Fast Forward

You taught me what it was like to be still.

Before you, I always kept moving. All day, everyday, I filled my space and time with stuff. Life was in fast forward, always trying to get somewhere, to get ahead, to rush the process. And then you came. And the pace slowed down.

I didn't need to rush with you. And when I wanted to, you helped me pause. You taught me what it was like to have ritual and to have breathing room. You showed me that I didn't need to rush anymore, because I was so happy in the present. It was the first time I was actually content with everything! More than content, overjoyed! Though our paces were probably what were differed on the most. Even in our world together, I still moved at a canter next to your walk.

When we would leave the house for yoga class, you liked to walk out the door thirty-five minutes early, fifteen-minutes earlier than my estimated departure time. You didn't want to speed to yoga. Imagine that? Before leaving the house, you would prepare your bag with time to spare. You would fill up your favorite water bottle with water from our tap – because you preferred it triple-filtered and reverse osmosis, versus the studio sink. You would get a freshly folded yogi-toes and organize it in your bag. You would have a snack, a Kind Bar or maybe some almonds. You would put your mat in the trunk and call out, "Babe, ready to go?"

Like a firecracker, I'd shoot up from my chair in front of my computer and race to my dresser. I had felt the need to finish 'that last layout' or 'just this email'. I'd throw on a yoga top and bottom, without much thought. I'd throw some essentials in my purse and nearly fly into the passenger seat of the car. You waited patiently for my tardiness every day.

You would start the car and wait the fifteen seconds you always did for your engine to warm up. In my schedule, those fifteen seconds would make me even more late, but in your schedule, you had accounted for it. You also accounted for weather, time of day, and my tardiness. You planned to get there early in time to change, carefully fold your clothes, organize them in your locker, chat with the teacher or another student, get the spot you liked and my spot next to you, grab props for us both, and do some twisting on your back, and simply get present.

I haven't given myself nearly any moments of stillness since you've been gone. I'm scared that because I'm operating on auto-pilot through this devastation, I'm going to unlearn some of the most beautiful lessons you taught me, like being still and slowing down my pace. I'm trying to be gentle on myself, and to me, right now, gentleness is staying busy. And yet I'm scared.

I've had quite a few people tell me, "I can't believe how strong you're being! Many people wouldn't be able to get out of bed. Look at you! You're writing, you're traveling, you're in action, you're staying so busy!" The truth is, I'm not being strong. I'm taking the easiest way out. But let's face it, that doesn't exist in this situation.

I'm both requesting support and trying to help others through writing so candidly and publicly. That is not purely self-serving, which is maybe what I should be focusing on. Instead, I'm thinking, 'How can I be nurturing and inspiring to others through this experience?' The 'strong' way would be saying, 'I need to honor that much of this grief is a personal process,' and being more private. But to me, candid sharing is more natural.

I'm traveling because it's helping time pass and me get away from being suffocated by your absence from our house. A home I thought I was going to grow old in with you and our family. Now I don't even know where I'll be in a year. I'm homesick for a home I no longer have – because home was in our house with YOU. Traveling allows my ungrounded heart and soul to have ungrounded surroundings, a kind of balance that is very temporary (and already wearing on me heavily). Traveling helps pass time.

I cannot stay immobilized. For me, not moving would amplify this immeasurable pain insurmountably. I couldn't 'not move' when I was in the happiest moments of my life. Even then, I filled every minute of my day with something. You were helping to teach me stillness, but it was not my natural way of being and it was a process. When I'm still, the loneliness is amplified and the trauma comes back. I see my fears, my brokenness, and my imperfections. And largely, I see your death – which is still completely unacceptable, bewildering, and shattering to all that I am and what I thought I would be.

I miss being still with you. I miss being able to take three deep breaths and knowing that there was peace at end of my last exhale. There is no sign of peace. You cannot fast forward grief. So for now, I will do what comes naturally. I will not try to be strong. And when someone tells me I'm being strong, I will speak my truth and say, "No, I am not." I am only moving because I am the one whose heart is still beating, therefore I have no other choice.