Wednesday, October 4, 2017

Things I wish I Could Tell You: Ivie Has Your Math Brain!

Dear Trev,

Strange to write you a letter these days, huh?

I so often wish that heaven had email...or phone lines...or visiting hours.

I talk to you often still, I think I always will. Mostly while I am driving. Always at the cemetery.

And, yet, still, I want more. I always have ever since you had to leave.

More than anything I wish I could talk to you about your children, how they are growing, changing, becoming more than we could have imagined or hoped they'd be when they were tiny rosebuds in my belly, or those sleeping little mysteries in our arms that seemed to only cry, poop and - with much coaxing - sleep.

I miss talking to you about them.

There are times it hits more than others...and I guess that is why I'm typing this up this way now, because perhaps whatever gossamer threads connect one world, or one experience, to another do find their way to those our souls are tied to. Maybe typing this in this way to you, or maybe putting it out into the inter-webbed universe you were so fond of makes me actually articulate each thought as if I truly am consciously directing it to you...and maybe that kind of thoughtful presence will make my words find their way to where you are and I can tell you about Ivie and math and gaming.

Are you smiling already at that list? I hope so.

Remember how we always joked that we hoped Ivie inherited your math propensity, instead of the mathematical misalignment in my brain?

We must have blown out the candles just right on that one, because I think we've got our wish.

She is you.

She has a nearly photographic memory for numbers and patterns.

I'll never forget when we were dating and the first time I read you my social security number for some reason or another, and how you were able to repeat it back to me weeks later, and forever after that time. You could see a series of numbers...with no pattern or order to them even...and remember it instantly, recall it always.

She is like that.

And just this morning as I was helping her sign into a program on the computer - one she had only signed into initially for the first time the night before - I went to read her the password assigned to her account, some series of eight random numbers and she said, "I already know it Mom without looking."

And she did. I watched her type it in exactly and I saw you in her so clearly.

You'd love the program she was logging into.

She loves it too.

It's a math program her school is using, brilliant in conception, it gamifies math equations and applies the player's ability to complete each problem to a role-playing type environment.

Think Fisher Price + Mad Minute Math Worksheets + World of Warcraft.

This is what is looks like:

At parent teacher conference yesterday, her teacher explained the program to us. They'd done it in class for the first time this week and now can access it at home as well.

Ivie loves it the game. She loves her character and she loves "battling" the other characters in the game to fight them and "level up."

In the car she talked a million miles an hour about how much she liked building her game avatar - deciding what she'd look like, picking her hair color, choosing her name, and on and on and on.

And as I listened to it all, I see you.

I see you back in college in the computer room of your crummy apartment with all the guys - Fulton, Crandall, Hobbs, Jay, Nick...all of you playing World of Warcraft, the heat filling up the small space from all the computers running...the sound of the tower fans cooling the machines as you all "quested" for hours on end.

I see you carefully choosing your avatar, your skill set, your character's features and coloration. I hear you asking me to run through the names of various gods and goddesses I loved from different mythologies, until you settled on a name you often you went with the Roman Hectate.

And as Ivie keeps talking, I think of how much I wish I could tell you how she loves to game like you did. I think of all the times I fought with you because I hated the computer games, and how I wish I hadn't. I think of all the times I gave up fighting and just joined in playing with you so we could spend time together and how even though I was never very good at it, we really loved those times.

I think of it all and I miss you so much it physically hurts...a part of me, you, is gone, and the phantom limb pain left in place of you when I turn to talk to you to tell you about her is sharp and deep and crushing at times.

You'd be proud of her. She works hard. She's had so much change the last two years. But she has done well.

I tell her about you too.

It's something we try and carefully balance. She misses you as well. Deeply.

Like me, small triggers can quickly send her to tears about her dad...She was so little I don't know how much she will remember on her own about the times our little family shared.

So, I try to tell her, to show her pictures.

And yesterday in the car, when I wished so badly I could talk to you all about her, instead I told her about you.

I told her how much you loved to play these same kind of games. I told her that I bet you are smiling from heaven when you see her play it and enjoy it. I told her how smart you were when it came to mathematics, and also I told her how hard you worked to understand and learn the concepts when it didn't always come easily. I told her how much she reminds me of you.

I will always tell her.

And if I tell her all that....I suppose it is only fair to tell you too. So here I am...I wanted you to know.

And, I want to thank you for giving me this incredible daughter. She is the best parts of both of us. Thank you for making me her mother. Thank you for shining through her.

We miss you and love you always.


Wednesday, July 13, 2016

Good Bones

Let’s chat for a sec.

In the past 48 hours I’ve had several women in my world ping me and say that I’m killing it at the mother thing, as evidenced by my facebook posts.

But I need to come clean.

I think I have most of you fooled.
And I probably have my kids fooled.
And maybe I have myself fooled most days.

Because I’m not really sure I’m really “killing it” as much as it might look like. To be honest, most of the time I am not sure what I am doing at all. I’m just trying to hold on to the thing that makes the most sense to me right now--and that is my kids.

In the wake of Trevor’s death, my transition to being a widowed, single, working mother, and all of the adult anxieties that come with that, I am exhausted and lonely and sad still a lot of the time right now. My soul aches. I worry and worry and worry. I snap. I sleep too little or too much. I cry. I still try to see a lot of beauty and hope and possibility in the world, but right now my rose-colored glasses are often tinted as equally with despair and stress and fear.

I am so keenly aware of the deep holes that losing Trevor has opened up in my soul. And I don’t think they will always be there in the same way and intensity that they are now--but as hopeful as I feel some moments, there are moments that I feel equally as hopeless. As strong as I sometimes seem, there are just as many moments where I am deeply, deeply afraid of what comes next in my life, in my kids' lives.

And one of my fears is letting this sort of complex orientation to life that I have currently leak out onto my children. And the thing that makes me feel most alive and whole and sane is to try and make them happy, to sell them on the idea that even though bad, painful things happen we can be happy.

Because I do believe that sentiment logically, even if a lot of the time right now I question its reality within my mind’s innermost sanctums--and sometimes even out loud to my most trusted confidants.

Am I "killing it" at being a good mom right now?

I’m not sure--and sometimes the suggestion that I am almost makes me a little uncomfortable, makes me feel sort of like a fraud because being a good mom or looking like a good mom on social media is so far removed from my motivation that it is hard to explain. But this poem comes the closest....

I’m not really trying to be a good mom as much as I am trying to sell my kids this world, this life experience.  

I’m trying to give them a better frame of reference than I sometimes have after burying a man I deeply love--because even when you are acutely aware of the conservative estimate that this world and many of the things that happen to us while we are here is fifty percent terrible you keep it from your children. You show them the good bones of a place or a world or a life. You try to convince them, and maybe even yourself, that you CAN make this place beautiful.

Tuesday, May 31, 2016

There is No Separation

I expected grief to be sadness, to be heart-wrenching, to hurt
I’m not sure that I expected it to be so exhausting.
But it is.

Very much so.

In the past year I have become consumed with considering goals, tasks, opportunities and challenges in the terms of the energy they will consume and the energy they might return.

Some things are easy. When I am sad I don’t feel much like eating or sleeping. But it’s simple to tell myself I have to eat, have to sleep, because otherwise I will run out of energy.

Some things are harder to see. Does dating again, or forcing myself into social situations with new friends, single girlfriends and old friends give or take more energy?

Does cleaning the house at the end of a long work day give more energy ultimately than it takes? Does reading those extra stories at night to spend a few more minutes with my children give more sustainable energy that outweighs my exhaustion and inclination to rush bedtime?

Sometimes the answers are impossible. Sometimes they are simple.  Always, they are considered by my assessment, “Is this giving me energy, or taking energy?”

It’s funny how such intangible things--time, energy, sadness, happiness, hope--become the staples of your daily contemplations when you are a widowed woman walking. But they do.

I wondered for so long about the kind of energy I wanted May 29th to have--the kind of energy that I would give that particular date. How could I carry the one-year-mark of Trevor’s death in a way that gave energy instead of took energy?

How could I find hope and happiness in the horror that we have somehow made it through the first year without him, and that now there are only more years lined up like soldiers behind it?

I knew that focusing on something that Trevor loved would give more energy than the energy that I could pour into feeling very sad on that day.

What I didn’t entirely anticipate was how much it would mean to me, how much it would lift my little family, to see so many of you take the time and energy to honor Trevor’s memory as well.

One of my very favorite poets,  Maya Angelou, articulated the following bit of wisdom:

I want everyone who hiked in Trevor’s honor this past May 29th to know that I truly believe that taking the time to get outside and connect with this beautiful planet gives you energy, that if you did exactly that as a way to serve my little family and honor my angel husband, you truly gave us a gift of energy, love and hope.

Your social media posts and texts with pictures of beautiful vistas and words of remembering Trevor turned what could be a very hard day, into a very beautiful day.

I can never thank all of you enough. I wanted to capture all of those posts and messages in once place for a record for myself and our children and for everyone else who misses my main guy. This blog is that place, and I’ve listed all the hiking images that I know about below. If you take a moment to scroll through them I hope you will feel the energy of love, honor and hope in each post--in each hike.

There’s a lovely saying I came across on grief and nature:

“If we look at the path, we do not see the sky. We are earth people on a spiritual journey to the stars. Our quest, our earth walk, is to look within, to know who we are, to see that we are connected to all things, that there is no separation, only in the mind.”  

This past Sunday the separation between Trevor and his family felt smaller, the separation between friendships felt nonexistent. There were so many of us doing something with such a similar purpose--that kind of energy is truly remarkable--the kind of energy that means so much me as it is spent honoring a great man, the kind of energy that continues to sustain those of us he left behind.

Thank you so much for such a beautiful gift.

My kids and me hiking for their Daddy - Ivie is rocking a shirt with Dad's "Never Give Up" slogan, I'm wearing a pair of his hiking shorts and Liam is wearing a t-shirt Trevor wore when he was Liam's age.

We had a great group gather to hike Cress Creek - from family to friends, this show of love and support means so much to me. 

After hiking I took the kids down to visit their dad's grave. Ivie had requested orange flowers (because she knows it was Trevor's favorite color) to put on Trevor's grave. Liam wanted white and blue. 
Sweet Ivie also collected lots of pinecones to leave at her dad's grave. 

Friday, May 27, 2016

The Mountains Are Calling and I Must Go

The morning that Trevor died will forever be one of the most sacred experiences I cannot explain.

My hand on his chest, I felt his heart stop beating, felt his body take its last breath.

Almost instantaneously, I felt enveloped in sadness, a sadness that was bigger than my own.

I know he was sad too. I know he didn't want to leave. 

In the next instant that sadness was a feeling of love, so deep and so tangible, that had I turned around I would have sworn Trevor was standing behind me with his arms around me.

I know he loves me, deeply, eternally, completely.  I know I love him. 

And in the next instant, it was as if he was whispering to me, "I have to go." The impression was not the way we think about talking with one another, not like a secret shared in my ear, but the sort of communication that happens between souls. It isn't verbal. It isn't even something I can possibly find the right words to describe. 

I know he wanted to stay. I know he could see more than I could. I know he had to go. 

My dear friend Katie, helped to write Trevor's obituary because I didn't know where to start. And it bothered me so much, a woman who has essentially written for a living for her entire adult life could not find her way into writing the obituary of the man she loved most, the man who loved her writing. I was agitated at my inability to capture the essence of his life, and with the deadline for submission to newspapers pending, she sent me away from the table while she began the foundational draft for what would be the most beautiful obituary I truly have ever read. 

When I came back Katie had written the most perfect line:

Trevor was many things to many people.....and now Trevor is a spirit exploring a new and wonderful wilderness. 

Trevor loved the wilderness. He loved the mountains. 

For his funeral, Trevor's mother wrote, and his family performed a song centered around one of Trevor's favorite quotations from John Muir, "The mountains are calling, I must go."

I have only heard Trevor's family sing the song maybe half a dozen times, and I sang it with them at his grandmother's funeral. But the words are trapped in my mind and float through my brain so often---especially lately. 

May 29th somehow impossibly marks one year since that morning that I felt his heart stop beating. 

The impossible year has passed. 

Sometimes there is peace in this milestone, sometimes there is more horror in it. Most of the time I try to find the mountains in it. 

Trevor wanted to stay. He couldn't. Other mountains I cannot see yet were calling, and he had to go. 

There are mountains calling me too.

Mountains of challenges in raising our children, in honoring his memory, in finding joy and happiness and embracing this life with a hole the exact shape of Trevor inside of my heart. 

I've struggled to know how to mark this first anniversary of his death. 

I've worried about making the day too centered around his loss, how that impacts the kids who can't yet connect the significance of this date to our family. 

And then one day, it all made sense. 

The mountains are calling, and I must go. 

We will spend May 29th each year hiking. Doing something Trevor loved to do, something that our family loved to do. 

And if you want to, wherever you are I hope you'll join us. Find a trail calling you somewhere are go. 

And as you go, if you knew my angel husband, think of him smiling or laughing, or teasing or arguing or teaching, or just being. 

If you didn't know him, think of someone you love, feel everything just a little more deeply. 

I hope the mountains call you. If they do, snap a picture and send it to me or post it on my facebook timeline--that much collective energy doing something that my Trevor loved to do would mean the world to me. 

If you are in Idaho, we will be hiking the Cress Creek trail at 10:00 am Sunday morning, May 29th, with Trevor in our hearts. You are welcome to join us. 

Friday, April 15, 2016

Out to Sea

“To date we have only explored less than five percent of the ocean.”
--National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration
United States Department of Commerce

Once in college, after midnight a boy I loved, and one who loved me in wild way that couldn’t be caged, drove a half hour south from our cheap college apartments to a mountain reservoir.

In the warmcool air of July we stripped to skinny dip in the water. Kicking our feet below the surface, rippling waves radiating from the slow motions of our arms, he whispered a poem written by William Butler Yeats to me, his voice bouncing off the surface of the lake between us:

A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.

Wrapping his arms around me he told me I was his mermaid and we let the weight of our bodies pull us under the water where we kissed until our lungs burned with the need for new air and we burst back above the surface, laughing and drifting away from each other.

We drifted away even more in the next few weeks, with the excuses of  fall classes and out-of-town marathons and new roommates and new people. We said we’d find each other again next summer….and we did, crossing paths three weeks before I married another man--My Trevor.

On the day you get married you never imagine you will bury your spouse.

But sometimes when you plan one life you are still given another.

And grief is the biggest of oceans.
You can never really say, where one ocean stops and another begins.

The Atlantic, Pacific, Indian, Southern and Arctic are all connected, covering 70% of the earth’s surface as 92% of the earth’s water resources roll in waves around the globe from one sea to the next.

The waves carry things--empty plastic bottles, lost fishing lures, floating bits of kelp, driftwood, shells, memories, burdens, hopes, losses.

In April of 2013 a small Japanese skiff washed ashore near Crescent City, California. 25 months earlier it had been swept out to sea during the 2011 Tohoku earthquake and tsunami that struck Japan, sweeping an estimated 5 million pounds of debris, and too many lives, into the sea.

The skiff was the first piece of debris to drift across the Pacific Ocean and land on the coast of California.

But more would come, landing on the shores of Oregon, Washington, Hawaii, Alaska and British Columbia.

A soccer ball, a fridge, a sealed boat compartment full of live striped beak fish from Japan's coral reefs. 

Even now, five years following that monster storm, the ocean brings bits of loss to the shores to be recovered.

In the days, the weeks, the months following Trevor’s death, and even now, I search for the right metaphor to help others understand my journey with grieving the death of my husband.  I look for the words of others to articulate the storm of intensity inside me--intensity that I cannot sort out or label, that comes and goes in waves.

In an online group made up of widows and widowers, I first saw the following account. My mother sent the same bit to me a few days later. And perhaps this is it--perhaps the metaphor I can never quite hold, the one that runs through my hands and leaves them empty, reaching for more words is, most aptly, an ocean.

“As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.

The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too.

If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.
It is the wind that causes the waves in the oceans.

Wind that moves whatever the water carries.  

I used to think it was just the movement of the water--but it’s the wind that drives the ocean and continually propels each swell to kiss and then pull away from the shore.

It’s the wind that can’t hold still.
A few months after my husband’s death that boy from that lake and that summer ---
that one I will always love, who will always love me in the strangest of ways that is not the stuff of marriage or white fences or children or dinner-plates with a main and two sides--but is the sort of love that is best kept in gossamer connections over decades, celebrations for each other’s evolutions and new relationships, an appreciation for one another’s beauty from a distance---
connects with me on Facebook.

And via the messenger app of The Book of Faces, he and I talk late one night. He says he wishes there were more words than just “I’m sorry.”

I tell him I feel lost, that Trevor was my anchor and that now I am drifting.

He says to me, “I don’t know how you did it in the first place, how you settled down, how you let someone hold and keep a girl who moves like and I were never the sort to have anchors.”

When I tell him I’m going to try and sleep he says again, “Goodnight my mermaid.”


Anchoring a boat properly is complicated.

At least it is according a blog I found, The Sailor Mentor, authored by a smiling guy named Chris who is wearing a black Arcteryx jacket (just like the one My Trevor had) in his author picture.  

Chris says that most boats in the harbor have inferior anchors in the first place. They won’t be strong enough to endure the sorts of furious winds that blow boats to beaches.

But Trevor was a strong anchor and we endured so many bouts of the winds of his cancer before it claimed his life.

He held and kept me, my free spirit settling into his solidness.

But maybe what I didn't see was that as our bodies pressed together we were plunging much lost in happiness that we didn't realize lovers sometimes drown.  


Five months after my husband died his grandmother passed away.
I put our two small children in the car to drive three hours north to the funeral.
And because mothers are sometimes wiser than their daughters, my mother met me there.

When you are a young widow, you are somehow more tragic….or more compelling…..or more intriguing….or more frightening….or more…..something. I am not sure what.

But people know, and in small groups, or crowds especially, you sometimes catch whispers:

“That’s Trevor’s wife.”
“It’s so sad with those little kids.”
“She looks like she’s doing well.”
“I’ve heard she’s really struggling.”
“She looks like she has lost too much weight.”
“She’s gained weight hasn’t she?”
“So young. Such a pity.”

The whispers don’t really bother you. You know that we all become part of other people’s stories and experiences in ways that we don’t control.

But you still appreciate the woman who bravely marches across the cemetery at the graveside to introduce herself to you and say:

“My daughter's husband died when he was thirty too. Plane crash. I'm so sorry.”

And you say the things you have become so practiced at saying, because you don’t know what else to do. 

And because her sincerity, her connection, her witness, DOES mean something to you. Even if you have been treading water, anchorless for so long in a cold ocean with 100 foot waves that you are too numb to feel exactly what it is.

But you hear her say to your mother, something that sticks in your mind. Something your mother later tells you helps her understand you a bit better:

“I used to feel like my daughter was out to sea. She’d be gone for awhile. And then she’d come back to the shore. And then she’d be gone again. Sometimes to different shores I didn’t know, ones I couldn’t see from the beach I stood on.”

In the online widow and widower support group I witness other people’s driftings. 

I hear about the shores they find on purpose, or the beaches they are pushed to. I hear about the waves, the shipwrecks, the winds.

Like a beachcomber in California, I pick up the pieces of loss from more than 2,400 other people like me from all over the globe--the story of how a soccer ball made someone cry, the triumph a widow feels when she can fix her own fridge, the way someone talks about the bittersweetness of that first solo diving trip to see striped beak fish.
And then today, from a man I so deeply respect, though I've never met, a post attempting to explain how the evolution of his life, his new passions and pursuits after the death of his wife inadvertently hurts his family and friends who feel a sense of disconnection and neglect from him, who don’t understand why he turns elsewhere to cope with this ache and loneliness.

I sat down to write him a personal note. To tell him I know what he means, that I too hear so often from my friends and my family:

"I feel like I never talk to you anymore."
"You are really bad at texting me back."
"I don't know how to be here for you if you don't tell me."
"We are grieving too. We need you."

I want to tell him that while I need the shore I stood on before, that I also find new meaning in new shores, in things separate from the life I had before a tsunami of grief pulled me across the ocean.

I want to tell him that sometimes when we lose our anchors we just start to drift, and we don't know where the winds and the waves take us. We find different shores, we move through different oceans and the people of our familiar beaches sometimes can't see or understand when our sails disappear beyond the horizon...but I start to drown in the metaphor, and I never write him the letter, writing this lyrical essay instead.
People often drown together in rescue attempts gone awry.

If an "active" drowner who is panicky is approached by a swimmer trying to help them, the person in distress has a tendency to grab a hold of the other one, pulling them under the water as well.

B. Chris Brewster, the President of the U.S. Lifesaving Association in 2010, told a journalist writing about the drowning of four grown men in an Idaho lake not far from where I grew up, that you should never reach for a drowning person:

"What you want to do is avoid contact," he said, "that contact is what results in death."

Sometimes when you are lost in your ocean of grief you cannot save others from their own oceans...and sometimes no one can save you.

You have to learn to swim by yourself.
The first summer I was old enough to take swimming lessons, Disney's The Little Mermaid had come to theaters.

Along with every other five-year-old who saw the film, I desperately wished to be Ariel.

So much so, that I would argue for hours with my eight-year-old cousin, who was my favorite playmate and lived down the street, about who was more like The Little Mermaid.

She knew all the words to every one of the film's songs and could sing them perfectly, twirling in a circle, her arms stretched out, belting the lyrics to "Under the Sea."

But I had red hair down past my waist.

Or at least I did until in the heat of one of our arguments she grabbed a pair of scissors, held the blades an inch from my scalp and cut off one of my pigtails.

Being a mermaid has its costs.
In British folklore mermaids are usually unlucky omens, associated with, or fortelling, storms and disaster.

If you type the words "Mermaid" and "Tsunami" into Google, the entire first page of results will list videos, articles, and forums discussing how the remains of a supposed mermaid were found after the 2011 tsunami in Japan.
Tsunami waves are not caused by wind, or mermaids.

A tsunami is a series of waves traveling across the ocean due to a sudden displacement of a large body of water. This displacement can be caused by events such as undersea earthquakes, undersea landslides, land sliding into the ocean, volcanic eruptions or even asteroid impacts.
Widowhood is a sudden displacement.
Widowhood is a tsunami.
Widowhood is a shipwreck.
Grief is an ocean.
Grief is a wind that moves you on its own will.
Grief is wreckage floating across waters--a world obliterated.
Grief is simply trying to swim, without drowning, without letting others expectations of grief drown you.

And if you swim long enough, tread water until you are numb, maybe you morph into a mermaid…..half woman, half fish…….who sometimes comes to shore, but who is most often still out at sea.
Trevor and I took our family to the ocean every year, spending a week at NewPort beach.

I was always a bit afraid of the ocean.

I could never understand the timing of the waves, never could learn how to dive beneath  them in order to not be battered about by the salty water and lose my bikini top.

But he could.

He was smooth, his timing flawless, and I would hold my breath until he popped up beyond the breakline, his head of blonde hair bobbing in the water.   

He always wanted me to come further out with him...but the depth, the waves...they scared me.

And not just when we were at the beach...

On our first cruise, he took me up to the highest open air balcony in the middle of the night to see the stars. There were no lights from the shoreline, clouds covered the stars and it was simply a deep black that stretched everywhere around the ship. I was scared of how endless the ocean was. How very small it made me feel.
If grief is an ocean, it is just as endless, just as deep.
But so is the perspective it offers.
When you swim so long in the waves you learn not to be so afraid anymore.

And, if you are a mermaid, there are so many depths---more than 95% of the ocean, after all--to be explored.

And if you explore long enough you start to realize that maybe Ariel had it all wrong in the first place--that maybe once you have rolled in the deep there really is never a way to walk on the shore again, never a way to enjoy shallow living.
The November after Trevor’s passing, while floating on a boat somewhere in the Caribbean my phone chimed with a message from my friend who quotes Yeats.
“Are you still out at sea?” he asked.

My answer was, and still is, “Yes.”

But I don’t quote Yeats.
I swim to Cummings instead:
“For whatever we lose (like a you or a me),

It's always our self we find in the sea.”

I will always see Trevor in the waves off the coast of California.
I will reclaim some of the pieces of my old life that wash up on various shores.
I will walk on new beaches.
I will sometimes come home.
I will stay out at sea.

I will be a mermaid….or a sailor...or a beachcomber...or a tsunami….or a shipwreck...or skiff that washes ashore...and maybe in finding a deeper sense of self amidst this grief I will someday be the Pacific, Atlantic, Indian, Arctic and Southern oceans---all connected to life and to loss and to depths that I have yet to see.