Seasons

[Brenda Hoskins]

This is a difficult time of year; late winter, very early spring when everything is dry and brown.  I’ve never liked it.  I find my eyes scouring the countryside, trees, and ditches, thirsty for a glimpse of green with a kind of desperation.  There is a deep seated need to feel refreshed and reborn.  To see hope manifest.  And the thing is, if you don’t watch carefully, you’ll miss it.  It seems like suddenly, the grass is green, flowers are starting to come up, and the trees are misted with an optimistic veil of soft yellow green. 

It's been almost 10 months for me and I'd love to tell you that I'm over the worst of it and it's all getting better. The truth is that this sucks and it sucks bad.  A fellow sufferer though, reminds me that I have a 100% success rate getting through the bad days. And also, the less bad days.  That seems obvious but it really is a victory. I've made it through many of the worst "firsts". Our anniversary, his birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, the birth of our second grandchild, Valentine's etc. You get the picture. I have a few left: Easter, my birthday, and the one year mark which is looming largely.  And then we get to start on round two. 

What is a surprise is that although the big "firsts" are tough, you spend some time preparing for that.  It’s like a very unpleasant Olympic event.  You “train” in that you make some plans for how you will spend that day; whether it’s finding things to do that keep you so busy there’s no time to think, or just going with it and planning to isolate and wallow until it’s over.  But it's the little, unexpected things that are somehow much harder. That moment when you realize that the season has now changed and this marks yet another discrete time frame without him, proof that time goes on even though you feel like you're standing still. Your heart screams, digs in, and refuses to be dragged along to a place that is without him.  But, to quote Steve Miller Band, “time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future.”  That it does.  It didn’t ask my permission.  Bastard just boldly walked into tomorrow knowing that I have no choice but to follow. 

So I just woke up and discovered that it is spring again, and I am nearly a year removed from the moment where my life took a right turn.  It feels like I had all my eggs in one basket only to discover that basket had a hole it in.  Several fell out, broke, and are seeping into the earth.  Now, I know that there is nothing I can do about that.  It happened.  I can stand here staring at the mess, I can attempt to clean it up, or I can try to walk away and leave it behind me.  The problem is, I had to get a new basket for my remaining eggs.  I still have to carry them – they can’t be left behind.  Part of planning this trip out of the country was an attempt to walk away. 

I have been reviewing my photos that I took while in Costa Rica.  I’m still trying to decide how I felt about that trip.  It was truly 50% awesome and 50% awful.  The cool thing is I went.  I did it.  I created a new memory that belongs only to me.  Most people just assume that this trip was some kind of crazy adventure and a lot of fun.  Very few realize that this was actually incredibly difficult for me.  It’s really pretty easy to stay in familiar surroundings where there is safety and few social expectations because everyone knows.  To venture outside that cocoon of familiarity, to be brave enough to attempt to leave it all behind (and I say attempt, because of course, grief being the sneaky bastard that it is, stowed away in my luggage) and to do it all solo was a little daunting at times.  I only had one moment when I really questioned the wisdom of my decisions.  It was after the van driver dropped me and my birding guide off on a dirt road a few kilometers deep into the jungle in the predawn hour.  As I watched the taillights disappearing back down the road, I turned to find my guide watching me with a sort of predatory grin on his face.  This indigenous man, of uncertain age, was a bit shorter than I, but powerfully built, and let’s face it – we were in the jungle.  I thought, ok this is where I get raped and murdered and fed to the howler monkeys.  At that moment, I prayed that I would remember the moves I learned in kickboxing and that I wouldn’t break my hand while punching him in the face.  Just then, a couple of fluffy dogs came running out of the jungle, danced around him begging for treats while he bent to pat them on the head and call them by name.  I knew then that I would be just fine. 

Because dogs always know.