Morning Mourning

I'm seated in the sun with my feet propped up and casually crossed on a stylish thatched patio chair. I'm just as aware of the spreading warmth of morning against my skin as I am the feeling of the soft over sized grey sweater draping from my exposed shoulder. My toes feel each breeze first, as a half second warning to my neckline: Prepare to be touched softly by a flirtatious chill. I hear a bird sing its love, lust, or loneliness, and think suddenly, "I should buy that bird book, and learn more."

Lily is laying next to me in her best imitations of a Phoenix as Corky casually licks his paw. A large clump of leaves plunges to the spongy earth from the towering oak tree behind me. The clouds in the distance are varying shades of white and grey, all happy, all fluffy, and all accented by brilliant splashes of yellow, green, and burgundy rising from the earth; Mother Nature greeting fall with splendor.

It is from this place I will share with you this experience.

This morning I woke slowly, feeling the puffiness of my eyelids in the strain involved in opening them. In that moment, what I had blissfully forgotten in thankfulness for my first conscious thought of the day, was remembered. Glimpses of last night returned, making the long bouts of silence, the audible cries, the hurting of my heart, sadness of my soul, and momentary dimming of my spirit suddenly a reality again.

He's gone.

I sat up suddenly, with my back straight and head high. I sat there for a moment, completely still, then broke. The lines crumbled, and I slumped back down helplessly to the purple comforter, and buried my face. No tears came. My eyes were tired. Too tired to be anything but sandpaper.

I walked directly from the bed to the hot tub, stripped off the same sweater and tights I'm wearing now, and climbed in. The heat enveloped my hurting body, and as the steam sat quietly above the still water, I looked over the fence, towards the trees and open sky for countless minutes. The trees stretched, with branches long, reaching towards the clear skies; I imagine, in celebration of the beauty of all things natural.

It was a pristine morning. Absolutely beautiful. The sun hadn't strayed or lost its way in sadness. The clouds still bumped and played lazily, the birds still sang songs unmistakably open to interpretation, and life continued. It continues, although he's gone, and my heart that has found no relief from the tightening hurt as my body did from the steaming water. I thought of this, and realized suddenly that while years ago I could easily have seen this day and considered it an ironic mockery of my position, as just another of Mother Nature's blatant insults to my mourning, I couldn't see it that way today.

Today it was Mother Nature's kind but blatant reminder that each moment is a blessing to exist, and (dammit) I need to never forget that. Life is fleeting. That each moment could be my last and to continue to keep my heart and mind open no matter the injustice they have endured. I turned this idea in my mind upside down, downside up, sideways, over and under, and found no flaws.

I must have been lost in these thoughts, and only barely connected to the reality of the hot tub in Portland, because Klover startled me when she asked in her funny little way, "Rita, what you is thinkin' of?" Startled, I met her large, questioning blue eyes. She is the most transparent child I've ever met.

A four year old, searching for an answer in my vacant gaze. How could I tell a four year old what I'm thinking? I mean...He's gone!

I had a million thoughts in that moment. I must have...but the only one that came to mind was this one:

Yesterday a human being with a heart full of love for their son in Afghanistan was at the place they call home. Maybe they were cooking, watching football, gardening, or stuck inside in the snow, doing something exciting or mundane...it matters not. What's next will happen regardless.

A vehicle rolls to a stop and this person goes to the window just in time to see the doors open and two somber men clad in olive Class A uniforms step out, their black and silver shoulder boards reflecting the sun high in the cloudless sky.

Just in time to see their worst nightmare begin to come true.

How can I explain to a four year old that I was thinking of the internal immobility towards reality betrayed externally by locked knees and the sudden intense need to scream to drown out the truth of what's to come. That I was thinking I could feel their energy panicking, struggling to make the truth unreal. "Tell me I didn't outlive my son! Tell me he's still alive! Tell me I'm asleep! It's a dream!"

It's not a dream. He's gone.

How can I explain to her that he's not coming back, he was alive yesterday, dead today...and for what? Money. Hatred. Judgement. Cruelty. WAR.

I thought these things, and in an effort to be authentic, simply said, "I was thinking about my friend who...went away." I watched her process this in her naturally transparent Klover way. She crawled up the sides of the hot tub and sat on the edge, drawing her little pale legs towards her chest and wrapping her tiny arms around them as if chilled by the autumn morning, though I knew it wasn't the breeze that chilled her.

She looked up at me under a worried brow and said softly with a slight pout, "I miss my friends too. Them home and I miss them."

I looked at her, fully aware of her innocence of age, and thought suddenly how simply it could be in this moment to send her down a path towards peace instead of war. How easily we could guide most children down that path by simply planting a seed of love and tolerance. My second thought was focused on her energy shift. How contagious was my sadness? This little girl went from happily splashing in a hot tub to hugging her knees with a pouty lip in a matter of seconds, as a direct response to my energy. I appreciated her transparency.

I immediately moved to make things right in the Universe again for this little girl. Pointing out all the great friends she had here, and the nice weather. She smiled again, slid off the side of the tub and went inside with a smile on her face. I stayed in the tub a while longer and embraced the pain in silence while appreciating every single sensation my mind and body offered.

He's gone.

I. Hurt.

And. I. Hurt. Bad.

But.

That means I'm alive and in tune, and for that, I'm grateful beyond words.


Dedicated to you, SGT Cullers, gone but never forgotten.

Posthumous Potluck

The first row of cars came into view around the tight bend. Cars, trucks, and SUVs lined both sides of the road as far as could be seen. Some were parked off the road, some at dangerous angles in the trees, others halfway into the oncoming traffic lanes.

How many cars are there?

Around the next bend they were crammed anywhere they could fit for another quarter of a mile. At least ten people were walking. Some this way, some that. Some smiling, some staring ahead blankly. All carrying plates of food under aluminum foil.

Approaching the beach took longer than expected. Close to the middle of the queue of vehicles, where they were most haphazardly parked, was a trail entrance. An older gentleman emerged, stooping over his plate of steaming halibut, carried idly in his left hand. When asked how he was faring, he looked up, fatigue in his eyes, and replied breathily, "I'd be better if I didn't have to climb all of these steps!" He shuffled past, towards his car, that way.

Down a cleared dirt path, down a flight of stairs, past an open window looking into an immaculate kitchen, across a deck with a beautiful set of wind chimes, down a second flight of stairs, and all the while with the quiet roar of a waterfall guiding the way. Suddenly, the beach appeared.

It's one thing to see so many cars, but so many people! They must have carpooled, maybe some cycled in, maybe some walked from neighboring houses.

What throngs!

At that moment, the sound of a banjo broke through the serene pounding of plunging water.

This is the place.

The first table beyond the path was covered in a light cloth, a picture of a middle aged man smiling out at the beauty of the world placed carefully next to an open notebook and a wrapped box with a slot labelled "Donations" in loopy letters.

"Love and light. - Jen Reid," was written on the exposed page.

Should I?

The second table called loudly. Round and full, almost crowded, it was obviously the desert table. Unmatched tupperware containers of moist brownies, slices of sweet pies, batches of homemade cookies, and full loaves of beautifully baked breads beckoned, teasing and tantalizing tempted taste buds. An array of fruits, cakes, crackers, and muffins asked to be eaten.

The next table was rectangular. It was longer, covered in a white cloth, and equally filled to capacity with treats, although on the non artery clogging side. Salads, pastas, hummus, salmon dips, unnamed side dishes, and store bought cheese platters were strewn about lazily. Some containers had been scraped clean, others were getting there quickly.

Just past this table were two large grills. The smell of freshly caught and grilled salmon and halibut played in nostrils, making the hungry salivate. Norman smiled, asking if anyone wanted some more fish, fresh off the grill.

Could I say no even if I wanted? Probably not.

More spectacular than the food, than the path, than the rock riddled beach, were the people. The sheer amount of people, milling about, discussing this and that. The smiling man in the picture on the first table clearly brought smiles to their faces. Some smiled through tears, but mostly, they just smiled, laughed, and danced.

A banjo, a guitar, a base, some drums and a trombone. That's all there was, and that's all it took. The Fishpickers played their hearts out in the name of the smiling man, spreading the contagious energy he had given them before his sudden and unexpected death. The energy was spread through the crowd, and it could be seen. The energy in the air was so thick it was nearly tangible.

This could be taken and spread to folks who couldn't make the festivities.

Festivities is an odd but appropriate word.

Tommy strutted through the crowd, boasting happily of his books. "Small book, big story." He repeated this at least four times.

In wonder, a passerby expressed without lamentation, "We were just having coffee at Mountain Market on Wednesday! Now he's gone."

The music softened, then quieted. A grizzled man who looked older than his years approached the microphone. He started, "Mike wrote this........." The crowd laughed hysterically at the poem about a polar bear that hitched a ride on a fishing boat, ate the crew's fish, and then dropped them on a dime when he saw a female polar bear waiting for him at his destination. It was noted that the polar bear and fishing crew had a lot in common.

A member of the band grabbed the microphone and told a bit of a story about how silly Michael had been before he gave a gruff, "Shit, ah never mind, let's just play some music!"

As the band played, the beginnings of a rainbow peaked through the overhanging clouds that had engulfed the towering peaks across the Lynn Canal. They parted enough for the colors to break through, and everyone took it in at once. Rainbow Glacier earned its name yet another day.

In that glimpse of light, of color, the moment reopened. Sure tomorrow would happen without Michael, but today; that's what really matters. A celebration like he would have done it.

The band picked back up, playing two waltzes. Two older women danced together, roughly swinging each other one way, then the other, truly enjoying the moment. Pushing and pulling, giggling, and making silly faces. Laughter lit their eyes, and years plummeted from them in their merriment leaving nothing but youth and happiness.

By the calm canal, a single woman wearing a soft crimson sweater with a flowing black skirt stood watching over her little boy play by the water. Her dark hair danced in the wind, as if trying to reach for the adventure of the silent, still, snow capped mountains opposite the celebration.

The crowd was thinning. As if on cue, mother nature sent a visitor from the sky. Swooping in cautiously a bald eagle attempted to sneak some fish from the nearby rocks. Sensing the crowd's shifted attention, it retreated, only to attempt again in a few minutes. The game of chicken, better yet, eagle, continued for close to a half hour.

The spirit of a small fishing town in Alaska was brought to light by the death of a remarkable man. Signs had been put up on storefronts, bulletin boards, and invitations were passed around by word of mouth as well. His beauty needed to be celebrated, shared, and through that he could continue to live.

I did not know Mike Saunders before his memorial potluck, but in seeing the effect he had on the town and the people, I sure wish I had.

Close Calls

Driving down the highway, the rain's intensity continued to increase. Turning down Jack Johnson's strumming, I focused all my attention on the road ahead. I was poised to react to hydroplaning. I was tense on the steering wheel. My knuckles were white, and my forearms began to ache along with my shoulders and traps.

This is how I drive when I'm not on a clear, clean highway on a bright, sunny, windless day.

I tried to switch to the far left lane, but I realized it was flooded. I tapped the brakes and returned to my lane. Moments later a small, dark sedan impatiently passed me on the left. I began to think that maybe the conditions in that lane had improved, and maybe I could also switch back. 20 seconds later, that car spun out of control. I saw headlights facing me then turning swiftly to my left as the tail lights of the SUV in front of me started swinging to the left. Faced with the broadside of an SUV in my face, I had two options, try to brake before I slid into it at 65 MPH or cut right after barely breaking.

I chose the former.

I pumped the breaks and realized quickly there would be nowhere near enough time to stop before broadsiding this vehicle. Panick started to well. I abandoned my choice quickly for the latter. I moved to the right after releasing the breaks, holding my breath, both hands on the steering wheel. I maneuvered onto the shoulder, and passed the SUV by inches, just as I heard a sickening and deafening crunch to my left.

The car behind me hadn't been so lucky.

Everyone says we are here for a reason. Things happen for a reason.

What's "A Reason?"

It's a way to legitimize sad circumstances. We laugh off decisions we made that helped us avoid close calls by saying, "I knew it had to have happened for a reason!"

I've started counting my close calls. I've been in 2 serious car accidents, a hairy climbing situation, struck an IED in Afghanistan, was shot 3 times through my backpack in Afghanistan, and just barely missed a pileup on I680 N heading up to Lake Tahoe last weekend, which I just described. I chose breakfast with my friend from Washington instead of cliff diving with friends in Big Sur, and it just so happened the water was too low. My friend died hours later of brain death, right around the time I was having my midday snack at a Latin and rock festival downtown. Knowing me, I would have taken that first jump. My mother was a drug addict, and didn't think it was necessary to go cold turkey just for something as silly as a pregnancy, and lastly, I tumbled down the U-Haul stairs as a toddler, landing squarely on my head. Cold, hard concrete against soft, bloody skin.

So, what's a reason?

Why was I the one dialing the 911 call, shaking, and unable to relax for hours? Why wasn't I the one strewn across the highway in the torrential downpour, staring up through glistening raindrops and distorted beams of light with the realization I'll never walk again?

Hoping for a quick, painless, quiet death.

What's a reason?

I'm searching.

Searching hard.

As soon as I figure it out, you'll be the first to know.