It's Not Just One Thing or Another

The clouds that gathered at the end of the day yesterday delivered a burst of winter overnight. It was forecast perfectly, about 4 inches of snow came down in the night, just as predicted. The phone call at 5am to announce a two-hour delay for school was also expected, as was the appearance of my son in my bedroom doorway at his usual wakeup time. Nothing can outwit the internal alarm clock of that boy…

We saw fuzzy snowflakes coming lazily down to rest on the heaps already covering the porch railing. The sky was beginning to lighten but we agreed that it was more than snow blowing off the trees, it was still falling. The snow was gentle and, in line with that, I did not feel anxious about the school delay or hurried to clear the driveway or worried about damage - the morning just unfolded peacefully. Once my daughter wandered out to her perch on the couch to look out the window, pancakes were requested and made while I nursed a pot of coffee. The three of us were content to be together, and then headed out to clear the driveway. By then, the snow had stopped and given way to sun. We marveled at how sparkly the snow was. It was not sticky or slushy, but light and fluffy and catching the sunlight, like a flawless snow globe just settled after shaking.

Time passed, the middle school bus came, and I was impatient for the elementary school bus to come. It wasn’t to get rid of my daughter, it was just that the sun was strong and I wanted to tromp around at the conservation land in the perfection of that snow before it began to melt and dull into something else. My eagerness to start my walk was not a feeling of desperation but rather excitement; I was looking forward to something. After she climbed the steps of the bus, I hurried to gather my things. Once again I needed my winter gear and I also wanted to bring the camera. Something in my mood made me want to try to capture this morning with the high quality lens of Chris’s camera. He hadn’t used it much in the last year due to the convenience of a smart phone or maybe something else - it was for the preservation of happy memories and it had been such a difficult year. No matter, today I would try. I wasn’t sad as I unzipped the case, not even as I figured that Chris was the last person to use it and pack it away. I was pleased to find that the battery showed some life. At the conservation land, the parking lot was not cleared as I figured it would not be. There was one set of tire tracks but the vehicle that made them was gone, and no footsteps disturbed the hill up to the trails. I had the place to myself once again and I was euphoric about that.

The ground was still bright white, feathery soft, and iridescent as the sun struck it. The magical had not yet morphed into the ordinary, I had not missed my chance to take it in. I felt a spark of happiness - the last day of literal February had offered something magnificent from winter, and this feeling was something I had not known could exist for me right now. The snow struck me as reminiscent of a happy caricature of winter, like a scene from a glittering holiday card too perfect to be real, but here it was right under my feet. Before I climbed the first hill I tried to use the camera. It was so bright I couldn’t even really see what I was doing and I'm an amateur photographer to start with. It doesn’t matter, the point is that I looked carefully, noticed the details, and appreciated it all deeply. I was cognizant that this particular moment in time wouldn’t last, it could not possibly last because of its very nature – the winter sun was reflecting light off the intricately formed snowflakes and just as it was also warming my face, it would soon turn those geometric crystals into something else less defined.

(nobody here, the trail was covered)

I proceeded slowly, playing with the camera and snapping pictures before the battery died. The only tracks on the trails seemed to be from animals, and I marveled at the perfect formation of the prints. Even though I knew there was a slick coating of ice underneath the snow and moved slowly, I still slipped frequently. And, I laughed at myself for my clumsiness. No wonder there were no other human footprints, it was treacherous underneath that fairytale blanket of snow. Right away I sought out the flowering tree that looked so forlorn yesterday and examined it in today’s brilliant light. It seemed transformed again, set off by the shimmering background. There were small, dead, star-shaped flower heads everywhere, still open to the sky such that many had collected puffs of snow. You can’t make this up, the entire scene was stunning.

(empty, dead star flowers)

I made my way up the next big hill and, as I did, I saw that the sky was perfectly clear and brilliantly blue behind starkly barren trees. The contrast struck a chord deep inside me. It stirred a memory of something that a wise friend wrote to me several weeks ago; she had lost her husband more than a decade earlier. As I walked, I remembered her words this way: grieving is not one thing or another. It crossed my mind that the depth of my harsh February state was also the height of my humanness, not just one thing or another.

The trail into the woods had no footsteps. It blended into the tree cover such that you wouldn’t easily know it was a trail unless you knew of its existence, but I did indeed know of that path. A friend had shown me in January when Chris had just died. The snow gently heaped on baby pine trees was captivating as the separated confetti flakes dispersed light. I took time to appreciate it all. It felt that somehow Nature knew I needed this extravagant display. I had to hold a few branches as I slipped and slid down the path, and at a couple of points I had to follow my instincts about where the trail was. As I emerged from the woods onto the main trail in the fields, the path was undisturbed by footprints. Once again, I was the only person who had come this way, but now the path was so familiar to me I did not need any guesses about its location. I just kept going, one foot in front of the other. 

My walks and runs are the closest I come to meditation. This is why they are important to me, they are so much more than physical exercise. Deep emotional work happens without effort or intention. Without judgment, I allow thoughts that feel profound to me but are probably just clichés, and I follow them where they want to go. I consider analogies, some deep and others less so. I invite memories, even the difficult ones, and talk to Chris in my head as if he were with me. None of it makes intellectual sense, but letting it happen is the only thing that feels like dealing with this pain and a step toward healing. Today was no exception. I did not think about work, financial matters related to Chris’s estate, or what to make for dinner. I allowed the morning to just continue to unfold, the thoughts and emotions to unspool in an undisciplined way. It was sometimes deeply sad and yes, quite a bit tending toward happy, and sometimes wistful and other times funny as I continued to forge my own path on the new snow while slipping wildly. I wished I could be here with Chris, to hold his arm and struggle over the slippery spots together.

This conservation land is my place, and ours, and his. It’s not just one thing or another. I mourned that we could not share in the winter beauty together, but I soaked it up for me, and for him. As I again thought of Chris on his last day, I imagined somehow giving this all to him just as he wanted to give every good thing to us. If I had the world to give, I’d give it all to you.

After I finally tore myself away from the beautiful place, I went straight to a coffee shop where Chris and I had spent our fall Tuesday mornings together. I treated myself to a coffee and sandwich while writing on my laptop. But first, I searched for my friend’s actual words in my email account. Oh, they are so much better than what I remembered. I’m grateful for the wisdom of my circle of friends who have gone before me. She wrote:

Grieving is not one thing and is not the same for two persons. Not unlike cancer, it moves in, and intrudes. It changes and morphs (sharp to dull, overwhelming to bearable, near to distant).

It is not only azure, cobalt, and perfection or relegated just to monotonous, steely, and gray. It is also the barren set against the blue.

It is the gray cloud moving quickly over the sun and covering it for a moment, then moving away.

It is the warmth of the full winter sun making me remove my hat and, a few minutes later, the frigid shaded wind forcing my hands up to cover my exposed ears. It is a moving line of a shadow over a field. 

It is a dangerous mass of ice existing beneath the twinkling fluffy snow, and it is taking a few confident, excited steps only to fall down hard with my bare hand dipping under snow. It is a devastating despair followed by surprising lightness. It is being deeply thankful that it all happened while being profoundly sad that it is over.

Grief is not just one thing or another, neither is love.