gulf of grief between us. I want for your brothers to live free without the specter of your death hanging over them. I want to smile from my heart and through me eyes again; not being blinded by tears and choked with unspoken sorrow.

I know, I know. I want a lot. But that's nothing new.

I look at the road ahead of me, still strewn with the rubble and in ruins from your death. It makes me tired to think that this is never going away, that I'll have to figure out how to live with a hole blown in my soul, heart, and life. How do I continue to pick up the pieces and arrange them anew when the wreck is so devastating? Nothing is the same, all my relationships and understanding is different because I am completely altered.

Aunt Radha told me she was more concerned about me around my birthday than on yours. I had thought that to be odd, but I accepted it since she seems to have a good handle on this grieving thing. And holy smokes, your birthday was so difficult for me. I felt like a fly-stung horse inside of myself, unable to settle into any solace or comfort for very long before the sting of loss had me in tears, again. And that agitated agony has only ratcheted up in the days since. Four milestones in a row with little to no time to process in between has me on the ropes and bleeding today, and we're still two days away from "My Birthday" I just want to hide. In a hole. For like, a million years. I wonder if that would be enough time to feel "better"?

Nana must have sensed a tremor in the force because she called yesterday to tell me she is free on my birthday to be with me, whatever I want to do or don't want to do…or whatever. We attempted to make some plans for the family to come together, but they dried up like dust when I consider doing any of it. How can we celebrate me and life when you are dead? It feels so inadequate or unimportant or even wrong to light candles and sing when I am at the very bottom of the well of grief where there is no air, only sorrow.

I am grateful for the lifelines that tether me to the sweetness of gratitude and divine grace. I can feel how I feel without the fear of being stuck here forever. Sometimes this well is more like a raging sea, and I am swamped, sinking to the bottom where there is still something to be learned in this airless, sorrowful place. So I cry and scream and want to outrun the pain, but I know that it's pointless. No matter where I go or what I do in this life, there will be one agonizing fact; you died, and nothing is the same. I don't know where I am going or what the new landscape will hold. The certainty of walking with the weight of grief is so tiring that I just want to curl up in a ball and sleep for a long, long time. The uncertainty of what my life will look like in the days, months and years to come is equally draining. The only way for me is forward, through the rubble that cuts my feet. You can follow a trail of bloody footprints through my heart from where I had to wake up on that first horrible morning with the ugly reality that you are gone, to now, nine and a half months later and that same ugly truth is still staring me down.

What do I want for my birthday? Resilience. Joy. Peace. Solace. Comfort. Love. These don't come easy, and we can't buy them at Amazon Prime. They take work, cultivation, practice and patience. It takes mindfulness to monitor my thoughts and emotions so I can recognize and release them. The key is to allow for their full expression, with compassion and self-love. So that is where I am…in the bottom of the well, feeling heartbroken and exhausted. I am experiencing these things from the space of Trust and Love, which is a safe space for me to just BE SAD, which is the emotion that arises today.

What do I want for my birthday? Dad said he'd like to get me a kayak so I can be on the water. Being near the water, I can more readily experience Joy, Peace, Solace and Comfort. I feel Love more freely when I am in nature and being near the water is like sitting next to a huge generator of emotional healing. Your dad and brothers and I could go out together and have some fun fishing and paddling across the rippling waves.

Hmmm. He might be onto something there. Ok. A kayak. I'd like a kayak for my birthday.

We'll see you on the water, Bubby.

I love you,
Mom