Learning to Grieve on the Trail

Let go, live your life, the grave has no sunny corners.

Charles Wright

Those of you who read last week’s post will understand why it is I am focused again on death and loss. It is a good time of year to ponder such things. The needles of the larch trees have largely been shed by now, and the paths are golden in places where they have fallen. The first winter storm warning occurred yesterday, and the mountain passes have their first layer of snow.

When a loved one dies I find myself thinking of all the many losses that have occurred in my long life. Many of those losses are not people but places. I remember, for instance, my happy days at Spirit Lake each year as a child. We usually went there during the last two weeks of August and remained until Labor Day, trying to squeeze as much time in the sun and the water as my family’s busy schedule could possibly allow. When we returned home, I would have to get ready to go to school the next day. It was always a difficult transition. Wearing a dress seemed foolish, nylon stockings an aberration, and sitting in a classroom for six hours a day an unkindness of the cruelest variety.

On May 18, 1980 Mt. St. Helens erupted and that campground where I spent so many beautiful August days on the lakeshore was forever covered in a layer of ash and lava. After forty-four years new growth has brought the place to life again. It is exhilarating to observe how nature heals the scars of destruction.

Philosophers and naturalists remind us that death is as much a part of life as birth. One cannot occur without the other. I know that in my head, but my heart is having trouble grasping the reality of my husband’s death. There is much to do, and it all seems overwhelming, like a very long and strenuous hike. It seems impossible, but by taking one step at a time, I always manage to make it to the top.

These days bucket list is a popular term to describe one’s aspirations, things we want to do before we die. Since my husband’s death mine have become very simple. I want to wake up in the morning. I want to breathe. I want to look at the world around me, the pine trees that surround my home, and be grateful. And I am especially grateful that I no longer must sit in a classroom in September and look out the window. I am in the world instead of looking at it. Despite the pain of my recent loss, this is a good place to be.