Today’s prompt: When have you felt yourself drop deeper, click in, to something larger than yourself? Were there moments when the pain of loss felt – different? Gentler, somehow? Can you describe the quality of difference? For some, it may be almost like your personal center of gravity shifts – something visceral happens. Have you had encounters that let you know you’re not alone? Synchronicities, “signs,” or just cool alignments of things that, whatever they “mean” or “don’t mean,” brought you even a moment of stillness inside your pain? What does it mean for you that these moments actually do exist? What’s it like to experience that deep kind of connection or love, and then shift back again into pain?
At first, I looked everywhere for peace, or meaning, or signs, desperate for a connection. Anything. A cardinal that flew in front of my car or was perched in the redbud when I pulled into the driveway. A song we both liked. A book he loved and I was reading.
Summer of 2020 was the most stressful summer of my life. The months leading up to Cooper’s death were not easy, and I often needed time to recenter myself. Usually, that meant paddle boarding. Not quite a month after Cooper died, I was paddle boarding alone on Spring Lake, my favorite local lake. My hours spent on that lake were salve for my still-raw wounds. I try to time my excursion so that I set out a couple hours before sunset and am paddling back to the dock shortly after the sun goes down. In the evenings, deer venture out, eagles keep watch from tree tops, otter traverse the lake, and turtles find the logs warmed by the setting sun.
One evening, as I paddled my way around the perimeter of the lake, I found a tree that overhangs the water. Although the branches were low at the far end of their reach, some dipping into the water, once I eased my way through the barrier, I found an open space. In that spot, hidden by my co-conspirator tree, everything was still. Sounds were muffled by the leaves, the water a mirror. Peaceful. Perfect.
For a few blessed moments, that calm overtook me. For just a while, I could feel Cooper. The weight of my loss was less. In that sanctuary on Spring Lake, without another human anywhere near, I was not alone. Sitting on my board under that tree, I could breathe. My heart beat in a soothing rhythm rather than a pounding race. In that brief respite, I talked to Coop and truly felt my words found his heart.
“I love you so much.”
“Dammit, Cooper.”
“God, I miss you.”
“I’m so, so sorry, Cooper.”
“I hope you’re okay now.”
Eventually, I had to paddle my way through tangled branches and back into a reality that was still sharp, dangerous, ugly. Although some of the comfort rode with me; some had to stay in the peaceful hideaway.
I returned to that place many times before I had to pack away my paddle and board for the winter, and each time I visited, whether alone or with a friend, there was a sense of Cooper, hidden away under that tree, waiting for me to stop by. I hope I find him there still when the ice melts and the water warms.
Woods Writes 