Sacred

There are things that are sacred.  Childhood friends are one of them.  Especially those you haven’t seen since entering adulthood.  Those friends, who affected you profoundly for one reason or another, but exist only in your childhood.  They are sacred and should remain ever so.

One of my sacred childhood friends died of cancer today.  She is a person I haven’t thought of for a long, long time, but the minute I did, immense, colorful, warm, bright memories flooded back to me immediately.  She had tangles of gorgeous brown curly hair.  Lovely hazel eyes.  The biggest smile you’ve ever seen.  And I remember a very specific conversation we had about being a tomboy, “It’s fine to run with the boys, Sha.  I always have too.  I’ll bet you can run faster if you try, can’t you? “  Looking at the ground, I answered shyly, “Maybe.”  I could hear the smile in her voice as she said, “I run fast too, but I never leave the house without my lipstick.  I want to make sure they remember why they’re chasing me.” 

I can recall that moment, the setting in which it took place, the look on her face, the color of her lipstick as she put it on her lips.  The sound of her feet on the wooden floorboards as she drug me from the room back into the meadow.  I can remember it as if it were yesterday instead of almost 20 years ago.

She was loved.  She laughed easily and often.  She was beautiful and she glowed from inside.  People were drawn to her.  And I watched her from the shadows with a sense of awe as I could never in a million years imagine what it would feel like to be that adored.  But she always tried to pull me in.  We danced like crazy.  We sang like crazy.  We smoked cloves on the balcony and I listened to her tell stories. 

We never kept in touch.  I don’t think we ever really tried.  It was a friendship that was entirely contained by the magic of the place and time.  And, for me, it was still there.  Encased by the safety that such things innately carry with them.  Or so I thought.  I have no idea who she was when she took her last breath today.  I have no idea if she was married or had children to leave behind. 

And I don’t wish that was different.  This is not a post of regret.  There is, however, a tremendous amount of sadness in the face of losing something so bright, so utterly vibrant.  And there is a sense of deeper loss in knowing that those sacred things, those things that should be left in their velvet containers, are vulnerable.

That there is a sense of vulnerability that is absolute.  With all things and all people.  

Absence

I'm tired. Tired of forcing myself to be in this place of constant celebration. Tired of trying to pretend like it's ok that
my Dad and Laurel and the girls are no longer on this planet. Tired of missing them. It seems like lately, all I can feel is the
absolute absence of them. And I miss them all desperately.

I'm not sure I've ever felt this level of missing. When you move or don't see someone for a long time, years even, there's always this thought in your head that the possiblity of seeing them again could be pretty much whenever you both want it to happen. It's the possibility that keeps you grounded, balanced in the act of missing someone. You know they're still there, even if you don't have direct access to them. But now, now there is no access to my Dad or Laurel or the girls. They are simply gone. Yes, I have all the amazing memories. And I can still hear their voices in my head and see their facial expressions in my mind's eye when I go looking for them. But it's not the same. Because even though those memories and voices and expressions are magical and alive and gorgeous, they are stagnant. Outside of my imagination, they will never grow or age or change.

They have become absent. In every permanent meaning of the word. And the realization of that, the actual physical acceptance of that fact has begun. And it's made me very tired.

It takes an extraordinary amount of energy to hold onto possiblity. To hold onto that which is passed and past. And I have routed all of my energy over the last 10 months to that possibility, to the hope of never truly losing them.

And this really has nothing to do with the "but you'll always have them in your heart and memories" kind of thinking or the "but they're safe and free in heaven" either. Because I know I have my memories of them; I am awash with their memories daily. And I know they are free in the universe, glorious and alight with love. And does this knowledge bolster me? Sometimes, most times. But really, it's the physical absence of them in this world that is so hard for me right now. My children's memories of their Papa will fade, despite my best efforts. Elijah will move on from fishing. Nora will move on from sitting on laps to read stories. There will come a day when not every rainbow brings Laurel and the girls to mind and I won't cry every time I hear Ingrid Michaelson.

Those tangible triggers will fade. And then their absence will be complete. And when it comes right down to it, the world is a little less than for me without them in it. Struggling to make it otherwise is exhausting.

Today is Zoe's birthday. I've never known two girls who looked more forward to their birthdays than Zoe and Nora Lee. And to each other's as well. It seems wrong to not be thinking about what to get her for her birthday. To not have Nora make her a card. To not be talking birthday party planning with Laurel. To have all of that celebration be simply absent.

There have been so many "firsts" in the last three months. First holidays without them all. First birthdays gone by with them no longer here to celebrate. And with the passing of each one, it's driven it home just a little more for me. The depth of their absence from my life and the world at large. Each one has sucked just a little more wind out of me, pulled open the hole at my center just the tiniest bit more. It feels like instead of healing, this stage of acceptance has just exascerbated the wound further.

I miss them. I need them. Every day. Perhaps the real healing comes after acceptance.

Stripped

Loss is a many splendored thing. I’ve had that line running through my head over and over again for at least the last month. It’s the end of the year which brings the inevitable annual look over my shoulder. And that looking has brought that line to my head. Not because this year has been fun. Not because this year has been easy. But because through the immense pain and complete loss of this year, there has been beauty revealed that I never would have known was there.

Losing my Dad and one of my very best friends within 4 months of each other has completely stripped me of what holds me back. The two main culprits being ego and fear. I can trace so much of my hesitance and withdrawal back to those two.

But now, it’s as if a veil has been lifted. It’s not like I chose to rise above and cross over some line and be outgoing. When I lost these dear ones, I also lost that part of me that cared more about the world’s appraisal of me rather than simply living every single day to the best of my ability.

I find myself shocked by my response to people, circumstances and events. In the middle of something I will suddenly realize how different my response has become. The move to Tennessee is probably the biggest example. There was a time when I would have completely lost it at least once during the month long process of moving us across the country. I would have been anxiety riddled at the thought of a realtor coming to appraise our house and its worth or the movers touching all of our stuff. I would have sunk into a ball and cried, for weeks, in the face of leaving everything familiar for something, somewhere I knew absolutely nothing about. Instead, I’ve been excited and completely nonplussed by the realtor, movers and short sale process. I’ve jumped into our new home head first and loved every minute of it. And other than the bad week last week, there’s been no crying and no withdrawing. It’s amazing.

And so I’m uncovering more gratitude in the face of these tremendous losses. Gratitude for a freedom I never thought I’d have. Gratitude for a perspective which has allowed me to live in a way that not only would make my Dad and Laurel proud, but also that allows me to be who I truly am, in all of my glory and imperfection. Without judgment. Without fear. And what a truly many splendored thing that is.

Chaos

The last six weeks have been absolute chaos. Moving my family of 5 (and a tiny, but high maintenance, dog) across the country. Getting the kids into their new school. Unpacking and getting the house organized. Getting my Mom here and settled. And then finally feeling like I might come up for air and realizing that the holidays are about 3 days away. Chaos. It’s just been absolute chaos.

But even in the midst of all the crazy, there have been a handful of quiet moments here and there. And in those moments, my mind always drifts here. To this process of loss and the people whom I’m missing so dearly as the holidays approach.

I had a really bad couple of days last week where I was missing Laurel so much I could hardly breathe. Where I was having the enormity of the move and everything that goes with it come crashing down on my head and I so desperately wanted to talk to her because I know she would have let me vent and then given me just the right perspective to get my head screwed back on straight. And if not, at least she would have cussed a whole bunch with me. Jesus, I miss her.

And our new home is steeped in Civil War history. Which means that I can’t even go to Target without thinking about my Dad. His birthday is about 3 weeks away. And I miss him. So much. I want so much to go tour all of these historic sites with him and watch his face as he steps onto hallowed ground. I want him to see how big Jamison has gotten and see his eyes light up as he watches the baby discover something new. My Dad took so much delight in his grandchildren. It makes me unbelievably sad that Jamison will never get to know that delight.

Loss has also taken on a note of absolute tangibility since moving as well. As I no longer have direct access to the community it took me 10 years to build. I’ve yet to meet anyone here who isn’t just about the nicest person ever, but when I was in the midst of the bad week this last week, I couldn’t go out with my girls. I couldn’t have lunch with a girlfriend and vent and cry. That absence served to compound the loss even further. So I retreated inwards. And baked a bunch of bread. And didn’t leave the house for a week. And was super cranky with pretty much everyone. It was not my finest moment. But I am allowed some adjustment pains I suppose.

Adjustment as I weave in and out of the eye of the storm. Perhaps that is the lesson of the last 6 weeks. Learning to soften further so that I can be pliable in the chaos. Fluid enough to absorb whatever jolts and jerks come my way on this path of immense change.

Change

There’s been so much change in this house the last month that I’m surprised my head hasn’t exploded. I do everything I can to accept change and ride the wave it usually brings with it. But often, change is extremely hard for me. It always has been. It makes me shut down a little, retract. Retreat to a safer place inside my own head until I know which way is up again. But this time, I’ve made a conscious effort not to do that. I’ve woken up every day and willed myself to accept the change and ride the wave and at the same time remain as, if not more, engaged with everyone and everything around me. And the crazy thing is that it’s been much easier than I had anticipated.

Although today, I’ve had to stop several times and just breathe. Remind myself that this is massive amounts of change, yes, but it’s also really exciting change and to be present in every moment and really live it, I need to open myself to it. I think today was different because up until now, the change has been theory. I know we’re moving at the end of the month. I know we’ll pack our entire house and move to a new house. I know the kids will be in new schools. I know I’ll have to go through the process of making new friends. I know all of this is coming, and quickly, but I hadn’t really had to do much of it yet. But today, I started on my memorial tattoo for Laurel and the girls. There is now the beginning of a huge, colorful masterpiece of a hummingbird and flowers on my arm that will be there for the rest of my life to remind me of these amazing people and also to remind me that I lost them.

And that is huge. It’s the first real tangible thing (other than us taking Hannah and Zoe’s bunk beds, hand-me-down clothes and toys) that I’ve embraced that makes their absence real. And permanent. The tattoo artist I chose knows Alex and the whole family and we sat there talking about Laurel and the girls and Alex and even then, it was still tinged with the surreal. But then I got home and looked at my arm and saw this amazing artwork, knew in my heart how much Laurel would love the Columbine and hummingbird I chose for her and how much the orange Cherry Blossoms would have made sweet Zoe smile. I know that Hannah would have blushed and gone quiet at the sight of the bright pink Hydrangea and little Lucy would have poked incessantly at the lotus blossom. And suddenly, it all sank in a little deeper that they are gone forever.

I suppose this shift is appropriate with tomorrow being the 3 month anniversary of their deaths. But it’s a point I never thought I’d reach even a month ago. There are definitely still moments when I miss them so much I cannot breathe. And I’m sure there always will be. But today, I got a glimpse of how it feels to miss them completely, but be able to smile through it. To have the whole they left in my life feel utterly tangible, but not quite as raw. To know, that continuing to love them does not mean I will always be in pain.

Party

I’ve been hiding from writing a bit. I’ll totally cop to it. I’ve had all of these things running around in my head, begging to be written and I just have not made any effort at all to carve out the time and sit down and write them out. In my superficial defense, life has been crazy. Nora and Jamison both had ear infections. And we found out about a week ago that we’re being moved to Nashville with Geoff’s job. So that little piece of news has thrown my day to day life into utter chaos. But mostly, I’ve just been hiding.

When I lost Laurel and the girls, I put myself so far out there with so many new people that I think maybe I needed to contract a little. Re-center a bit and re-focus. So that’s what I’ve been trying to do. Trying to live and love every single day. Trying to actively participate in every moment. Trying to be gentle with myself and weather the sucker punches that come. Trying to exist in a state of gratitude. And for the most part, I’ve been successful. But I think I just needed to do some interior work before I could thrust myself out there again.

But tonight, it was time to get back out there. So I put on make-up. And I put on a gorgeous scarf. And I made bread and a huge pot of awesome soup. And I went to the huge “Rainbow Reconnection” party that Alex threw. And even though there was a part of me that was shrinking inside, I made myself go and introduce myself to people I’ve never met in person before and I hugged and I laughed and I smiled until my cheeks hurt. For the first time since we lost them, their house was full to brim with noise and laughter and food and life. And it was amazing. The energy was amazing. And I just couldn’t stop hugging people.

There were moments, of course. Moments when the reality hits me that I won't ever sit on the back porch in the middle of the day and have cocktails with Laurel while the kiddos play in the background. Moments when I went into Hannah and Zoe’s room and they were still so present there that it took my breath away. There were certainly moments. For everyone. But mostly, it was love. Tangible, overflowing, growing love. In every nook and corner. And I just let myself be carried with and by it. It was amazing.

And tonight I realized that I was ready to be out there. Making myself known and letting people in. And I know that Laurel is watching me walk this path and she is smiling so hugely. Knowing me like she does, she is simply beaming at me and how far I’ve come. I know she’s holding my hand through all of this and there are no words for the level of gratitude I have for that knowledge. And no words for the amount of love.

Anniversaries

A few days ago marked 2 months since Laurel and the girls’ died. It was a rough day. A few days from now will mark 6 months since my Dad died. And other than it also being Geoff’s birthday, I’m sure it will also be a rough day.

What is it about anniversaries? My brain is selective in its nostalgia. It’s been 22 years since my Mom’s car accident that left her in a wheelchair and dramatically changed my family’s life. But every year goes by and my Mom always has to remind me of that anniversary. It’s been just over 7 years since my Grandmother died, whom I adored and still miss daily, and I couldn’t tell you the exact date to mark those passing years.

But I will always remember March 27^th as the day my Dad took his last breath and July 19^th as the day that I lost one of my closest friends and her three daughters.

And, to be honest, I didn’t think this 2 month marker would be has hard as it was. Because the 1 month anniversary wasn’t too bad. Strangely enough, it was the day before that completely wrecked me. I think perhaps because I was re-living the day before I got the horrific news, but from the perspective of knowing the news was coming. So I was anxiety filled and sorrowful all day long, almost as if I expected the news to come all over again. When the actually anniversary day arrived, it wasn’t so bad in comparison.

But this past Monday was really hard. I could hears those girls’ voices in my head all day; their sweet voices. Lucy saying Jamison’s name. Hannah telling me about excited she was to start school. Zoe showing me a new picture she had drawn. And Laurel was in my head all day as I had our last play date on a tape reel going over and over again. Most days I do pretty well, the feeling of missing them is always right under the surface, but I’m doing ok. But on Monday, I just missed them so much I could hardly function. The startling clarity, which I often am able to suppress, rising brutally to the surface of how much I lost.

I hope that grace is with me on Tuesday when we mark the 6 months that have passed since losing my Dad. I hope that I am able to honor him by celebrating my husband on his birthday.

And I hope more than anything that as these anniversaries keep coming, that I am able to let go a little bit more of the tragedy and hang on a little bit more to the joy of memory.