Another snapshot into this life of mine. This life After. This life that is such a mess of tragedy and promise, fear and faith. This life that so desperately craves comfort. Today’s “snapshot” is more of a long exposure; it covers a 24-hour span.
Friday Night
I don’t think I’m a hermit; I do leave the house. I go to work and to church, the grocery store and the pool. I spend time with friends and family. I text and talk. I interact. Still, tonight was the first truly social group gathering I’ve attended in the almost-eight months since Cooper’s death.
Covid plays a part, I’m sure; I’ve been cautious. Realistically, though, my isolation isn’t only a result of Covid. It’s just the way of my life right now. Yes, Covid worries kept me away from some people and situations, but anxiety and grief also share the blame. I can’t say how social I’d’ve been without Covid affecting life, but it doesn’t matter. The pandemic and Cooper’s death are inextricably entwined.
Still, as time passes and more individuals become fully vaccinated, social opportunities are popping up. When Mom asked my sister, cousin, and I if we’d like to join the Tuesday afternoon card group for a Friday night game, we all three jumped at the chance. As teachers, we are the summer girls of the group. We hadn’t been able to play since last summer.
In fact, the last time I played was three weeks prior to Cooper’s suicide.
I love these women. They are genuinely good, caring people. They’ve seen some life and are the real deal, over and over. I like Hand and Foot, the card game we play. I like the ubiquitous snacks at card parties. I’m quite fond of each component of the evening, but the idea of being around so many people in a purely social setting was stressful. There’s no logical reason for me to worry; nobody there would do anything to hurt me. I know that.
Logic is not running the show.
So, I stressed and fidgeted all day. It was the strangest sense of anticipation; I wanted to see my friends, but I dreaded the initial greeting. I knew one kind gesture, one long-awaited hug, one understanding look from a mom who’s walked this path, would be enough to start the tears. I was on the verge of crying before I walked into the house, and the hostess knew. She knows. She’s lived it. Her strong hug, a hug that lasted however long I needed, allowed my tears — almost a purging of anxiety and sadness. I went directly from her arms to the restroom to “get it together.”
Although I spent a few minutes alone in the quiet during a break between games, I kept it together all night, until it was time for goodbye hugs. Laughter ranged from a soft chuckle to gentle giggles to bawdy hoots; I didn’t force emotion — good or bad. Once or twice, I stalled while answering a question, but I got through. I was in a safe, welcoming space with safe, welcoming people, and I had fun. I survived another first.
I wasn’t done crying for the day; the evening, fun as it was, left me wrung out. That doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy the party; I definitely did. I’ll do it again and again. It simply means those interactions, especially initial interactions, are hard. I sat in my car just breathing for a while before I pulled away. I can’t and don’t always keep it together. Honestly, away from work, I don’t often focus on keeping it together. I’m trying to be transparent in my grief — scrape away the mystery. Pretending to be okay when I’m not feels disloyal to my heart and Cooper’s memory. I am fortunate to have so many people in my life who can let me be however I am that day. Friday night cards was no exception.
Saturday Afternoon
Mushrooming on a Saturday afternoon is a rite of spring. Earlier in the week was the first mushrooming excursion After, and it was emotional. Today was a step closer to normal, but with a heightened appreciation.
Family and I tromped around the timber for hours and came away with very few mushrooms. Even so, I hope I never forget this afternoon. Although there were six of us walking today, we didn’t necessarily stay close together. Yelling distance, but not much more.
I worked my way through honeysuckle (it needs to die), up and down hills, and across a woven-wire fence, heading for a place the kids and I nicknamed The Sandy Bridge. There’s no bridge, just the convergence of several small streams, but that spot will always be The Sandy Bridge in my lexicon. I didn’t find any mushrooms in that area, but found many memories. Logan’s first big patch of yellow mushrooms grew out of that bank; for several years in a row, we found two mushrooms under this tree. And yes, sometimes you can jump the stream. Sometimes, you can’t. Today, I could.
The best spot of my day, though, is one we rarely check. When we parked the four-wheelers at the top of the hill, we could see rain in the east; it wouldn’t be a threat to us, so we stepped into the timber. Years ago, we spent hot hours clearing that hillside of honeysuckle using various methods, part of Mom’s research for a Master Naturalist class. Cooper was with us the day we tried to eradicate the honeysuckle; he ran his chainsaw until he ran out of gas. His hard work — our hard work — paid off. That hillside is breathtaking; the view is clear and the beauty is on display. Today’s walk was clearer because of that day. Maybe today’s walk was possible because of that day. With the honeysuckle gone, the loveliness was apparent. From the top of the hill, I could tell I was in a treasure of a space.
I worked my way down, down, down the hill, sometimes sideways, sometimes backward, sometimes forward, always upright. I traveled over moss, left slip-sliding tracks in mud, and rustled the leaves, eventually making my way to the stream at the bottom. I found three mushrooms there, but they are incidental to the story.
If I could capture that hillside, turn it into a song or a pill or a drink, I would. If I could bring back the feeling of that hillside on demand, I’d be so much closer to okay. I could’ve spent hours there, listening and feeling, seeing and knowing. There’s so much life on that hillside — moss that made my downhill trek tricky, spring wildflowers and mushrooms along the stream, and the ever-present life growing from death. In that valley, I could feel the peace. The stream’s soothing whispers as it trickles toward the river, the constant creaking of the trees in the breeze — sounds of silence. Sounds of solace.
We rode past the tree where we scattered his ashes, and a cardinal flew across my path. I saw many cardinals today — more cardinals than mushrooms. I’ll take them as signs from Cooper, because that’s a harmless practice. The truest sign from Cooper, though, came at the bottom of a (formerly) rarely-visited hill.
Peace in life and death.
Woods Writes 