Writing and memories

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The softness woke me. Millions of wet petals falling from the sky. The soft down of winter's first snow. I snuggled under my comforter, a warm nest still sprinkled with the ends of a dream. The lowing, still gentle, would grow more insistent the longer I lingered.

Snow covered everything and the trees bowed toward the ground. Heavy under the weight of the snow, they seemed friendlier somehow. The thick wool in my blue boots would warm soon and I revelled in the thickness of the snow, the squeaky crunch as perfect prints followed me to the barn. The blue siding glistened in the pale pink dawn, the tangerine sun slipping over the hill, lighting up the pasture like diamonds.

I snapped the overhead light on and filled the old tin can with the sweet molasses grain. Rough, pink tongues pulled at the alfalfa hay in the trough. Tails twitched happily and soft contented moos warmed my ears. The heavy metal bucket rang with the first spurts of warm milk.

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I spent one spring break back in 2006 backcountry kayaking on Lake Powell with four other girls from the UCLA Outdoor Adventures Club. Every day I would paddle forward into the unknown, so eager to see what was beyond each curve of the shoreline. One day, it started raining. March storms in Utah are amazing. The wind was so strong that it was difficult paddling to shore. Wind ripped white tips across the expanse of the lake and I felt thrilled by the power and danger of it all.

Lightning stabbed in the distance. There were patches of bright sunlight to my left, and hail coming down on my right. It was so odd, but beautiful. We set up a tent and huddled inside our sleeping bags, our bodies keeping the tent anchored. It was so cold outside, so we just stayed there for a few hours, talking and listening to the cry of the night storm.

At one point, I was finally so warm and drowsy that I fell asleep. In my dreams, something heavy was pressing against me, trying to squash me. I thought it was a cow trying to lay down on me. It kept pressing harder and harder until I woke up. It was the wind pressing the side of the tent against my sleeping bag.

Sometime after midnight that night, there was such a stillness, I unzipped the tent and peeked out. I’ll never forget what I saw. Millions, no, trillions of stars. I was in a bowl, 180 degrees of stars all around me. I could have been tipped into the sky, falling forever into those stars. It was like the wind called them from their hiding place.

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We’ve all had moments of loss in our lives – the weight of sorrow immeasurable; a fabric of the universe that smothers light. Something vital has been scooped from us forever.

After facing some losses during my senior year at UCLA, I moved to a new country where I didn’t know the language or the culture. It was a hasty decision I made immediately after graduation to purge myself from all reminders of what I had lost. Death and loss is a part of life, everyone says, but...what can you say to someone who is grieving? You are never alone and you are loved. However, in my new environment, I didn’t understand anything I saw or anything that was spoken to me. The physical environment continually reminded me how disconnected I was to everything. Looking back, I can see how hard I tried to be brave. Instead of letting myself feel and navigate my sorrow, I kept busy adapting to something new. Throughout that year, I lost a big part of my heart and it took some time to find it again.

I’ve learned that grief is something to face; something to travel through. It takes time. It is exhausting. It is painful. Then things become clearer again. The heart sparks a new fire. Just like after every storm, the light you find is brilliant. Through the storm, you discover that you are never alone. You are stronger and deeper and softer than you know. You are made of a fabric stronger.

 We all suffer disappointments and losses, sometimes so staggering that you don’t think you’ll ever breathe quite the same again. Be gentle on yourself. You are loved.

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