The Day After...

(Our Utah home we adored for almost thirty years.)

There’s always a day after… I am in that very odd, familiar, and not too sure of how to be on this day? What I have learned about myself with my almost seven decades on this earth, is that there will always be a day after, and a day after that, as long as I’m still earth side.

I can recall many days after, both with elation and tremendous sadness. Yet, it’s how I allow myself to fully feel into, and not push away from the side of the pool too quickly, because I’m afraid of staying too long within them that has changed over time.

What I know about myself is that I must stay dangling my legs into these deeply feeling waters for as long as I need to. The Pisces in me simply cannot have it any other way. Even though she longs to push off, and to dive into the depths right now, she must remain in the shallows and take stock of what is going on within her. I truly felt so excited and hopeful for our country, and now I must admit, my adrenals are on high alert. Interestingly enough I had just reordered several bottles of my adrenal support on Monday. Hmm, perhaps my body knew something instinctively that I did not yet?

I’ve been recalling some days after, and desire to share what trickled in.

• The day after, I am fifteen, it’s in the springtime and I feel the first blush and flutters of a new love. Greg sits behind me in history class. I can feel his gaze burning laser like holes into the back of my sweater. He invites me to a dance, walks me home, and we spend hours in my back yard talking. He becomes my beau for three years in high school, and teaches me of how deserving I am to be treated with respect, gentleness and a depth of care. His family immediately welcomes and warmly embraces me when shortly thereafter, I will desperately need their stability, as mine will be changing its form. A deep bow, Gregory, now Gregor, for a young and very healthy loving relationship at such a tender and impressionable age.

  
  

• The day after, my dad is leaving after twenty-seven years of marriage to my mother, and I’m upstairs in my bedroom at the tender age of sixteen. I can hear muffled high pitched and strained voices. The constant slamming our screen door makes when not closed properly appears endless, as my father loads our Buick station wagon, with his belongings. My worst nightmare which I did not anticipate would be our family’s script is unraveling before my eyes. There is nothing I can do to make sense of it, nor change it. I am living alone with my mother as both my siblings are away in college. My sister in Virginia, and my brother in Montreal, Canada. They feel so far away when I desperately need their anchoring. How will we navigate this huge loss, both individually and collectively? My sixteen year old self is feeling dizzy, the ground is quaking under her feet, there exists nothing solid to stand upon.

  
  

• The day after, I moved to Utah, I awaken in an extremely dry climate needing to locate my chap stick immediately and locate my water bottle in one of the numerous boxes still needing to be unpacked. This is such an arid and dry atmosphere I have found myself within. Slipping my running shoes onto my feet for an early morning jog, I am wonder struck that I moved to Salt Lake City from Massachusetts. Living in my first apartment, solo, driving a metallic brown Toyota Celica, I recently purchased without any financial assistance, and about to embark on a twenty-five year teaching career. I finally felt as if I was adulting!

  
  

• The day after, our magical and heart centered wedding, Richard and I awakened quite early. We could not wait to drive down the canyon to fetch our yellow lab, Brandi, at his parent’s house where she had spent the night. Thrilled to begin our honeymoon adventure driving to Glacier National Park with our darling pup. Surprising his parents with our early arrival, yet we also were SO excited to hear their thoughts about our wedding day.

  
  

• The day after, giving birth to our first born, Douglas, driving home from the hospital, just a few short miles. His tiny newborn  body in that very large car seat that they had back in the eighties. Discovering the need to place towels rolled up on either side of him to keep his head from flopping over. The realization creeping in that no matter how many child birth classes we had attended or books read, this was going to be on the job training, and it most certainly was.

  
  

• The day after, moving into our second house in Utah, the one we’d spend almost thirty years calling home. Spending the first night on a hide a bed in our family room. Our moving in day had been devoted to setting up a crib for Sarah in her room, and Douglas’ bed in his. We had run out of steam, and our bedroom would have to wait. How wonderfully new it felt to be in our dream home, where nothing was familiar yet, but soon would become like a second skin. That house will always hold the most special place in our hearts, as it is where we raised our family, and created so many lasting and cherished memories.

  
  

• The day after, the death of our son, Douglas, how void of a life force my world felt. I gazed out the window, and cars were driving to work, school, and no one knew yet how our planets had tragically collided. Where was I going to find the courage to say the words that I had not even been able to utter yet? In fear that as I did the reality of it would burrow itself into a bottomless abyss I was not ready to inhabit yet. Calls needed to be made to family and friends using a voice, that I wasn’t sure I possessed nor could even recognize yet? Who am I? Who is our family without this vibrant and most loving of souls contained within it? I still ask this question, sixteen years later, and the wind carries my words begging for gales of grace to boomerang back to me.

There will alway be a day after, while donning these earth suits. Perhaps it might behoove us to recall several of them. Allowing and inviting in some rickety hope, as poet Kate Mapother, expresses. Finding our communities where we land to create a sense of safety and shared experiences. My hand in yours, hearing our collective heart beat. Find your people, we are here. Hand in hand, Heart to heart in and with rickety hope.

(Greg and me in high school. Our junior year, age 17)

(Richard and me on our wedding day, 6/28/1980. We're still finding laughter, and it has grown and served us well.)