Since arriving back in Colorado I've been subject to the magic that is this place. I'm so glad you brought me here. If anyone were to have to go through the pain and loss that I am dealing with, doing it here, in these mountains, in grounding nature, in this beautiful house, and surrounded by these magical people is the best possible option.
As I sit in our home and look out on the acres of pines cascading down the slopes, the beauty is sublime. It has been snowing since I arrived home. I watch the snow cover surfaces, spilling white peace over all that's both alive and nonliving. The powder reminds me of softness and of femininity. Grief is a feminine process. It requires a deep vulnerability, a chasm of emotions, gentleness, a willingness to come apart, and hope. There is no fast forward button, there is no fight that will help one win, and there is no way to bully through it with toughness. There is simply unraveling, opening, and letting grace shine in. This morning, I see that grace in the cool and camouflaging snow. It tells me, "Sami. Things may look monotone now. You may only see one element of this world – loss. But when I melt away, in time, after this frigid season, life will reappear. In time, dear one."
Magic is bred in the mountains. I've been witnessing its reveal since I've been home. Seeing enchantment or maybe even your supernatural hand in my life is heartening. On my first night back in the house, I said my gratitudes and prayers and drifted off to sleep. I was supine in our bed, nestled into the middle, because I no longer have a side. At some point in the night, I woke from my unconscious, yet still in a dreamlike state. I realized I'd awoken because I felt the weight of your body on top of me. I still was laying on my back, but you were laying on top of me. I heard your breath in my ears and felt it on my body, you breathed calmly and deeply, as if trying to relax me. Although I was lucid, I couldn't see you. I knew it was you, but the vision was so real that I became scared. There was someone in my bed with me. I could feel the hands holding me, fingers pressing into by torso, hair near my face, and legs down near mine. How could this be? You rolled to the side onto your half of the bed, taking your weight off of me so my breath could deepen. You spooned me and cradled me in your arms, but I'd become frightened. What if it wasn't you? What if this was a stranger in my bed? I still couldn't open my eyes and felt trapped even though I wanted to feel comforted. Once you sensed my fear, your body drifted away from mine. I felt it lift up into a plane in space over me. With my eyes still closed, I heard and felt what I can only describe as the flapping of wings over my body. It was as though a fan was turned on above my body. Cool air spilled onto me, chilling me enough to allow me to open my eyes and gasp. Awake, eyes open, I saw black and white swirls above me, your pixie dust. I watched the stripes circle on our ceiling for about a minute until they drifted off, and I was alone again. I closed my eyes, shaken up but thankful for your clumsy visit. I think you visited me for both of us. For me, so I am reminded that you are here. And for you, to infuse some of yourself in me. Because since that visit, I've felt different – I've felt a bit more like you.
Wonder continues. As I paced around our house last night in hazy stride, I found a stack of greeting cards that I've received over the past couple months. I went through the stack again, because many of them I'd been too devastated and shocked to actually take the time to really read when I'd received them. I found one that had been sent from Spoons and Daren, an old Vail roomie of yours and her husband. I studied the picture on the front of their card – it was a snowy scene with a smiling bear and a smiling fox in the foreground. The inside of the card was blank and a typed message had been glued into it. I had received that card along with smiley balloons just days after you passed. The bear and fox have carried such poignant symbolism through this journey, but I hadn't noticed them on the card prior to yesterday. I sent Spoons a message, telling her how much I appreciated the card she chose. I know they live overseas, so it couldn't have been easy to find one so perfect and get it to me so quickly. I woke up this morning with a response waiting from her. She told me that they hadn't chosen the card – the local flower shop had. It was just a coincidence that the shop had sent a card with a smiling bear and a smiling fox. I don't know if I believe in coincidence anymore. So I will take the synchronicity as a grinning 'hello' from you.
Last night I watched the String Cheese Incident's show on the internet. The show was nearby, but I'm headed there tonight and tomorrow and felt that three nights is more than I can handle in my current state. I've never watched a show from home before. However, I felt a need to be a part of it last night. I knew if you were going to be around, you would be there. And as I said, I think you've infused yourself in me. It was as though there was no other option than to watch the show.
The second song the band played was 'Sirens'. The lyrics are nearly a literal explanation of what happened the night you died. Members of the band played the song at your memorial. Also, when you were living, you and I had cried and danced to the song. It was a very special moment to witness. I had wanted to be at the show if they played that song. I'd wanted to be held in a blanket of love. I stood in our bathroom and watched the song on my computer screen, alone. I was crying. Beats came into the room. She tends to ignore me most times. She was really your cat. She loved you, mostly. But as I cried and watched, Beats pawed at my leg and meowed repeatedly until I picked her up. It was unlike her. She stared at the screen, watching the lights, listening to the rhythm of the music and my sobs, and purred for the entire song. It's probably the longest she's ever let me hold her. She offered support in a moment when I needed it most though I believe you helped her out with that. The band never finished the song. Maybe at some point over the next two days they'll go back to it and I'll be surrounded with the camaraderie and love from our loved ones when they close it out.
Beneath Boulder lies a layer of natural quartz. In crystal lore, quartz offers balancing clarity, healing, and energy. Quartz also offers third-eye access to psychic vision. It can help manifest ancient wisdom and channeled communication with spirits and other worlds. It also is useful in dream recall. I'm grateful to be nestled into the powerful earth here in these mountains. Life and connection with the spiritual realm feels more intense and unavoidable here. Your signs may be obscure, they may be mistaken as synchronicity or serendipity, but I choose belief. I also think you have a lot to learn in your new dimension. Knowing you, you are figuring it all out, you are pushing the limits, and you are enjoying the ride. I hope that you continue to visit us and you learn to do it less mysteriously. But I will take what I can get. Even when on earth, your love was magic.
Roots run deep, rock deeper, and fire deeper yet. Snow appears as a guise on the surface. We know what is below, but above us is the unknown. Just because we can't see it with our naked, human eye does not mean it doesn't exist. In fact, in my mind, I believe that means it really exists. It exists in a way that is beyond our understanding and it is godly.
Showing posts with label snow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label snow. Show all posts
Destination Boulder
It's cold and snowy today. Winter has arrived. It's more frigid then ever.
When I moved to Colorado to be with you, we drove a moving truck from Austin to Boulder. I remember pulling away from my home in Austin. A home I had bought by myself and then sold two years later, because I knew the right thing to do was be with you. I remember a little tear traveling down my cheek as we turned off Lowdes Drive in Austin. The house no longer was my home, but it contained some very beautiful memories that were bittersweet to leave. My home was with you. And that felt very right.
You, Kira, and I all sat in the moving truck, three-across. It was December 1st, 2013. We towed my blue Honda CRV behind the Budget truck. Kira sat between us and whined with excitement as we drove past all her favorite parks, walks, and rivers. Then the scenery became unfamiliar and she laid down. We continued traveling through Texas that day. The Hill Country turned to tumbleweed and dry, flat plains.
Somewhere around Lubbock the truck's gas light came on. We anticipated how far ahead of us the next gas station would be. West Texas was pretty uncharted territory for us. We each had made this drive once before with other people. We shared stories about little towns, taverns, and sights we'd seen along the way, but neither of us remembered the distance between fill-ups.
You knew there was a gas station 30 miles behind us. "I think we should turn back," you said. You were always cautious. I was unconvinced, "There has to be one up ahead soon. Let's chance it." You said OK and we continued on. The gas gauge sank lower as the mile markers added up. We passed a sign for a town. There would be a gas station in 32 miles. "Shit," I said, "Do you think we'll make it?" "I don't know," you said with concern. You switched off the music and air conditioning. "At least we're together!" We agreed.
Sixteen miles later we ran out of gas. The truck chugged to a stop on the side of the road.
This was one of those situations that could cause an argument in a relationship. You had suggested turning back and we both knew we would have made it if I had heeded your advice. But I hadn't. I am not the type of adventurer who likes to turn back. I like to forge ahead to uncharted territory and risk tripping and falling. We didn't argue.
Somehow, this situation became funny to us, a bump in the road that we would always remember. We unhooked the CRV, you backed it off the trailer, and I hopped in to drive the fourteen miles to the closest gas station ahead. You stayed with the truck and decided Kira would get a long walk on the side of the highway while you waited for me to return. I remember driving fast. I didn't want to be away from you on our journey forward. On our journey to our new together-home. I remember the woman at the first gas station I went to. She was petite and hispanic, she told me they were out of gas cans. She was emotionless. Her bored attitude made me even more excited to get back to you, my fellow adventurer. I thought about how much I loved you. I felt my whole body reminding me of how this move was the best decision I had ever made in twenty-nine years of living.
I went to another gas station and filled up two cans. I placed them in the back of the packed CRV and made my way back to you. I thought of you, alone on the side of the highway. I went ten-miles over the speed limit. The inside of the car smelled like gas. I imagined myself passing out from the fumes, so I rolled down the windows. After what seemed like a long time, I saw the moving truck up ahead. You: tall, handsome, and peaceful walking Kira on her leash. She was sniffing something. You were undaunted by the gas glitch. You looked happy. I pulled a U-turn and parked behind you. I jumped out of the car and ran up to you. I apologized for the delay, kissed you, and told you that I'd missed you. I hadn't learned what missing you was really like.
The rest of our drive went smoothly until we got to Boulder the next evening. We arrived to Boulder in the midst of the first big winter storm. Huge snowflakes pummeled the windshield of the moving truck. I thanked you and the Universe that you were driving. We arrived into Boulder from the south. It seemed like the drive from campus to north Boulder was nearly as long as the trek from Texas. I was so excited to arrive at my new house. We were so close.
We pulled onto Lee Hill Drive, the road leading to our house, and were stopped by a police car. Lee Hill was closed for the time being. We couldn't go any further. We were two miles away from home and we had to stop. The city-girl in me was shocked. "Isn't there another way? How can they just stop us? What about all the people who need to get back to their houses? There must be a way?" I asked. "We just have to wait, babe," you said calmly. You were used to snowy mountain roads and the delays that ensued.
We grabbed some food down the road. Kira slept in the truck, or maybe she stared out the window at the snow which she hadn't seen in four years. Eventually, the snow let up and we were able to make our way down Lee Hill a couple hours later. You were concerned about driving the truck up the hairpin-turning-steep-hill to the house. You knew how much I wanted to get that truck into that driveway, to make the move complete. You decided to go for it.
We punched in the security code and passed through the gate into our neighborhood. Within one-hundred yards, the moving truck and the trailer behind it slid backwards into a ditch on the side of the road, in the dark. We were stuck, again, one mile from the house. Once again, we should have listened to your instinct rather than my impatience. We unhooked the CRV and drove it up the hill to the house. The truck would have to wait.
It took three days, a wrecker tow truck, two trips to the autoparts store, and two different types of chains to get the moving truck up the hill to the house. But finally, all my stuff arrived and I, along with all my shit, were home.
I had packed a housewarming gift for you in the truck. So it wasn't until the truck arrived that I was able to give it to you. It was just something small. You opened up the gift: a long-winded card, bubbling with excitment, and a crystal rainbow maker to hang in a window. A way to refract the sunlight and bounce optical illusions of color all over our home – showing us our togetherness and our full spectrum of love all over the walls. I still look for you in those rainbows, my love.
I think about your patience and your unconditional love every minute of every day. The house was always warm when you were in it, no matter how cold it was outside. Snowflakes were exciting, because it meant maybe we'd get stuck somewhere together, unable to move forward with our day and responsibilities. We'd get to hit pause. We'd get to cuddle up and watch the flakes pile. We'd get to see the sunlight shimmer on the white snow, maybe casting a rainbow. We'd get to wrap ourselves in each others warmth. It's really cold down here in the snowstorm without you.
When I moved to Colorado to be with you, we drove a moving truck from Austin to Boulder. I remember pulling away from my home in Austin. A home I had bought by myself and then sold two years later, because I knew the right thing to do was be with you. I remember a little tear traveling down my cheek as we turned off Lowdes Drive in Austin. The house no longer was my home, but it contained some very beautiful memories that were bittersweet to leave. My home was with you. And that felt very right.
You, Kira, and I all sat in the moving truck, three-across. It was December 1st, 2013. We towed my blue Honda CRV behind the Budget truck. Kira sat between us and whined with excitement as we drove past all her favorite parks, walks, and rivers. Then the scenery became unfamiliar and she laid down. We continued traveling through Texas that day. The Hill Country turned to tumbleweed and dry, flat plains.
Somewhere around Lubbock the truck's gas light came on. We anticipated how far ahead of us the next gas station would be. West Texas was pretty uncharted territory for us. We each had made this drive once before with other people. We shared stories about little towns, taverns, and sights we'd seen along the way, but neither of us remembered the distance between fill-ups.
You knew there was a gas station 30 miles behind us. "I think we should turn back," you said. You were always cautious. I was unconvinced, "There has to be one up ahead soon. Let's chance it." You said OK and we continued on. The gas gauge sank lower as the mile markers added up. We passed a sign for a town. There would be a gas station in 32 miles. "Shit," I said, "Do you think we'll make it?" "I don't know," you said with concern. You switched off the music and air conditioning. "At least we're together!" We agreed.
Sixteen miles later we ran out of gas. The truck chugged to a stop on the side of the road.
This was one of those situations that could cause an argument in a relationship. You had suggested turning back and we both knew we would have made it if I had heeded your advice. But I hadn't. I am not the type of adventurer who likes to turn back. I like to forge ahead to uncharted territory and risk tripping and falling. We didn't argue.
Somehow, this situation became funny to us, a bump in the road that we would always remember. We unhooked the CRV, you backed it off the trailer, and I hopped in to drive the fourteen miles to the closest gas station ahead. You stayed with the truck and decided Kira would get a long walk on the side of the highway while you waited for me to return. I remember driving fast. I didn't want to be away from you on our journey forward. On our journey to our new together-home. I remember the woman at the first gas station I went to. She was petite and hispanic, she told me they were out of gas cans. She was emotionless. Her bored attitude made me even more excited to get back to you, my fellow adventurer. I thought about how much I loved you. I felt my whole body reminding me of how this move was the best decision I had ever made in twenty-nine years of living.
I went to another gas station and filled up two cans. I placed them in the back of the packed CRV and made my way back to you. I thought of you, alone on the side of the highway. I went ten-miles over the speed limit. The inside of the car smelled like gas. I imagined myself passing out from the fumes, so I rolled down the windows. After what seemed like a long time, I saw the moving truck up ahead. You: tall, handsome, and peaceful walking Kira on her leash. She was sniffing something. You were undaunted by the gas glitch. You looked happy. I pulled a U-turn and parked behind you. I jumped out of the car and ran up to you. I apologized for the delay, kissed you, and told you that I'd missed you. I hadn't learned what missing you was really like.
The rest of our drive went smoothly until we got to Boulder the next evening. We arrived to Boulder in the midst of the first big winter storm. Huge snowflakes pummeled the windshield of the moving truck. I thanked you and the Universe that you were driving. We arrived into Boulder from the south. It seemed like the drive from campus to north Boulder was nearly as long as the trek from Texas. I was so excited to arrive at my new house. We were so close.
We pulled onto Lee Hill Drive, the road leading to our house, and were stopped by a police car. Lee Hill was closed for the time being. We couldn't go any further. We were two miles away from home and we had to stop. The city-girl in me was shocked. "Isn't there another way? How can they just stop us? What about all the people who need to get back to their houses? There must be a way?" I asked. "We just have to wait, babe," you said calmly. You were used to snowy mountain roads and the delays that ensued.
We grabbed some food down the road. Kira slept in the truck, or maybe she stared out the window at the snow which she hadn't seen in four years. Eventually, the snow let up and we were able to make our way down Lee Hill a couple hours later. You were concerned about driving the truck up the hairpin-turning-steep-hill to the house. You knew how much I wanted to get that truck into that driveway, to make the move complete. You decided to go for it.
We punched in the security code and passed through the gate into our neighborhood. Within one-hundred yards, the moving truck and the trailer behind it slid backwards into a ditch on the side of the road, in the dark. We were stuck, again, one mile from the house. Once again, we should have listened to your instinct rather than my impatience. We unhooked the CRV and drove it up the hill to the house. The truck would have to wait.
It took three days, a wrecker tow truck, two trips to the autoparts store, and two different types of chains to get the moving truck up the hill to the house. But finally, all my stuff arrived and I, along with all my shit, were home.
I had packed a housewarming gift for you in the truck. So it wasn't until the truck arrived that I was able to give it to you. It was just something small. You opened up the gift: a long-winded card, bubbling with excitment, and a crystal rainbow maker to hang in a window. A way to refract the sunlight and bounce optical illusions of color all over our home – showing us our togetherness and our full spectrum of love all over the walls. I still look for you in those rainbows, my love.
I think about your patience and your unconditional love every minute of every day. The house was always warm when you were in it, no matter how cold it was outside. Snowflakes were exciting, because it meant maybe we'd get stuck somewhere together, unable to move forward with our day and responsibilities. We'd get to hit pause. We'd get to cuddle up and watch the flakes pile. We'd get to see the sunlight shimmer on the white snow, maybe casting a rainbow. We'd get to wrap ourselves in each others warmth. It's really cold down here in the snowstorm without you.
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