I drove home tonight and looked up at the moon. As I saw the moonshine cast upon the fresh snow making my path home sparkle, my heart felt heavy. My heart is always heavy these days. But as I noticed the moon, it became even weightier. I wondered if I would ever look at the moon with joy again. Now, when I see the moon I am taken back to that night. The night I drove to the hospital in the back of my Audi, with a policeman driving. I stared at the moon. We were following your ambulance. I hadn't cried yet at that point. Adrenaline was surging. When I'd seen you wheeled out of our front door, on a stretcher, they'd said you had a faint pulse. There was hope. I stared at the moon. My mind raced. I thought of so many things and somehow also nothing at all. I clutched something. I don't remember what it was. My purse? My phone? Your wallet? Kevin's hand? A stone? I don't know. But I know I was looking at the moon. I know I was praying to the moon.
Now, I go days without opening the blinds in our bedroom. I turn my back on beauty because it hurts my eyes. I still say my gratitude prayer, like we did nightly while we admired the view from our room – but I can't look anymore. I avert my eyes from the glittering citylights, the acres of pines, and the moonlit scape. The beauty taunts my heavy heart. Some nights I sleep in another room, distancing myself from the comfort of what it felt like to be so loved.
It's been four months since you left this Earth. It's been four months of daily tears, barely coping, chasing my tail in slow circles, and living in a womb of confusion. Not a day goes by when I don't walk into our bedroom and expect you to be sitting casually between the sheets. My ignorance irritates me, but I guess somehow I still live in disbelief. You would have a book in your hands and a tired, sly smile on your face. You would pat the mattress to your right – my spot. I'd bounce into bed and kiss your cheek, lovingly. Reaching over and flirtatiously removing the book from in between your hands, I'd dogear your page and set it down on your nightstand. As you laid down on your back, I'd slide on top of you. You'd reach over your left shoulder and flick off the light. The sounds of our love would be the last noises we'd make that night. The moon would cast silent flickers on our walls from between the slivers of blinds – the night's voyeur.
And yet, every time I walk into our bedroom, you are not there.
I know there is no set pace for grief. There is no seven-minute-mile that I can train for to speed up this pain. But, honestly, I think this is a process I don't want to speed up. Some days, I'm all grief. Head to toe, can't get out of bed, immoveable sadness. But most days, I'm all over the place – neither here nor there. Sometimes my arms are stretching forward but my feet are stuck in quicksand. Sometimes my body is full-speed ahead, but my heart is pumping backwards. Sometimes I dress myself up in a pretty package – sparkly paper, bright red lips, stiletto Louboutins, and a bow on my head – but the box is empty. I've never felt so off-kilter and I've never felt so slow.
I used to feel an emotion and know what it was I was experiencing. It's something we learn as infants. I get pricked, "Ow!" I feel pain. I see a smile, "Yay!" I feel joy. I am given a hug, "Aw!" I feel love. I am spooked, "Ah!" I feel fear. But now, my emotions are a snowball. I can no long decipher one emotion from another. I am hurt. I am not just upset, instead I feel all the feelings. I am given a wonderful gift. I do not feel just gratitude, instead I feel all the feelings. I drink three glasses of wine, now I really feel all the feelings. It's exhausting to not be able to pinpoint your own emotions. Particularly because you and I used to communicate so clearly about the way we felt, what we were experiencing, and why. Now, I know nothing. I just know I am sad, I feel gratitude, I feel love, I feel panic, I feel anger, I feel loss, I feel fucking everything. This is the first time in my life when there are days when I think, 'Damn. Can someone just give me a pill so I stop feeling so fucking much?!'
It's been four months. People ask me big questions. Where will you go from here? What's next for you? Today, I moved a pile of your stuff from the den to the studio. I saw your drum kit and I fell to the floor. I crawled to your throne and I pulled myself onto it. I sat behind your kit and listened to the sound it made when my tears hit the snare, then the tom, then the snare, and then the tom. As I sat, listening to my percussion beat of sadness, I struggled with frustration. I am used to moving with momentum. I'm used to accomplishing tasks with determination and pace. I'm used to answering the big questions with gusto and knowing. But now, in this place, I can't. I'm moving in slow motion and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. I don't know anything. And I can't answer any questions, theirs or mine.
I moved three things today – a pile, a box, and a rug. And that was accomplishing a lot. Because with each movement comes reminders of what was and what will not be.
I moved the pile and had to confront the drum kit.
I moved the box and discovered what was inside – hundreds of old letters, notes, and cards. You had saved over two decades of correspondence. I got lost in your world. It made me sad because I wanted you to be able to be there with me, telling me the stories behind each letter. I read love notes from teenage girlfriends who I can't remember if you ever told me about. I wanted to read those love notes and hear your subtext. I wanted to hear about where those girls are now and smile because they loved you in a time before I knew I loved you. It makes me happy to know you were loved. I thought about the decades of love notes that I had planned to write to you and that you were supposed to save in those same boxes... and then more boxes because you would run out of space in the box you had. I saw all the letters your mom sent you. She wrote you at camp when you were a kid. She wrote you a poem when you graduated high school. She sent you birthday cards each year. She sent you letters just because. But now that you're gone, she can't write you anymore. I thought of all the boxes that would go unfilled.
I swapped a rug that I didn't like with one I found in storage that I did like. And for the rest of the day, every time I walk through the room, I stop and wonder if you would like it there. I consider switching the old rug back just to keep the room how it was when you were here. I am living in your catacomb and I can't fathom leaving.
Change is inevitable, but it is taxing. Movement is unavoidable, but momentum is rare. Big questions loom, but there are no answers in sight.
I drove home tonight and looked up at the moon. It was a crescent shape. I noticed how it looked like a ladle that could hold anything and just let a slow drip spill out. I imagined you, as an mischievous angel, balancing yourself dexterously on its crescent ridges. You always loved to climb things. I tried to look at the moon with something other than disappointment, 'I prayed to you and you let me down...' I tried to look at the moon the way you and I looked at it when we admired the view from our bedroom window. But, I couldn't. I averted my eyes. It hurt, as if I had stared at the sun for too long. I'm simply not there yet. Instead, I am here, feeling it all.
Showing posts with label nature. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nature. Show all posts
A Walk
Today I took a walk. It was the same walk that I took about six months ago. I retraced my steps – something I've been avoiding doing often. I saw the same rocks. I saw the same creek. I saw the same path. I saw the same mountains. And yet everything was so different. The grass is now dormant. The ruddy trail has a different landscape. There are no prairie dogs. There are different stacks of cairns along the way. Everything is the same and yet so different.
As Kira and I walked the path six months back, I had noted the damage from the floods. This time as we walked the path, I again noticed the damage from the floods – but I also noticed the damage from my own flood. I walked along the creek and I came to the place where six months ago I saw the tracks of a mountain lion. I texted you about it right then, because it was just a day or two after you'd seen three mountain lions trotting across the road just meters away. Through our texts, we questioned if it was one of the same lions. Now a run in with a mountain lion seems very minor. Death trumps animal encounter.
I remember how complete I felt that day on that walk. Taking some time for myself, getting some exercise, making Kira happy, giving you some alone time. Now it's all alone time. Or is it? No matter how many bodies I surround myself with – I always feel alone. But when I'm alone, I can more connected. Why does that connection frighten me?
I have not gotten outside very much lately. I have stayed on the couch, under a blanket, in bed, hiding in the arms of a loved one, inebriated by music or drink or circumstance, behind the guise of social media or a screen – I have been numbing the pain. And that's okay. It's okay because I recognize what it is that I'm doing. The path that I'm choosing. I'm understanding that I have a need to hurt in a different way, disguise the pain, mistake it as something else. But I still feel it always. Even when I dam up the path, the grief breaks through powerfully and floods my spirit with sorrow. So when I stepped outdoors today and into solitude – as I walked on that path, traveling through time to that place six months ago and then back again – I felt the weight of my grief. I sat with the reality of my grief. Grief comes in many forms: It feels. It stings. It burns. It loiters. It numbs. If you experienced the symptoms of grief without being aware of your issue, you would certainly call your doctor to find out what's wrong.
As I walked, I realized I felt angry at the beauty of nature. I wondered if the dead grass along the way would feel the same way, if it could feel. I felt angry at the sun for warming my skin – for allowing me to be in a t-shirt in 70° weather in February. Something that would usually make me so happy, except today it made me sad. I felt angry at the brook for allowing water to run so peacefully from here to there. Here to where? I listen to the sound of it gently babbling over rocks around sticks and warming under the heat of the warm sun. I felt angry at Kira for each excited step, moving swiftly like a champion. I felt envious of what I can only imagine is her ability to forget, even just for a bit.
A couple years ago my friend Leah told me that when things got hard she often reminded herself to 'look up'. So as I walked along the path today, instead of looking down at my next rocky step, I looked up. I saw the splendor of the mountains, the grace of the horizon, the rays of the sun, the swing of the trees. I saw life. And when I saw life around me, it infused the life within me. I was forced to sip it in with each breath. My insides warmed just a bit. But maybe a bit is all I can handle.
There are so many ways to numb pain. Hiding under a blanket. Oversleeping. Overworking. Staying too busy. A screen. A drink. A pill. A puff. A line. A dip. And yet what do those quick fixes do except create a bottleneck in the brook which needs to flow? Create a bottleneck in the tears that need to fall? My teacher Baron says, "In order to heal, you must feel". Getting on that path today showed me a bit of light. It took me away from the buzz of distraction and numbing agents, and back into the space of remembering. Remembering my grief in its heaviness. Remembering the non-linear nature of this beast. Remembering the memories of the last time I walked there, when it seemed much smoother. It reminded me that I can be with the stillness – that the stillness breaks up the clutter in my mind. It gives me space for thoughts, memories, breath, and grief: the loiterer that it is. Sometimes life in the shadows is ok, but we need to step into the sun to feel the warmth.
As Kira and I walked the path six months back, I had noted the damage from the floods. This time as we walked the path, I again noticed the damage from the floods – but I also noticed the damage from my own flood. I walked along the creek and I came to the place where six months ago I saw the tracks of a mountain lion. I texted you about it right then, because it was just a day or two after you'd seen three mountain lions trotting across the road just meters away. Through our texts, we questioned if it was one of the same lions. Now a run in with a mountain lion seems very minor. Death trumps animal encounter.
I remember how complete I felt that day on that walk. Taking some time for myself, getting some exercise, making Kira happy, giving you some alone time. Now it's all alone time. Or is it? No matter how many bodies I surround myself with – I always feel alone. But when I'm alone, I can more connected. Why does that connection frighten me?
I have not gotten outside very much lately. I have stayed on the couch, under a blanket, in bed, hiding in the arms of a loved one, inebriated by music or drink or circumstance, behind the guise of social media or a screen – I have been numbing the pain. And that's okay. It's okay because I recognize what it is that I'm doing. The path that I'm choosing. I'm understanding that I have a need to hurt in a different way, disguise the pain, mistake it as something else. But I still feel it always. Even when I dam up the path, the grief breaks through powerfully and floods my spirit with sorrow. So when I stepped outdoors today and into solitude – as I walked on that path, traveling through time to that place six months ago and then back again – I felt the weight of my grief. I sat with the reality of my grief. Grief comes in many forms: It feels. It stings. It burns. It loiters. It numbs. If you experienced the symptoms of grief without being aware of your issue, you would certainly call your doctor to find out what's wrong.
As I walked, I realized I felt angry at the beauty of nature. I wondered if the dead grass along the way would feel the same way, if it could feel. I felt angry at the sun for warming my skin – for allowing me to be in a t-shirt in 70° weather in February. Something that would usually make me so happy, except today it made me sad. I felt angry at the brook for allowing water to run so peacefully from here to there. Here to where? I listen to the sound of it gently babbling over rocks around sticks and warming under the heat of the warm sun. I felt angry at Kira for each excited step, moving swiftly like a champion. I felt envious of what I can only imagine is her ability to forget, even just for a bit.
A couple years ago my friend Leah told me that when things got hard she often reminded herself to 'look up'. So as I walked along the path today, instead of looking down at my next rocky step, I looked up. I saw the splendor of the mountains, the grace of the horizon, the rays of the sun, the swing of the trees. I saw life. And when I saw life around me, it infused the life within me. I was forced to sip it in with each breath. My insides warmed just a bit. But maybe a bit is all I can handle.
There are so many ways to numb pain. Hiding under a blanket. Oversleeping. Overworking. Staying too busy. A screen. A drink. A pill. A puff. A line. A dip. And yet what do those quick fixes do except create a bottleneck in the brook which needs to flow? Create a bottleneck in the tears that need to fall? My teacher Baron says, "In order to heal, you must feel". Getting on that path today showed me a bit of light. It took me away from the buzz of distraction and numbing agents, and back into the space of remembering. Remembering my grief in its heaviness. Remembering the non-linear nature of this beast. Remembering the memories of the last time I walked there, when it seemed much smoother. It reminded me that I can be with the stillness – that the stillness breaks up the clutter in my mind. It gives me space for thoughts, memories, breath, and grief: the loiterer that it is. Sometimes life in the shadows is ok, but we need to step into the sun to feel the warmth.
Quartz Mountains
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.
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.
Back Home
For the first time in six weeks, I'm back in our home.
I walked into our house in the middle of the night last night after an eighteen hour cross-country drive. The last time I drove that length towards Colorado was when I was moving in with you just over a year ago. But this time, when I pulled down the snowy driveway, I knew you were no longer inside the house.
The reality of your death has more or less sunk in (I think). When I go about my day, I no longer think you might pop out of nowhere and surprise me, telling me this was all just an elaborate joke. I know you're gone. At least I do most of the time.
I walked into our house. I took a deep breath in and I smelled the scent that only this house has. The aroma unique to this place, these floors, these walls, this furniture, these people, these pets, these memories – it's a bouquet that's distinctive because it belongs to just our home. The house smelled the same when I walked in this time as it had all the other times, even though I knew the main component was missing – you. I didn't expect you to pop out of the pantry, or be practicing drums in your studio, or be lying in the bed this time. I knew you were gone from this place. But I can still smell you.
I walked upstairs immediately. It was very late and I wanted to climb into our bed without getting wrapped up in the overwhelming emotions of being back in this house. I went into our bathroom. All of your toiletries still sit on your countertop. While I can't see you, I see what was yours. Your electric razor is blinking on its charging station, it's ready to trim your beard. Your mouthwash is here wondering why you haven't been swishing twice daily. The little display of knicknacks in your windowsill – a rubber duck, a paper crane, a few heart-shaped ornaments, and some special crystals – they're all still sitting precisely where you arranged them, a little altar commemorating what once was. I brushed my teeth with your toothbrush and kept my eyes down. Reminders of happy times can brutally hit like a baseball bat to my jaw, but even in the pain – it's comfort.
I climbed into our bed and realized I was freezing. Our thin duvet was fine when we were curled up together, but alone in this big bed I was cold. I went and got my favorite blanket. It too, still smells like you. The sheets are still unwashed since you last slept in them. I nestled in, curling up in a ball and settling in like a rodent burrowing into its hole. The warmth and the familiar scent helped me drift off to sleep. My dreams were distorted. I was confused about where I was, where I was supposed to be, and who was there. Dream, or reality?
When I awoke, I was met with a sense of peace. I was happy to be home and to be in our bed. I knew you weren't there, but I still felt close to you. Through air, I can smell you. Through objects, I can see you. I felt protected for the first time in many weeks. I got out of bed and opened the blinds. I gasped at the view out of window. My absence and my pain had distracted me from the sublime beauty of the mountains and nature living just on the other side of the window pane, our view. The scene is no longer Midwestern grey or international but unfamiliar. The same view that was ours just months ago, that we shared, it is unchanged. While so much in my life has changed, the view out the window reminded me that much is still the same. I felt grateful.
I walked into my closet. In order to get there, I walk through yours. All of your clothes still remain hung. Your socks are still matched into pairs of fun colors and patterns, wool socks, athletic socks, gig socks, dress socks. Your boxers are folded on the top shelf, they're all clean. I reached out and ran my fingers across your t-shirts, hoping to somehow touch you and feel you. I felt nothing except fruitless cotton. Once in my closet, I dress slowly. I pull on corduroys and a cardigan sweater. It's the same sweater I bought to wear on our first visit together. It has hearts on it. On that trip, a girlfriend said at the end of the night, "I just noticed your sweater has hearts in the design!" You cut in, "I didn't. I noticed them right away." You said it with a slight blush and a happy smile. I buttoned the sweater deliberately this morning, recalling that first time I'd worn it with you and how carefully you'd unbuttoned it later that night.
I walked downstairs and found Beats. I pet her for a long time until she clawed at me to let her go. I gave her treats and made myself coffee. I opened the refrigerator. I started to clean out what was old and no longer good. In vain, I tried not to think about all of the products we'd bought together, the conversations we'd had in the aisles of the grocery store, the recipes we had planned to make, or the game of credit card roulette we'd played to see who would pay for the groceries. I cleared out the fridge and filled it with fresh food – food that I'd tried to buy for one, but couldn't. I still shopped for you too.
I wandered around the house in awe of its magnificence. I realized how caught up I'd been in all the work we were about to do to the house that I'd completely lost sight of how incredible it is. I walked through each room and admired our castle. I tried not to think of what would become of it, of the questions that fill my mind about the future, about the empty dreams that sit on shelves and rot in the bedrooms. I saw the house for its beauty and its comfort. A home is more than just walls around us. Its walls contain the love we created. Our home makes our love ours. It safeguards it with walls, a roof, and a place to house memories. I love this house.
I spent a lot of time moving through our home today with no real direction. I admired what we created here. I smelled the memories of you. I leafed through books you loved or ones I've since been given. I saw you in the their stories. I looked at the objects we'd chosen to fill shelves with – candles, vases, flowers, statues, rocks, music, photos, plants, and art. I read the words on a framed drawing you'd given me on my first trip to the house. It said, "Feels like some kind of ride, but it turns out it's just life going absolutely perfectly." I wished I could teleport back to those moments, just months ago, when life was going perfectly.
The term "out of sight, out of mind" dates back to at least 1562. I don't think John Heywood had dealt with the loss of his soulmate when he wrote it. You are just as ever-present in my mind here as you have been every moment of the past six weeks that I've been gone. There isn't a minute that goes by where my heart isn't heavy, my spirit isn't dwindled, and my body isn't exhausted from all the grieving and all the missing. I am learning to mourn with more sense of reality, but that doesn't make it even a tiny bit easier. Your absence leaves a black hole where my heart once was. I know you aren't physically here, but I won't call off the search party anytime soon.
I walked into our house in the middle of the night last night after an eighteen hour cross-country drive. The last time I drove that length towards Colorado was when I was moving in with you just over a year ago. But this time, when I pulled down the snowy driveway, I knew you were no longer inside the house.
The reality of your death has more or less sunk in (I think). When I go about my day, I no longer think you might pop out of nowhere and surprise me, telling me this was all just an elaborate joke. I know you're gone. At least I do most of the time.
I walked into our house. I took a deep breath in and I smelled the scent that only this house has. The aroma unique to this place, these floors, these walls, this furniture, these people, these pets, these memories – it's a bouquet that's distinctive because it belongs to just our home. The house smelled the same when I walked in this time as it had all the other times, even though I knew the main component was missing – you. I didn't expect you to pop out of the pantry, or be practicing drums in your studio, or be lying in the bed this time. I knew you were gone from this place. But I can still smell you.
I walked upstairs immediately. It was very late and I wanted to climb into our bed without getting wrapped up in the overwhelming emotions of being back in this house. I went into our bathroom. All of your toiletries still sit on your countertop. While I can't see you, I see what was yours. Your electric razor is blinking on its charging station, it's ready to trim your beard. Your mouthwash is here wondering why you haven't been swishing twice daily. The little display of knicknacks in your windowsill – a rubber duck, a paper crane, a few heart-shaped ornaments, and some special crystals – they're all still sitting precisely where you arranged them, a little altar commemorating what once was. I brushed my teeth with your toothbrush and kept my eyes down. Reminders of happy times can brutally hit like a baseball bat to my jaw, but even in the pain – it's comfort.
I climbed into our bed and realized I was freezing. Our thin duvet was fine when we were curled up together, but alone in this big bed I was cold. I went and got my favorite blanket. It too, still smells like you. The sheets are still unwashed since you last slept in them. I nestled in, curling up in a ball and settling in like a rodent burrowing into its hole. The warmth and the familiar scent helped me drift off to sleep. My dreams were distorted. I was confused about where I was, where I was supposed to be, and who was there. Dream, or reality?
When I awoke, I was met with a sense of peace. I was happy to be home and to be in our bed. I knew you weren't there, but I still felt close to you. Through air, I can smell you. Through objects, I can see you. I felt protected for the first time in many weeks. I got out of bed and opened the blinds. I gasped at the view out of window. My absence and my pain had distracted me from the sublime beauty of the mountains and nature living just on the other side of the window pane, our view. The scene is no longer Midwestern grey or international but unfamiliar. The same view that was ours just months ago, that we shared, it is unchanged. While so much in my life has changed, the view out the window reminded me that much is still the same. I felt grateful.
I walked into my closet. In order to get there, I walk through yours. All of your clothes still remain hung. Your socks are still matched into pairs of fun colors and patterns, wool socks, athletic socks, gig socks, dress socks. Your boxers are folded on the top shelf, they're all clean. I reached out and ran my fingers across your t-shirts, hoping to somehow touch you and feel you. I felt nothing except fruitless cotton. Once in my closet, I dress slowly. I pull on corduroys and a cardigan sweater. It's the same sweater I bought to wear on our first visit together. It has hearts on it. On that trip, a girlfriend said at the end of the night, "I just noticed your sweater has hearts in the design!" You cut in, "I didn't. I noticed them right away." You said it with a slight blush and a happy smile. I buttoned the sweater deliberately this morning, recalling that first time I'd worn it with you and how carefully you'd unbuttoned it later that night.
I walked downstairs and found Beats. I pet her for a long time until she clawed at me to let her go. I gave her treats and made myself coffee. I opened the refrigerator. I started to clean out what was old and no longer good. In vain, I tried not to think about all of the products we'd bought together, the conversations we'd had in the aisles of the grocery store, the recipes we had planned to make, or the game of credit card roulette we'd played to see who would pay for the groceries. I cleared out the fridge and filled it with fresh food – food that I'd tried to buy for one, but couldn't. I still shopped for you too.
I wandered around the house in awe of its magnificence. I realized how caught up I'd been in all the work we were about to do to the house that I'd completely lost sight of how incredible it is. I walked through each room and admired our castle. I tried not to think of what would become of it, of the questions that fill my mind about the future, about the empty dreams that sit on shelves and rot in the bedrooms. I saw the house for its beauty and its comfort. A home is more than just walls around us. Its walls contain the love we created. Our home makes our love ours. It safeguards it with walls, a roof, and a place to house memories. I love this house.
I spent a lot of time moving through our home today with no real direction. I admired what we created here. I smelled the memories of you. I leafed through books you loved or ones I've since been given. I saw you in the their stories. I looked at the objects we'd chosen to fill shelves with – candles, vases, flowers, statues, rocks, music, photos, plants, and art. I read the words on a framed drawing you'd given me on my first trip to the house. It said, "Feels like some kind of ride, but it turns out it's just life going absolutely perfectly." I wished I could teleport back to those moments, just months ago, when life was going perfectly.
The term "out of sight, out of mind" dates back to at least 1562. I don't think John Heywood had dealt with the loss of his soulmate when he wrote it. You are just as ever-present in my mind here as you have been every moment of the past six weeks that I've been gone. There isn't a minute that goes by where my heart isn't heavy, my spirit isn't dwindled, and my body isn't exhausted from all the grieving and all the missing. I am learning to mourn with more sense of reality, but that doesn't make it even a tiny bit easier. Your absence leaves a black hole where my heart once was. I know you aren't physically here, but I won't call off the search party anytime soon.
Thin Skin
I woke up this morning at 5:45 am to the sounds of the call-to-prayer here in Marrakech, Morocco. As my mind awoke from sad and longing dreams, I realize I'd drifted off to sleep last night without doing my own prayers and gratitude. It was almost as if the alarm had awoken me as a reminder of my own need for prayer and meditation. So as the Muslims around the city kneeled on their prayer rugs and bowed to their Allah, I prayed to my God too. While there any many different names: Allah, God, Jesus, Buddha, Moses, Mother Earth, the Universe... in my opinion, it is the exact same essence.
I don't know who I pray to, honestly. I just know I'm now devoted to the larger force in this whole mess of a world. Because I have to believe in a larger force. Because if I don't believe, then there will be no way I can see you again. And the thought of not being with you again makes living seem pointless. So I pray. So, at 5:45 am this morning, along with the pious Muslim community of Marrakech, I awoke to offer my devotion. I asked for you to be near me always. I asked for others to be able to experience the type of love I had with you. I asked that the citizens of the Universe be spared of the pain of sudden loss. I can't bear to think of anyone else suffering like I have. So if my prayers help just one being feel less pain, then they are heard.
The pain from this loss sinks in more deeply every day. Just when I think, 'It can't possibly hurt anymore.' It does. It hurts a lot more. It's like there is a dull meat cleaver that presses into my flesh constantly. The pain is always there, pushing. And then every so often, a new tendon or muscle is hit – and the pain is intolerable and all-encompassing. New depths of pain hit me this afternoon. I was sitting on a rooftop terrace here in Morocco to watch the sunset. Watching the sun inevitably reminds me of you. You were my sun. You were the biggest, brightest, and most live-giving element in my life. So watching the sun vanish below the skyline reminds me of your own disappearance each time I stand witness. I watched the star descend below the horizon, casting shadowed hued of impending darkness out over this unfamiliar city. A harrowing heaviness set in.
Natalia and I had struck up a conversation with a couple from London, Owen and Jennifer. They were also here visiting Marrakech for a long weekend. They were lovely and engaging. The conversation was really nice because Natalia and I have been a duo over the past few days and including new people into the dialogue was fresh. But as the chat developed and the sun left the sky, I began to isolate myself from the discussion. It had gotten to the point where I could no longer go on making small talk without talking about you. So I just stopped talking.
I don't really know where to go from here when I'm meeting new people. You were the biggest part of my life. You were going to be my husband. You were going to be the father of my children. You were my best friend. You were my biggest fan. You were my teacher. You were my sun, moon, stars, and the space between. You were my everything! There is no way I can have a conversation without talking about you. And acting as though you are still alive is a lie that I cannot tell. It's not only a lie to the people I'm sharing with, but more importantly, it's a lie to me.
So now, during tête-à-tête, I don't know where to go. I want to talk about you, my love, my partner, my man... and yet I don't know how to appropriately broach the subject. "Why are you visiting Marrakech?" someone would ask. "Because my true love died and I am searching for anything that reminds me to keep putting one foot in the front of the other," I can't say that. That would bring down other people on their holiday! And yet, when the conversation gets to a certain point, it's unavoidable. I'm too honest and too open not to share my own truth. So instead, I retreat. I get quiet and reclusive. I watch others connect, talk about joy, act with affection, and share – and I back out of the conversation. And the knife of pain digs into fresh, tender meat in my body.
I want others to love. I want others to be happy. I want others to enjoy their time together. I want others to enjoy life. I want others to connect. That's why I pray for them, for everyone. That's why I hope to inspire others by sharing what we had in our own love. But as much as I honestly do want all of that – witnessing it is incredibly, incredibly, incredibly painful. It's part jealousy, part disdain, part admiration – a confusing mess of emotions. I can't help but think of how it was just me who was right there – and now it's just so empty.
So I will continue to ask for peace – for myself, for others, and for the conversation between. And in the meantime, know that the knife is always there. It is always digging deep into my skin. My skin used to be thick, but it's growing weary.
I don't know who I pray to, honestly. I just know I'm now devoted to the larger force in this whole mess of a world. Because I have to believe in a larger force. Because if I don't believe, then there will be no way I can see you again. And the thought of not being with you again makes living seem pointless. So I pray. So, at 5:45 am this morning, along with the pious Muslim community of Marrakech, I awoke to offer my devotion. I asked for you to be near me always. I asked for others to be able to experience the type of love I had with you. I asked that the citizens of the Universe be spared of the pain of sudden loss. I can't bear to think of anyone else suffering like I have. So if my prayers help just one being feel less pain, then they are heard.
The pain from this loss sinks in more deeply every day. Just when I think, 'It can't possibly hurt anymore.' It does. It hurts a lot more. It's like there is a dull meat cleaver that presses into my flesh constantly. The pain is always there, pushing. And then every so often, a new tendon or muscle is hit – and the pain is intolerable and all-encompassing. New depths of pain hit me this afternoon. I was sitting on a rooftop terrace here in Morocco to watch the sunset. Watching the sun inevitably reminds me of you. You were my sun. You were the biggest, brightest, and most live-giving element in my life. So watching the sun vanish below the skyline reminds me of your own disappearance each time I stand witness. I watched the star descend below the horizon, casting shadowed hued of impending darkness out over this unfamiliar city. A harrowing heaviness set in.
Natalia and I had struck up a conversation with a couple from London, Owen and Jennifer. They were also here visiting Marrakech for a long weekend. They were lovely and engaging. The conversation was really nice because Natalia and I have been a duo over the past few days and including new people into the dialogue was fresh. But as the chat developed and the sun left the sky, I began to isolate myself from the discussion. It had gotten to the point where I could no longer go on making small talk without talking about you. So I just stopped talking.
I don't really know where to go from here when I'm meeting new people. You were the biggest part of my life. You were going to be my husband. You were going to be the father of my children. You were my best friend. You were my biggest fan. You were my teacher. You were my sun, moon, stars, and the space between. You were my everything! There is no way I can have a conversation without talking about you. And acting as though you are still alive is a lie that I cannot tell. It's not only a lie to the people I'm sharing with, but more importantly, it's a lie to me.
So now, during tête-à-tête, I don't know where to go. I want to talk about you, my love, my partner, my man... and yet I don't know how to appropriately broach the subject. "Why are you visiting Marrakech?" someone would ask. "Because my true love died and I am searching for anything that reminds me to keep putting one foot in the front of the other," I can't say that. That would bring down other people on their holiday! And yet, when the conversation gets to a certain point, it's unavoidable. I'm too honest and too open not to share my own truth. So instead, I retreat. I get quiet and reclusive. I watch others connect, talk about joy, act with affection, and share – and I back out of the conversation. And the knife of pain digs into fresh, tender meat in my body.
I want others to love. I want others to be happy. I want others to enjoy their time together. I want others to enjoy life. I want others to connect. That's why I pray for them, for everyone. That's why I hope to inspire others by sharing what we had in our own love. But as much as I honestly do want all of that – witnessing it is incredibly, incredibly, incredibly painful. It's part jealousy, part disdain, part admiration – a confusing mess of emotions. I can't help but think of how it was just me who was right there – and now it's just so empty.
So I will continue to ask for peace – for myself, for others, and for the conversation between. And in the meantime, know that the knife is always there. It is always digging deep into my skin. My skin used to be thick, but it's growing weary.
Glitch
As I sit here in Steamboat, looking out over a beautiful cascading view of the mountain range, snow just beginning to appear on the runs, it takes me back to our visit here early last Spring. You had a gig at the Ghost Ranch on Friday night. I had a deadline for my job at the magazine. You drove the 3-hour-trek gracefully.
I never knew a man could operate a car with 'grace'. Testosterone, heavy machinery, highways, grace? It didn't seem plausible – but you broke the mold. You, always hugging turns, driving faster than it felt, passing slower traffic with quick ease, and still somehow finding time to give oncoming drivers boater's waves the whole way. You taught me to always stay in the righthand lane except when passing – a traffic concept I somehow missed all these years. You were able to balance the rugged mountain highways, change the track on your iPod, make a funny pun, and open a pressurized kombucha all at the same time, without raising a hair. You always preferred to drive. My nervous acceleration and lack of cruise controlling juggled with asking you to navigate, change the music, and peel me a banana just seemed like more work. You never said it to me directly, but we both settled into that habit. I was just fine with that. Having survived a near death accident when I was younger, I preferred to let you take the wheel.
Along that drive, we drove over Berthoud Pass. As you glided around the turns, we noticed some commotion a few cars back. You continued on the path, not sensing danger and on a time crunch to make it to your gig. Later, we found out that an avalanche had occurred, completely engulfing cars in snow. Everyone was OK, but the road was closed and major delays ensued. We looked each other in the eye and exchanged a few words of gratitude for our safety and timing. I made a joke about how lucky we were that you'd been driving, because if it were I, we would definitely have been inside a giant snowball.
A few miles beyond, as we descended the pass, we hit traffic and came to a stop on the road. We were caravanning with the rest of the band in a few cars and they were ahead of us. Stopped, and obviously not moving for a while, we leashed up Kira and walked her up the road to the guys in front of us. We all shared a bowl, a few laughs, and you probably topped it off with an epic fart. Then we hopped back into the car and continued on our way: quiet, happy, and slightly stoned. It was a peaceful drive.
We arrived in Steamboat later than expected and checked into our hotel on our way into town. The rest of the band was sharing a couple rooms at a motel on the edge of town, but you had gotten us a room at the ski-in, ski-out Sheraton at the base of the mountain. I wished you luck and gave you a kiss as you left, hurrying off to sound check. I stayed in the hotel room for a couple hours working. I remember taking a photo: Kira on the bed, my computer open to a page layout, a room service salad, a glass of champagne, and the lit up ski-run with night skiers gliding down the slopes out the window. I posted it to Instagram with a show-offy caption saying something like "I could get used to this groupie lifestyle".
A while later, you arrived back in the room full of gusto and excitement for the gig filling me in on the details of the backline kit, the crowd, and everyone's moods. You ate the food I'd ordered you and we made love, quickly. You changed into a fresh tee, a solid maroon t-shirt that was 'dressier' in your opinion and appropriate for a gig. Your hair was not to your liking so you grabbed a baseball cap on our way out the door. We drove to the Ghost Ranch just a few miles up the road. I remember the exact parking spot you got, directly in front of the marquee reading "The Drunken Hearts". I made a joke about how it was V.I.P. and saved just for us. You locked the doors of the Volvo, grabbed my hand, and we walked under the marquee lights and through the door. I danced all night to your music and we both drank a bit too much. I don't remember going to bed.
We awoke late the next morning, still a little boozy from the previous night's high. After room service breakfast, some extra snuggles, and a quick dog-walk, we made our way to the base of the gondola. Everyone else was moving slower than us so we hung around waiting. It's those moments I miss most – the times when we were doing nothing at all but having so much fun together, just being so happy, wrapped in a blanket of love, not a care in the world.
That day, we skied for a bit, but less than we anticipated because our hangovers kicked in. You were particularly happy to ski down to my level that day because of your headache, but you always did without complaint anyway. Everyone else left to head back home to the front range, but we opted to stay an extra night.
The Wailers were playing a free show at the base of the mountain that afternoon. I took a photo of you on our balcony. You were in your boxers, the gondola behind you, and the band warming up. "Watching The Wailers in our undies," I'd captioned. We walked Kira and found a liquor store. We grabbed pints of tequila, for you, and whiskey, for me, and joined the crowd, stealing nips of each others bottles as we laughed about how ironic it was to listen to reggae in the snow. I told you about how badly I wanted us to visit Jamaica together. I'd lived there as a little girl, and you'd never been. Kira made friends with other dogs and we watched little kids being adorable in their oversized ski gear and mittens. Eventually bored of the scene, and pretty drunk, we went back to the room and dropped off our Kira-monster. We grabbed a bite of food at the hotel's restaurant. We retired early that night, exhausted and saucy. You ordered a dirty movie from On Demand and we made love again, and then again. We drifted off to sleep, wound up in each others limbs, fake orgasms still playing on the screen, empty liquor bottles on the nightstands: a classy scene, indeed.
As I awoke here this morning, the scene was so different. Your absence was so present in my heart and in my world. I slept in a twin bed last night, tossing and turning in the darkness. My mind wandered sleeplessly: I fit in a twin bed now. Alone. A bed built for one. A bed made for a person alone, a person with no partner, a person who does not get to make love. Kira jumped into the bed with me at some point, understanding that I needed another warm body, some comfort. It helped a bit and I slept lightly.
I woke early and wandered around our host's beautiful mountain home. I admired the finishes, the steam shower, the radiant heat floors, and the views. I tried not to think of our home in Boulder, just about to undergo it's own makeover, now halted.
As I trolled through the house this morning, barefoot, sleep still in my eyes – I felt like there had been a glitch in the Matrix. I half-expected Keanu Reeves, with his too-smooth skin and dead eyes to walk out of a closet, garbed in a trench coat, and say, "Sami, there's been a major mix up." Barely surprised by his arrival, I'd retort, "Yeah. No shit." Keanu would say, "Ted wasn't supposed to die. He can't die because we need him here on this earth for the duration. He's too important for the master plan. We need your help Sami." "Anything!" I would say. "We're not sure you're the right person for the job. You will need to keep a secret for the rest of your life and not tell a soul," Keanu would say. "I can do it!" I'd plead. "I just don't know, Sami. You have a higher than usual amount of honesty in your source code and keeping secrets is not your forte," Keanu would insist. "Please! I can do it. I will never tell anyone. Just bring him back," I'd say. And he would. He'd instruct me on how I need to make every decision exactly the same as I had the first time, up until those last few days – then he'd tell me how to change the sequence of events. He'd rewind the Matrix to that morning we woke up, hungover, 9 months ago, just down the road at the Sheraton. Everything would be in place again, and no one would remember what had originally happened, except for me. And I'd never tell a soul and we'd live happily ever after.
I never knew a man could operate a car with 'grace'. Testosterone, heavy machinery, highways, grace? It didn't seem plausible – but you broke the mold. You, always hugging turns, driving faster than it felt, passing slower traffic with quick ease, and still somehow finding time to give oncoming drivers boater's waves the whole way. You taught me to always stay in the righthand lane except when passing – a traffic concept I somehow missed all these years. You were able to balance the rugged mountain highways, change the track on your iPod, make a funny pun, and open a pressurized kombucha all at the same time, without raising a hair. You always preferred to drive. My nervous acceleration and lack of cruise controlling juggled with asking you to navigate, change the music, and peel me a banana just seemed like more work. You never said it to me directly, but we both settled into that habit. I was just fine with that. Having survived a near death accident when I was younger, I preferred to let you take the wheel.
Along that drive, we drove over Berthoud Pass. As you glided around the turns, we noticed some commotion a few cars back. You continued on the path, not sensing danger and on a time crunch to make it to your gig. Later, we found out that an avalanche had occurred, completely engulfing cars in snow. Everyone was OK, but the road was closed and major delays ensued. We looked each other in the eye and exchanged a few words of gratitude for our safety and timing. I made a joke about how lucky we were that you'd been driving, because if it were I, we would definitely have been inside a giant snowball.
A few miles beyond, as we descended the pass, we hit traffic and came to a stop on the road. We were caravanning with the rest of the band in a few cars and they were ahead of us. Stopped, and obviously not moving for a while, we leashed up Kira and walked her up the road to the guys in front of us. We all shared a bowl, a few laughs, and you probably topped it off with an epic fart. Then we hopped back into the car and continued on our way: quiet, happy, and slightly stoned. It was a peaceful drive.
We arrived in Steamboat later than expected and checked into our hotel on our way into town. The rest of the band was sharing a couple rooms at a motel on the edge of town, but you had gotten us a room at the ski-in, ski-out Sheraton at the base of the mountain. I wished you luck and gave you a kiss as you left, hurrying off to sound check. I stayed in the hotel room for a couple hours working. I remember taking a photo: Kira on the bed, my computer open to a page layout, a room service salad, a glass of champagne, and the lit up ski-run with night skiers gliding down the slopes out the window. I posted it to Instagram with a show-offy caption saying something like "I could get used to this groupie lifestyle".
A while later, you arrived back in the room full of gusto and excitement for the gig filling me in on the details of the backline kit, the crowd, and everyone's moods. You ate the food I'd ordered you and we made love, quickly. You changed into a fresh tee, a solid maroon t-shirt that was 'dressier' in your opinion and appropriate for a gig. Your hair was not to your liking so you grabbed a baseball cap on our way out the door. We drove to the Ghost Ranch just a few miles up the road. I remember the exact parking spot you got, directly in front of the marquee reading "The Drunken Hearts". I made a joke about how it was V.I.P. and saved just for us. You locked the doors of the Volvo, grabbed my hand, and we walked under the marquee lights and through the door. I danced all night to your music and we both drank a bit too much. I don't remember going to bed.
We awoke late the next morning, still a little boozy from the previous night's high. After room service breakfast, some extra snuggles, and a quick dog-walk, we made our way to the base of the gondola. Everyone else was moving slower than us so we hung around waiting. It's those moments I miss most – the times when we were doing nothing at all but having so much fun together, just being so happy, wrapped in a blanket of love, not a care in the world.
That day, we skied for a bit, but less than we anticipated because our hangovers kicked in. You were particularly happy to ski down to my level that day because of your headache, but you always did without complaint anyway. Everyone else left to head back home to the front range, but we opted to stay an extra night.
The Wailers were playing a free show at the base of the mountain that afternoon. I took a photo of you on our balcony. You were in your boxers, the gondola behind you, and the band warming up. "Watching The Wailers in our undies," I'd captioned. We walked Kira and found a liquor store. We grabbed pints of tequila, for you, and whiskey, for me, and joined the crowd, stealing nips of each others bottles as we laughed about how ironic it was to listen to reggae in the snow. I told you about how badly I wanted us to visit Jamaica together. I'd lived there as a little girl, and you'd never been. Kira made friends with other dogs and we watched little kids being adorable in their oversized ski gear and mittens. Eventually bored of the scene, and pretty drunk, we went back to the room and dropped off our Kira-monster. We grabbed a bite of food at the hotel's restaurant. We retired early that night, exhausted and saucy. You ordered a dirty movie from On Demand and we made love again, and then again. We drifted off to sleep, wound up in each others limbs, fake orgasms still playing on the screen, empty liquor bottles on the nightstands: a classy scene, indeed.
As I awoke here this morning, the scene was so different. Your absence was so present in my heart and in my world. I slept in a twin bed last night, tossing and turning in the darkness. My mind wandered sleeplessly: I fit in a twin bed now. Alone. A bed built for one. A bed made for a person alone, a person with no partner, a person who does not get to make love. Kira jumped into the bed with me at some point, understanding that I needed another warm body, some comfort. It helped a bit and I slept lightly.
I woke early and wandered around our host's beautiful mountain home. I admired the finishes, the steam shower, the radiant heat floors, and the views. I tried not to think of our home in Boulder, just about to undergo it's own makeover, now halted.
As I trolled through the house this morning, barefoot, sleep still in my eyes – I felt like there had been a glitch in the Matrix. I half-expected Keanu Reeves, with his too-smooth skin and dead eyes to walk out of a closet, garbed in a trench coat, and say, "Sami, there's been a major mix up." Barely surprised by his arrival, I'd retort, "Yeah. No shit." Keanu would say, "Ted wasn't supposed to die. He can't die because we need him here on this earth for the duration. He's too important for the master plan. We need your help Sami." "Anything!" I would say. "We're not sure you're the right person for the job. You will need to keep a secret for the rest of your life and not tell a soul," Keanu would say. "I can do it!" I'd plead. "I just don't know, Sami. You have a higher than usual amount of honesty in your source code and keeping secrets is not your forte," Keanu would insist. "Please! I can do it. I will never tell anyone. Just bring him back," I'd say. And he would. He'd instruct me on how I need to make every decision exactly the same as I had the first time, up until those last few days – then he'd tell me how to change the sequence of events. He'd rewind the Matrix to that morning we woke up, hungover, 9 months ago, just down the road at the Sheraton. Everything would be in place again, and no one would remember what had originally happened, except for me. And I'd never tell a soul and we'd live happily ever after.
Daylight savings
It was daylight savings time this weekend. Now I'm waking up an hour earlier than we did: 6:30, naturally. You would have loved it. An extra hour in the morning, our favorite time of day together. We would be able to lay in bed, sharing and journaling our dreams, as we did nearly daily. We would be able to call Kira & Beats onto the bed, laughing about how Beats rules the roost as she would hiss a warning at Kira, who is only interested in loving her. We would kiss and embrace and maybe make gentle love. We would open the blinds and look outside, being thankful for the beautiful day, our scenic view. We would hear the wild turkeys and Beats would go on high alert. You would gently laugh as I struggled with the automatic blinds which were designed to be simple to operate.
We'd see that it snowed a bit last night. I would immediately recognize an excitement in your eye because you would be thinking about ski-season. "We need to get those ski-passes!" I'd say. We'd planning to 'do it today' for weeks. I would look at you, and smile, imagining your grace on the mountain, effortlessly dancing down the slopes, soaring over jumps, avoiding ski-school kids without a blink of the eye while still taking the time to softly shout out a compliment to them "good move, kiddo!". We used to laugh about how adorable little kids in ski clothes are, all puffy coat and mittens, eyes hardly exposed, fearless. That's how I thought you looked too!
You would glide into the trees and disappear, loving the thrill of having to choose your lines in-the-moment. You said it was when you felt the most present in life, the most alive. I would be haphazardly making my way down behind you: a danger to many others on the mountain, but "improving so quickly!" you'd say. We would get to the bottom. You would stop with Olympic-ease. I would make a pizza-shape with my tips, potentially crossing them and tumbling to a halt. You would offer a tip, but just one – as to not be overbearing and you'd offer it as a yoga metaphor, one I understand. We would laugh. "I am to yoga what you are to skiing," we'd agree.
I actually made the bed this morning. My dad told me I should try to do it everyday. As I put on each throw pillow, noticing it was taking twice as long because we would always do it together, I wondered "What's the point?" I decided that at least I was getting rid of the evidence that only one person had slept in it, alone. Tossing and turning, trying to makeshift the pillows into a semblance of your body. When I wake up these mornings, I'm so confused. How did you just disappear? You were JUST here. Where are you?
I dreamt of you last night. It was the first time since your passing, except for the night of terrible nightmares. You and I stood in our bathroom. You had died, but somehow I was able to see you and talk to you. We were talking about the house and the renovations. Just 10 days ago, we were choosing a temporary house to move to while our house-renovations were to be made. The permits had come in. Every single decision had been made together: every faucet, every mirror, every light fixture, every stain, every doorstop. We had gone and picked out each specific tile, the exact pieces of marble. We made sure we would both fit in the big, soaking tub. We were so grateful for the team of architects that had helped us. "They totally get us!" we'd say. We were taking this beautiful house and making it our dream home, together. I would often say, "I just can't imagine it all being done! This dream-home actually being ours to live in!" We planned to be here forever. Although sometimes you'd poke fun at the excess, claiming "if I ever walk out the door with a bowl and spoon, you'll know where I'm off to!" Your own modern-day Siddhartha, just as gratified living in a tent. In the dream, I spoke of how the renovations were no longer going to happen. "I'm living in a tomb," I told you. You and I had a conversation about what I should still try to update, and what could be put off. "You need to fix the leak in the jacuzzi, so at least you can take a bath," you said. "I guess radiant-heat floors are no longer necessary," I responded; an item that was always high on your list, but not so much on mine.
That's all I remember of the dream. It was sad. But I got to see you, so that was peaceful.
My dad has moved in indefinitely. You would have loved that. You love my dad. You would remind me constantly, "Your parents are so cool!" "I know, I know. They're cooler than I am, that's for sure," I'd say. My dad made me an omelet for breakfast. There's avocado on the side. It's the first time I've eaten avocado since you left, I can only have a bite. He didn't use the avocado slicer. He probably doesn't know what it is. I'll have to show him. I'll have to let him know it needs to be cleaned immediately, so it doesn't rust. He asked me for some jam. I went and found the jam we bought together in Maine last summer. It's almost gone now. We bought it on our way to the airport in Portland when we stopped to have our 7th meal of lobster in 5 days. We were so proud. The line at the Red's in Wiscassit was so long that we opted to go to the no-name place across the street instead with no line. We wandered into the booth selling jam while we waited for our name to be called. We tasted salsas and jellies on stale Ritz crackers. I bought the blueberry rhubarb jam, knowing I would eat most of it because jam was too sweet for you in the mornings.
We ended up arriving to the airport in Portland when a storm hit. Flights were stopped all across the East coast. We were horrified and stuck. I was panicked, but you reminded me that it would be ok, and that at least we were together. We ate lobster again, in the airport. Eventually, after our flight was officially cancelled, we ended up renting a car and driving to Boston. You rebooked flights so you would be able to get home in time for rehearsal the next day. We stayed with my cousins in Boston and were treated to an amazing dinner at his restaurant. We were so thankful for the star treatment, but so exhausted. You reached across the table, eyes tired but belly-full of foie-gras and pork belly and uni, you wrapped your long, graceful fingers around mine, looked into my eyes, and said, "Let's go home."
We'd see that it snowed a bit last night. I would immediately recognize an excitement in your eye because you would be thinking about ski-season. "We need to get those ski-passes!" I'd say. We'd planning to 'do it today' for weeks. I would look at you, and smile, imagining your grace on the mountain, effortlessly dancing down the slopes, soaring over jumps, avoiding ski-school kids without a blink of the eye while still taking the time to softly shout out a compliment to them "good move, kiddo!". We used to laugh about how adorable little kids in ski clothes are, all puffy coat and mittens, eyes hardly exposed, fearless. That's how I thought you looked too!
You would glide into the trees and disappear, loving the thrill of having to choose your lines in-the-moment. You said it was when you felt the most present in life, the most alive. I would be haphazardly making my way down behind you: a danger to many others on the mountain, but "improving so quickly!" you'd say. We would get to the bottom. You would stop with Olympic-ease. I would make a pizza-shape with my tips, potentially crossing them and tumbling to a halt. You would offer a tip, but just one – as to not be overbearing and you'd offer it as a yoga metaphor, one I understand. We would laugh. "I am to yoga what you are to skiing," we'd agree.
I actually made the bed this morning. My dad told me I should try to do it everyday. As I put on each throw pillow, noticing it was taking twice as long because we would always do it together, I wondered "What's the point?" I decided that at least I was getting rid of the evidence that only one person had slept in it, alone. Tossing and turning, trying to makeshift the pillows into a semblance of your body. When I wake up these mornings, I'm so confused. How did you just disappear? You were JUST here. Where are you?
I dreamt of you last night. It was the first time since your passing, except for the night of terrible nightmares. You and I stood in our bathroom. You had died, but somehow I was able to see you and talk to you. We were talking about the house and the renovations. Just 10 days ago, we were choosing a temporary house to move to while our house-renovations were to be made. The permits had come in. Every single decision had been made together: every faucet, every mirror, every light fixture, every stain, every doorstop. We had gone and picked out each specific tile, the exact pieces of marble. We made sure we would both fit in the big, soaking tub. We were so grateful for the team of architects that had helped us. "They totally get us!" we'd say. We were taking this beautiful house and making it our dream home, together. I would often say, "I just can't imagine it all being done! This dream-home actually being ours to live in!" We planned to be here forever. Although sometimes you'd poke fun at the excess, claiming "if I ever walk out the door with a bowl and spoon, you'll know where I'm off to!" Your own modern-day Siddhartha, just as gratified living in a tent. In the dream, I spoke of how the renovations were no longer going to happen. "I'm living in a tomb," I told you. You and I had a conversation about what I should still try to update, and what could be put off. "You need to fix the leak in the jacuzzi, so at least you can take a bath," you said. "I guess radiant-heat floors are no longer necessary," I responded; an item that was always high on your list, but not so much on mine.
That's all I remember of the dream. It was sad. But I got to see you, so that was peaceful.
My dad has moved in indefinitely. You would have loved that. You love my dad. You would remind me constantly, "Your parents are so cool!" "I know, I know. They're cooler than I am, that's for sure," I'd say. My dad made me an omelet for breakfast. There's avocado on the side. It's the first time I've eaten avocado since you left, I can only have a bite. He didn't use the avocado slicer. He probably doesn't know what it is. I'll have to show him. I'll have to let him know it needs to be cleaned immediately, so it doesn't rust. He asked me for some jam. I went and found the jam we bought together in Maine last summer. It's almost gone now. We bought it on our way to the airport in Portland when we stopped to have our 7th meal of lobster in 5 days. We were so proud. The line at the Red's in Wiscassit was so long that we opted to go to the no-name place across the street instead with no line. We wandered into the booth selling jam while we waited for our name to be called. We tasted salsas and jellies on stale Ritz crackers. I bought the blueberry rhubarb jam, knowing I would eat most of it because jam was too sweet for you in the mornings.
We ended up arriving to the airport in Portland when a storm hit. Flights were stopped all across the East coast. We were horrified and stuck. I was panicked, but you reminded me that it would be ok, and that at least we were together. We ate lobster again, in the airport. Eventually, after our flight was officially cancelled, we ended up renting a car and driving to Boston. You rebooked flights so you would be able to get home in time for rehearsal the next day. We stayed with my cousins in Boston and were treated to an amazing dinner at his restaurant. We were so thankful for the star treatment, but so exhausted. You reached across the table, eyes tired but belly-full of foie-gras and pork belly and uni, you wrapped your long, graceful fingers around mine, looked into my eyes, and said, "Let's go home."
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.
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.
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.
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