Grey

We left Steamboat early this morning to make our way back to Boulder – hugs, goodbyes, gifts, and coffee passed around. Minutes before loading into the car, a bear was spotted in our host's backyard. It wandered down a path and onto a neighboring green from the golf course behind their property. I swallowed a hiccup of hope as I watched the animal. I see you in nature.

I took two long walks yesterday. I wasn't motivated to move at all yesterday, but eventually I did. I wanted to curl up in a ball and wither away, tattered in sadness. I can literally feel pain in my heart, since you left. It aches constantly, ricocheting storm clouds of depression through my being. I have been fortunate in my life to have never been taunted by depression before now. In fact, I think have been insensitive to the struggle that it creates due to my naivety. But now, I can recognize its symptoms as they start to settle in. I hear the infomercials calling my name.

Just a few weeks ago, I was the happiest I had ever been. If we had been colors in a box of crayons we would have been a shockingly bright purple and its complimentary lemon-lime. We were creating drawings unlike anything anyone had ever seen – wild and and imaginative art. We were pissing people off with our neon accolades as we tore through life with love and color.

Then death showed up, took your crayon, and snapped mine in half with a 'fuck you'. The colors are gone, along with our dreams, brightness, and mostly, our togetherness. Now, I feel like a grey crayon. And not a pretty grey.

When we were making all the choices for our home renovation, you liked to poke fun at how often I would choose grey as a color palette. You'd laugh and say, "Grey?! What about a color?" I'd say, "But you know, like a pretty grey!" Your eyes would narrow with confusion and humor. We'd compromise and choose a color that would compliment the grey I so adored. Without you, I feel like a grey without its compliment. A grey that clashes with all the other colors. A grey that when children open the box of crayons, would be the last pick, "Ewwww, I don't want that one." The stray loser chosen last for the kickball team. Stranded, ugly, and colorless.

Despite the darkness that is cast over me, strangely, nature appears more beautiful than ever. Maybe it's because I have lost trust in what I thought was stable: people, life, and plans… but the bigness of this world and what's above it give me a sliver of hope. The moon rising over mountains, big and luminous, casting its silver glimmer on mountain peaks: it's sublime. The sunlight feels warmer than I've ever noticed, despite it being the middle of November. The mountains seem stronger, sturdier, and more majestic than before. My immediate world is bleak. Days pass like black and white, silent movies. But when I look into nature's eye, I see her magic. I see the hope that one day my pages will fill with color once again. I see you in nature. I can't really feel you and I can't really hear you, but I have faith that you live in her beauty. That you, like a master puppeteer, will be able to direct some sunlight towards my days, someday. While everything else around me is so shattered, what I thought was my future has turned into ashes, and my heart is broken – I see the stability in the Earth, the heavens, and the realms in between where I know you reside.

Last May, we traveled to South Africa for a wedding. We made the event into an opportunity to travel for a couple weeks. The story I want to tell happened at the very end of our two week trip. But at the beginning of our trip, on the way to Africa, another incident occurred that I will share first, because it's kind of funny and I've taken to embarrassing myself lately.

We boarded the plane in Denver, and you – always the mischievous dare-devil, handed me a Cheeba Chew before we went through security. A Cheeba Chew is medicated candy containing 70 mg of THC. You told me the candy would help my impending motion sickness, as I always get nauseas during air travel. You told me it would chill us out, make the long journey fun, and we'd be able to sleep deeply. I am incredibly sensitive to pot and don't partake very often, but you know what you're talking about, so I trusted you. My results were not as you described.

The paranoia kicked in as soon as I sat down on in my seat on the aisle. You sat in the middle, having claimed the aisle seat for our next flight, the international leg. The flight attendant ambled down the aisle, mindlessly collecting drink orders and distributing beverages and crackers. "Ted, I can't order my drink! She is going to know! Will you ask her for a water with no ice for me?" I whispered. My eyes were wide with fear. You belly laughed and said, "Don't worry, sweetie, you're fine. And yes, I'll get you your water." "Ted! I am so scared they aren't going to let us into South Africa," I whispered into your ear. "What, baby? I can't hear you," you responded. "The dogs will know we have pot in our systems," I whispered even more quietly. "Babe, it's legal in Colorado. We didn't do anything illegal. Plus, dogs aren't going to be able to smell oil inside of our bodies. Unconvinced, I said "I don't know, I think we are in trouble. I swear that flight attendant it looking at me weird." "I can't hear what you're saying, love," you replied, totally enjoying this. "I. Feel. Like. I'm. Screaming!" I replied, so quietly you could barely catch a syllable of what I was saying. I reached forward into the seat pocket and grabbed the motion sickness bag. My knuckles white and my belly uneasy, I sat in near stillness for the next two hours as we flew across the continental USA to our layover in Atlanta. You, barely phased by the candy, very sweetly tended to me and my dramatic hysteria. You held my hand, checked in with me, and rubbed my back as I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned onto your shoulder, frozen with fear and nausea. "You bit off more than you could chew," you said, always finding time for a pun.

By the time we arrived in Atlanta, the candy wore off. You got me some food and water, and soon enough I was back to myself again. The rest of our travel to Johannesburg was much less entertaining. We settled into our seats and enjoyed ten hours of on demand movies. We don't have cable at home, so TV is a bonus. Like giddy kids, we'd choose a movie together. Yes, we both would watch the same one, even though we had independent screens. We would choose our film and then say, "1. 2. 3. Go!" and hit play at the same time. Hand in hand, we'd watch the movie as we squirmed in the non-ergonomic coach seats with their three-inch recline. A few movies later, we arrived in South Africa. We cleared customs with no problem. Not a single dog pawed or growled at our bellies.

After a blissful couple weeks in South Africa, we spent our last day in the country in Capetown, before a redeye flight back home. We had saved a hike we wanted to take together for that last day. Table Mountain had been the recommended route, but we chose Lion's Head instead. It was less popular and just as scenic, offering a view of the whole city, harbor, and stretch of coast from the top. As the taxi dropped us at the start, near the top of Signal Hill, the clouds rolled in. We had been advised to start the hike early to avoid the overcast skies, but we'd decided that sleeping in and a relaxing morning was more important that day. So we had no one to blame but ourselves as the fog poured in from all sides.

We made our way up the gravel road, circling the peak. We chatted aimlessly and both decided the sky was going to open up, clear, and blue as soon as we reached the summit. The road turned into a single file, rocky path. One at a time, we continued on. We passed another small group of hikers, applauding ourselves for 'training at altitude' in Colorado. The 669 meter ascent wasn't affecting us much, and we continued to make our way up with nonstop conversation. We snapped photos of each other climbing up a section of steep rock that used chains and ladders and joked about how in the U.S.A. it would be a lawsuit. And after about 90-minutes, we climbed over the last rock, to the top of the peak. We couldn't see a thing.

Fog completely surrounded us. We literally could hardly make our each others faces standing two feet apart. We laughed and laughed, and decided that it didn't matter. We joked about stealing a photo from Google to show the view from the top. We sat down and added our names to a rock full of hearts and messages. You ate a Kind Bar. I fed some of it to a little bird that arrived and ate from my hand. We eventually left, and carefully made our way down the trek. The sun stayed behind the clouds all day.

When it was you and I surrounded by grey, it didn't matter, because we were together, and in our world, it was always colorful. Without you, the gray is cold, lonely, and ugly.

Signs

October 29. 2014

Yesterday I wrote to you, Ted, desperate for your 'light', for a sign that showed me you're still out there, dancing in the moonlight. Then, I woke up in the morning and made my way to our couch. In the utter exhaustion, weakness, and grief that has plagued me deeply, I laid down. I couldn't figure out what an annoying buzzing was that I'd never heard before. I thought it was one of the wasps that have taken over our house. Then I saw something flickering. I realized there was a rainbow-maker hung high on the window that I'd never seen. Rainbows began to dance all over the walls, without any pattern or organization. I said to Lena, who was next to me: this is Teddy, right? She said: absolutely. The rainbows moved down to my body and ran over my legs, and chest, and other places Ted adored. I was able to smile and laugh as I gyrated with the rainbow flickers, knowing it was his light and his playful mind. And now I know that when the sun is out at that hour, I have something to do - I can see my beloved dance in the rainbows. It gives me something to look forward to, which is a glimmer (literally) of hope. 

And in case another sign was needed:

Our pup, Kira, woke me over an hour ago. She climbed into bed feeling much heavier and more needy than I'd ever noticed. We both cried for a bit, but something in her told me to get up. I got up and went to Ted's closet. Laid on the floor and cried there with her for a bit. But something in her told me to keep moving, she took me downstairs. This is unlike her because Kevin had only been to sleep an hour before and I knew she'd been fed and out. She is not usually needy. She asked for food. I opened the door to the garage and a giant black bear looked up at me, paws full of kale salad, quinoa, and leftover chicken from the catering that has been so generously supplied for all the family in town. It was my Teddy. He just wanted a healthy 4am snack, per usual. The bear got up and slowly trotted off into the darkness, Kira and I standing in the doorway, wide-eyed and excited. Probably best that he left, because my first inclination was to run and hug him.

I had told Ted many times lately that I look for bears on my drives to and from the house and whenever I look out the windows. I have never seen one before. We leave the garage open accidentally weekly and it's never happened. And on Sunday, Teddy's dear friend Frenchy had also been looking for a sign. His Elizabeth had woken up to go to work to find a bear leaning on Frenchy's car. It was also their first bear sighting. Maybe if I hadn't made my way down there, seen him, and then closed the doors when he left, he would have cleaned up his dishes and mess, like Ted would have. Or more likely, he was reminding Kevin and I that tomorrow is garbage day, because he always remembered, and we always forgot.

He is here, strong and free and playful: in nature, in light, in animals, and in our hearts. I will never stop looking.