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Two Years Later

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Two Years Later

Late in May/early in June, I was feeling such anguish at the impending second anniversary of Paul's death. You may recall that we had scattered his ashes in the water, with the notion that as time went by, whenever we visited a body of water, we'd be with him. So, I decided that I needed to somehow live into this grief, and that the way to do it was to be by some water. I determined to add a day onto the front end of a business trip. Driving from Buffalo to Philadelphia, I thought that I'd surely find someplace in the Finger Lakes to meet my needs,

So. Off I went. Driving down the NYS Thruway, a conversation with Paul begins. First of all, let me tell you that while I think of Paul often, and wish to call him daily to tell him this thing or that, I haven't had a conversation with him, in terms of statements and responses, that sort of thing, since he died. Paul says, "Why are you making this trip at all?"
"It's something about a willing suspension of disbelief." (Now what does that mean? Didn't know then, and don't know now.)
"Why are you driving so far?"
Dismissively, "I'll go through the Finger Lakes and find a place where I can see the water."
"What if you can't get a reservation?"
"I will." (Hhmph. Don't be silly.)

Silence. An hour later... What if I'm in a hotel - all the halls - the same room in every place - what if I start to weep? I want privacy. Silence. What if all the rooms are full? What if I can't get a reservation? What if there are no cabins?... What? I want a cabin by the water...like we had at Garnet Lake...the family reunion 10 years ago... Aha! I knew there was a reason I wrote their number in my new phone book. So, I get on the car phone, and call. I explain that I'm currently driving from Buffalo to Philadelphia, and would like to rent a cabin for the night. Do they have any cabins? ... “Well, we typically rent for a week at a time. Are you possibly thinking of the Inn at Garnet Lake?” ... I explain that my husband died two years ago, and that I want to be by the water as part of my grieving... Gently said, “I think we can do that.” “Thank you”, softly replied. Then he says, “We're two hours north of Utica. Do you need directions? Where are you now?” “Between Buffalo and Rochester.” “You could probably be here by 6pm.” “OK.” And I get the directions. Contented silence ... I wonder where Utica is? An hour later, annoyed by no resolution to my question, I pull over and look for a map. Oh good, there's a NY state map in the car. Ugh ... It's halfway between Syracuse and Albany. And I'm only halfway between Rochester and Syracuse ... Oh well, I suppose as long as I can get there before dark, it's ok. A while later I stop for gas. He said Route 3, and I look at the map. There's no Route 3 on the map...there's an 8, though. I look at my written directions. Oh, he said Route 8. Now why did I remember 3? I'm halfway there. 8. 3 ... right-brained. I remembered half the 8. <Snicker>

Well, now I'm hungry. I stop and eat a late lunch, and as I'm driving along, this prompts thoughts of tonight's dinner and tomorrow's breakfast. And now I'm getting past Utica, and onto Route 8 (EIGHT, thank you, Marti) ... Oh good, I notice a general store. I whip by, slam on the brakes, start to back up and notice a second entrance just a few feet behind me, for people like me. As I wander around the store, I notice deviled eggs, cheese and Triscuits, frozen muffins, and a gallon of water. Sounds like dinner and breakfast to me.

Driving along later, I just miss the turn for Garnet Lake Road, and within 50 feet find a diner with homemade turkey vegetable soup, very delicious, thank you, and then drive back to the lake.

Arriving at Garnet Lake. They have readied a cabin for me, with a picture window of the lake, and a front porch. They tell me that they have also readied a rowboat for me, in case I want to go out on the water. And then they leave me, and I am alone. Why am I not feeling sad? Well, it's probably the long drive, and the excitement of actually being here. I sit on the porch for a while, and watch the sun go down. Then, a few cabins away, someone starts a bonfire, and that is beautiful. The tall pines, the midnight blue sky, the lake in the starlight, the bonfire, and me in a rocking chair. Sigh. Lovely. I am comforted. I think I'll go to sleep. And I drift off...

Later that night, I waken, and discover it's almost five. I stay up to watch the sun rise. The sky slowly turns from black to grey and red clouds, and the sun comes up. Lovely. I am comforted. I think I'll go back to sleep. And I drift off...

I waken again about 8 am. And sit by the window, a little anxious. Paul would go out - the difference between us is that he was the explorer and I the reflector. Well, I said I wanted to be near the water ... I drove all this way ... I guess I'll go out ... I get into the rowboat (almost falling into the water in the process, feeling awkward, silly, a little pompous and self-conscious at the task ahead) and row straight up the middle of the lake. Linear. I said I'd do it, and I'm doing it. I stopped rowing, expecting the wind to blow me back. But I'm not moving... but I can feel the wind, why am I not moving? Grinning wryly, Well, I thought about the wind blowing me back, I saw the waves from the window and thought ahead, but didn't think about the undercurrents... rats, now I'll have to row back, and I'm tired. Well, I'll just sit here and let all this sink in. Be with the grief. I reflect back on my thought that I have to live into the grief.
Why aren't I crying?

I'm hungry.

I opened a bag of honey-roasted peanuts. One of those small tubes, about three times the size of the airplane peanuts. Ate a few. Then poured a small handful into my hand. I looked at them, involved in the texture on their surface, the dark tan color. I'll eat just this, because that's what Paul would do, for his diabetes. He'd take a small handful, eat it and that would be enough nourishment. I, on the other hand, left to my own devices, would dream away some time, and nibble them one by one till they were gone. He had a short attention span for reflection, I could do it all day long. I fold up the bag of peanuts, put it away, and finish the handful. One at a time. I wonder if I'll eat the rest anyway? Glancing up, I noticed that I was no longer in the middle of the lake; I was drifting toward the shore. <grin>. What made me think the wind would blow me back the way "I" came?

Then I realize that I am thirsty ... and wish that I had thought to plan. I wash my hands off, over the side of the boat, and it feels really good. Scoop up some water and rub it around on my hands. It feels so good - so refreshing - makes me feel so alive. I make a cup of my hand, and scoop some water in. I hold the water in my cupped hands, look down at it, and say, "This is all I have of you" to Paul. "This is all I have of you." I sit there looking at the water, and noticed the level going down. What??? It isn't dripping out of the bottom of my hands. What??? I scoop up more water, and look down at it, and the same thing happens again. What??? I do it again, and half-way down, the water level just stays there. I realize that I am no longer thirsty. I have absorbed enough water. In that moment, the metaphor changed. It was no longer about loss and grief. It was about the Paul in me. You're inside me, Paul. I can access you any time I want to. You're here, in me. I sat, whole and complete for the first time since you died, holding my breath and breathing, alive with the joy of the moment. The water stayed at the same level in my hands, and I was no longer thirsty.

I decided to drift back as the wind would take me, to stay in the moment and see the detail, to experience submission, curiosity, and to appreciate the cosmic humor of all that was happening. After a long while, I looked up to see that I was nearing the shore, and was floating in toward a rocky beach. Behind it was a meadow. As I got closer, I could see different colors. And as I got even closer, I could discern different flowers. Oh, look, there's my old friend, the Indian Paintbrush. That's what my Mom always called them. My Old Friend. There's the red one. Where's the yellow one? And this is the Paul in me - the ability to see the details, to have an idea of what the details are, and go look for them. I know that excellence is in the details, and Paul had that eye for detail. The big picture is what I see - I know, conceptually, that it's full of minutiae, but I don't see it. Susie (my sister) does. Paul did. And I can, too. Look, there are daisies. And other yellow flowers - sort of buttercup-y, but not. Look at those purple flowers. They're like a turret. A short turret. Down on the ground. I always thought they were stumpy, when I'd look down on them as I walked along, and I didn't really like them. But now that I'm seeing them from the side, well, they're not quite so squat. There's certainly no majesty here, but they are perky little things - they just plug away there. More and more, as I get closer. I continue to drift down the lake, gently scraping along the shore. The first time I was about to bump into some rocks, I automatically pushed away. "Oh, no! Why did I do that? I wanted to experience the moment, and I pushed myself away." I did it because I didn't want to stop, but who's to say an obstacle would stop me? That the wind wouldn't carry me in another direction and I'd still move on? So I let the wind and the waves take me. Eventually, I was caught - snagged into a space in the rocks, and I could see that the wind and waves weren't going to move me any further. After sitting for a while, I could also see that it didn't have to be a big push to get me out of it - all I had to do was put my hand on a nearby rock and rotate it just a little, and the small movement would shift the boat so the wind and waves could take me on their journey again. I didn't have to invent an entire new system when all I wanted to do was move just a little way. So I continued to drift, sometimes needing a little push away from shore, sometimes gently turning the boat so the waves and wind could carry me on. At one point I thought, "Have I had enough? Is there more to learn?" That wasn't the point. I stayed with the pace and the drifting. A long while later, I made the decision to row away from shore again. Into the middle of the lake. As I pulled away, it was like dear friends leaving. A loving sadness, a bittersweet goodbye. And then as I moved into that space where the detail was lost to me, I experienced a wrenching in my gut. A fear. I could barely breathe. Oh, my, this must be what Susie feels when I pull her away from the safety of her concrete reality world. I noticed a few pine trees standing out above the others. Taller, straighter, darker. "They're the leaders. They stand out." Pride in their accomplishment, ready to follow. I rowed out farther. How nice, now I can see the skyline. Oh - the mountaintop is full of pine trees. There are lots of leaders.
... a cosmic chuckle

I sat in the middle of the lake for a while, comfortable with my distance and observer position. Then I drifted back in again. Close in, among the detail. So, where are you, Paul? Everywhere. I can't touch you. It's in the detail. So, it's not, "What would Paul think?" - because that would be a judgment, what he'd say to me, and then I'd get stopped, or be dismissive to his conclusion. It's in the details that he'd look for and find. I can always add the meaning or frame the big picture - he can see each moment, understand the steps.

And where you are also, Paul, is in the curiosity and energy to get up and go, within the moment (hour, day) of my reflection. I drifted back for two and a half hours, noticing the detail, learning nature's lessons. At one point, I saw some purple approaching...what are those flowers? Large purple flowers... oh, my god, they're irises. Irises are my favorite flower. I didn't know they grew wild. Oh, thank you, thank you for the bouquet.

Sitting here, I still feel the wonder of that morning. And the joy for life that is renewed in me