A New Path Unfolding
I was all ready to write, topic in mind, insights piling up, then poof! It's gone. I feel quiet in my body, a tad hungry (though that seems impossible with all I had for dinner last night), slightly sore from kayaking and my eyes are heavy from the humid heat of the early morning. A rooster crows in the distance. My body is happy here, where I experience the world on foot, by scooter, wind whipping my hair, the warmth of the sea loosening the grip of reality on my muscles and bones. I always thought I would not want to be far from Hunter when I retire and thus, moving to Latin America to be by the sea was out of the question. Now, there is no question. He is gone. I'm not tethered to his physical form any longer in hopes that our relationship would grow even stronger and deeper. Now, I'm free to go anywhere assuming Amy wants to go, assuming we have the resources to live as we wish, assuming I don't become newly attached to people, animals, places, work that prevent free movement.
...
What will my life be like in five or ten years? All that I imagined it to be has been uprooted. The compass of my life has no idea where North is anymore. The order and sequence upended and all the pieces are floating in space without knowing if they will ever come back together-- and if they do, how will the pieces have been transformed by friction, gravity, and impact of traveling at warp speed through the universe? Of course, I'm getting ahead of myself, wanting to know when my work is to be present with the unknowing, with the chaos, with the velvety darkness in the belly of the beast. I don't have fear about this journey thought it's uncomfortable and awkward to get quiet, to honor the undoing, the withering, the return to the earth. It's seasonally appropriate to grieve in the fall as leaves shift from green to yellow/red to brown, then drop, leaving trees naked in the cold long nights. The pace of life slows, we stay indoors more, warming ourselves by the fire, drinking tea, and curling under a blanket. The earth needs time to be fallow, to gather strength and nourishment for the seasons to come. So too, do I.
...
Five weeks ago I was working on a memoir called "A Beautiful Exhale' about my journey with my mom through the last six months of her life with ALS. She died in December 2016, making a conscious decision to stop eating and drinking because as she put it, "there's no point in living if I can't dig in the dirt, eat the foods I love and talk with family and friends." I discovered so much about her as I wrote and reflected on the places we connected and the ways our edges cut each other. I had been reading her journals, reviewing the dissonance between my memories and her notes & letters of what actually occurred. Although I'd been writing for the past several years, I'd recently hired a wonderful book coach who read my manuscript and quite lovingly said-- "You've written an amazing chronicle of your journey. Now, put that aside, and start fresh. You've planted the seeds, tended the crops, now you have to harvest and trust that everything you've written will serve you in the new writing." I understood and was just about to begin that process. Then Hunter died. And in an instant, my interest and capacity to tell the story of my relationship with my mom vanished. A new story is forming as the lava spews out of this volcanic eruption that is my life-- we have evidence that once the fiery flow cools, lava becomes host to seeds that have blown in-- new landscapes emerge on the fertile ground.
...
I am reminded of how I often tell clients that financial planning is like using a GPS for navigation-- first, you have to do the pin drop, to locate where you are. Then, with your eye on what you think is your destination, you plot a course-- and if you're really into it you might have Route A, Route B, and Route C. But, I tell them, nothing is going to remain the same. When life throws a curveball-- and it will-- the key is to recognize the need for re-evaluating the goal, the route, the dream. Life is random. Resilience is being willing to accept this and find a reason to keep going even after the eruption blocks your path or the fires burn down your home or your beloved child dies.
...I have a new path unfolding-- though I don't know where it's leading me. I will learn to be in the darkness, attune my ears, relax my eyes, be willing to be. Meanwhile, my motto is "walk slow, make beauty wherever you go".