On Nests

This week will be 18 months of After. For most, Thursday will be just another day, and I suppose in some ways, it’ll be just another day for me, too. I’ll go to work (lacking a snow day) and I’ll go to rehearsal. We will have class discussions, vocab practice, and all the business of junior and senior English. In so many other ways, though, I can feel the darkness of a milestone month creeping in. I know it seems silly, but 18 months sure sounds like a long time. So even though being emotionally bogged down by a date must seem silly, I’m owning it.

This is the second winter without Coop. The second hated winter without my mountain man.

Winter is my least-favorite season—that’s nothing new. Now, in this After, I hate it even more.

That’s why yesterday and today were cherished days. Our thermometers hit 55 both days. We had hours of sunshine both days. If you’re Tonya (Before or After) February days that feel like spring mean time spent driving around with the sunroof and windows cracked enough to let fresh, crisp air circulate through the car. These are days that make my freckles take notice; soon, my pasty, nearly translucent face will look less corpse-like. Soon, but not just yet. I’m no Illinois rookie; it’s still February!

Still, I could go for a drive. I decided to check on Spring Lake, see how the frozen situation was progressing. Still mostly frozen. Even frozen, the lake holds a promise of peace-on-a-paddleboard. Maybe I’ll get there more often this summer. I want to. I wanted to last year, too, but this year, I might be able to follow through on these dreaming-in-winter plans. I know what my hours on the lake have meant in the past; I’d like to rediscover that feeling. Soon.

After contemplating the hidden, hibernating beauty of the lake, after deciding sitting on the dock would be craziness, after scanning the trees and sky for the local bald eagle, after waving at spring-hungry walkers, I drove up the hill and away from the lake. Before I made it to the blacktop, I stopped to watch 13 deer cross the lake road. Thirteen! I gave them plenty of space, only pulling forward once the two stragglers made it across the road. Maybe it was the space or the gradual pulling forward. Maybe they are almost tame deer. Whatever the cause, the deer didn’t run. I was close enough to hear their deer conversation (mostly grunts and snorts), see specific features, rejoice that the twins are still with us, and just enjoy the wonder of calm wildlife.

On down the blacktop.

Several times last year, I saw a bald eagle atop a dead tree on Spring Lake road. I posted a picture, and a friend commented that his wife had spotted the nest. I began my search for the nest, but all summer I couldn’t see it through the leaves. Yesterday, finally and from quite a distance, I saw the nest. I’m old enough to remember bald eagles being scarce; I didn’t see one in our area until I was an adult. Now there are days I see several eagles, sometimes in pairs. The nests, though, elude me. I did my best “out for a Sunday drive” impression, creeping along the blacktop until I found a vantage point, turned on my flashers, and hopped out of my car. I only had my phone and monocular, but I did what I could. I’ll be back.

If it hadn’t been for winter—the season I dread then endure—I wouldn’t have seen that nest. Yes, there was a hint of it last summer, but I wasn’t sure. This summer, I think I’ll be able to see the nest even when the trees are lush with life and leaves. Now, I know where it is. Now, I know that it is. Now, I can see without seeing.

My life has been wintry for 18 months. I don’t mean to say that I’m in the winter of my lifetime or to imply that I’m near death, only that winter’s cold light and colder darkness, winter’s weariness and sadness, have clung to me since Cooper died. There have been more hours of dark than light. Curling up beneath a soft blanket has often been my wintry activity. Yes, I’ve curled up and into myself.

But the eagle nest . . .

Winter’s light, winter’s air—they offer a clarity and sharpness missing from the warm gauze of summer. The nests are visible and numerous.

This winter of mine has allowed (forced?) an examination of my life—the good and the bad, my priorities, my focus, myself. This winter has shown me the nests previously unseen. Unnoticed. My faith continues to grow as I process life in the After. I’m able to read, watch, or listen to resources I couldn’t process a year ago; I feel myself and my faith strengthening with each lesson or sermon or devotional or book. My conversations—conversations about God and faith, mercy and grace, purpose and strength—are belief boosters. I grew up in the church I still attend, but I now feel my faith in ways I’ve never known. Thank God this nest of church family was ready and waiting in a tree—probably Zacchaeus’s sycamore.

This hated winter has connected me to other moms—my beloved Moms Who Know and my growing circle of Survivor Moms. I’ve written about them often and thought about them even more; they’ve helped me more than I can articulate and I’ve tried to figure out their special skills. Turns out, they are moms missing a child, trying to manage life After, and willing to share their story. So am I. That realization is what keeps me moving forward with my plan to start a Compassionate Friends chapter in our area. I’m not trained or experienced with support groups, but I know what I’ve needed and what’s helped. If I can just be me—broken but still crawling, walking, trudging, running forward—as my friends have been themselves, I’ll be okay. Two years ago, I wouldn’t have started a group. Now, the only good thing about hitting 18 months is that I’ve met the time requirement to submit our paperwork. I know unflinching support from friends and former strangers, and because I know that support, I want to offer that support. This group is a hidden nest.

Groundhog predictions aside, winter’s departure is unscheduled. Winter travels on an open-ended ticket. I don’t know what to expect or when to expect it, only that I must endure it if I want to see spring and summer. This week, with its 18-month marker, brings a chill I can’t shake, but I know it will pass. Today I found warmth in two of Cooper’s shirts—a t-shirt and a hoodie—still clinging to his scent. When I buried my nose in the collar of the hoodie, Coop was a little closer. Yesterday, I videoed my rude cat (called “shithead” by Coop) being hilariously rude, and my first impulse was to send Coop the Snap. That impulse lasted a split-second, but the gut-punch pain lingered into today, so I doubled up on Cooper shirts.

Winter is harsh; I endure however I can.

We are entering the countdown to longer, warmer days, to visits in the hammock swings or on the patio, to walks through the timber or labyrinth. When spring’s leaves finally adorn the now-bare trees, when summer’s haze of heat and humidity softens the light and the air, I’ll be able to find that eagle’s nest, even if I can’t see it. I know it’s there.