A Summer of Grace

When I was young, I spent summer days pretending. Pretending my banana-seat bike was my faithful steed, pretending I was (in the vernacular of the day) an Indian scout, pretending the secret space beneath the boughs of two evergreen trees was a fort, pretending I was a spy as I perched in a treetop with pilfered binoculars.

Pretending, but knowing myself all the same.

Summers are different now, bittersweet and aimless, full of memories that bring wistful smiles and wrenching sobs. Summers are tinged with losing Cooper slowly but suddenly. Summers have lost their luster.

My summer heart beats in a dichotomy. Cooper has been gone almost two years. Part of me thinks I should be doing better, that summer and all its gut-punch memories shouldn’t bother me. Then I give myself a little grace. This is only my second summer of After. I’ve only had to relive that awful summer one other time. I’ve only slogged through this countdown to August 24 one other time. These are painful days and I haven’t figured out how to anesthetize myself to June. Maybe I will, but maybe not. Instead of trying to know the unknowable, I’m just letting the days be what they are. Right now, what they are is a weight I can’t shake.

So, grace.

This summer, I am working on grace and working on myself. In the words of a friend, I’m feeding my soul. I’m spending time getting to know Tonya of After. I have to know myself, and knowing oneself is a process. The realization that people I’ve known for years don’t necessarily recognize me affirms the mirror and camera’s message–these two years have aged me beyond measure. A Mom Who Knows tells me the physical recovery takes years, but it will happen. Okay. This is just my face. The invisible changes–the changes that have altered my personality and priorities–are the changes necessitating a meet and greet with myself.

Some changes are obviously and logically negative. I am sad. Full stop. I don’t smile easily or laugh quickly. How do I explain to others that sometimes smiling hurts? Physically hurts. There are times I have to concentrate and work at smiling. Someone commented that she liked me better when I smiled, and my only response was that I liked me better then, too. This sucks, but I can’t help it. There are days when faking happiness is just too much work and, frankly, I shouldn’t have to pretend.

Other changes are shockingly positive. I may not smile too often, but I try my hardest to help others who are dealing with similar losses. Tonya of Before wouldn’t have started a support group or reached out to other parents, but I’ve never felt more led to do anything in my life. If we can’t help each other through this life, why are we even here? So, I try to help. I’m still not sure I have any business leading a support group, as I lack training, but I know I’m not alone. Somehow, I’m not afraid to feel my life. I may hate this path I’m on, but I’m facing it. Grace, Tonya, grace.

I said I’m feeding my soul as I learn the new me. Turns out, my soul likes to be fed in the craft room or outdoor workspace, surrounded by tools and art supplies and freedom to make and remake things. I bought three five-dollar thrift store chairs. So far, I’ve painted them three times. I have an idea of the look I want, and I’m getting closer. As I do and redo, I tell myself “it’s just paint,” and proceed nonplussed. Grace for me, grace for five-dollar chairs. Since I’m a wuss when it’s really hot outside, I’ve spent most of my time in my craft room (which was Coop’s room for his final two months). One goal is to become proficient and consistent enough with resin to create a pendant with some of Cooper’s ashes swirled inside. I’m making progress and gaining confidence, but until I’m sure I can get it right, I practice with mica and glitter. Grace. I spend hours in the craft room most days, tinkering with whatever interests me and comforted with reminders of Cooper. His clothes are still in his dresser and, tucked safely in the back of the closet, there are a few shirts and jackets that still carry his scent. Not everything in that room looks like joy, but everything in that room is good. It’s a graceful coexistence.

I crave that coexistence in my soul–a blend of the good and the bad, the old and the new, the Before and the After. This summer is my time to nurture that coexistence, and I’m working on it. I’ve even signed up for a creativity workshop, somehow giving myself permission to share with others as I tend to my soul. It’s challenging and out of my comfort zone, but I’m doing it and learning about myself in the process.

I’ll never again be that wild child of sweet summertimes past, but I remember her. I love her and envy her. Now, my bike is just a bike. I never did get to be a scout or a spy, but I still love quiet secret spaces under trees. This summer, I’m hiding in the quiet space of my soul, giving myself some grace and wondering who will emerge.