Nesting in the Sea

I am staving off the memories trying to come through. It takes a lot of energy to keep them down or push them into the corners of myself. The truth is, that sometimes my tears and grief need to be private, or at least at my discretion. I know this is a temporary solution until there is space for me to let my feelings come. I have a choice or want to have a choice in the how and when. But, especially with the more recent memories that are closer to the surface, I seem to not have a choice.

Our last ski trip to Angel Fire with William and Ellie keeps pushing up through my thin skin. The roadside stops were less about bathroom breaks, and more about you and William throwing the baseball and Ellie and I taking a walk around whatever park or green space we found. Driving us up that steep incline after dark in a snowstorm, you got us to our little condo at the base of the mountain safely and calmly (at least that is what you projected) while I squirmed and held my breath in the passenger seat until we were all inside the condo. Those memory shards hurt so much today. Memories of what happened along the way to our destination are so vivid, painful, sweet. How will I ever make these journeys with our children without you? You were our pilot and leader on these adventures. My job was to find us places to stay, nest, and create home on the road. We had a sweet, shared leadership. I am grateful we knew when to lead and when to follow each other most of the time.

Your willingness to attempt snowboarding for the first time so you could join William in his way of getting down the mountain was beautiful. It was even a bigger gift that there were no instructors available, and William got to be your coach. Hearing him teach you the mechanics of how to move your body and distribute your weight, fall down, and get up, and hearing him encourage you—saying back to you the same words you uttered to him so many times—was one of the most gorgeous moments I have ever witnessed. I snapped the photo of him standing proudly on his board, and you lying humbly in the snow next to him with your board on its side. You were both smiling while tears streamed down my cheeks freezing in place. When this photo slides by on the digital frame, the moment unfreezes, releasing all the love we shared. Even when you returned to skis the next day, there was no disappointment for either of you. I don’t know when I will be able to take them skiing again. It feels like too much heavy lifting, and my heart just can’t be somewhere so filled with these recent memories yet. I don’t know when I will return to our summer spots in Durango and Ouray, CO either. We will, but I am not ready yet. I love you. I miss you.

Edmond taught our children so much. He was such a beautiful model for all five of them. And, in so many ways they taught him so well, too and modeled a way forward for him, even if that invitation came because of a crisis or difficult event. They grew his heart and opened the door to his generous nature. Now, without him here, we live in that place that opened up. His presence is the space between, the places that offer new purpose and meaning.

I make my own coffee nearly every day using the hand press single cup device. Today, it is cold outside, well, cold for Texas. Scooping and depositing the grounds into the cylinder, I cannot believe you are not standing where I am standing. I cannot believe you are not telling me to stay in bed, stay warm, close your eyes for a little longer. You would let me rest some more and stay warm under covers while you made us cups of coffee. Most days, I would hear you place the mug next to my bed, smell the deliciousness, and sit up to sip with you. Every so often, I would sleep through coffee and drink mine cold or warmed back up asking you to please stay a little longer reading in bed next to me.

I am so glad you were in my dreams last night. You were waiting for me outside and across from the house we were repairing and preparing. It needed some significant work but the foundation and frame were sturdy. The house next door was in so much disrepair; it was not salvageable. There was a gathering to see both what was going to be razed and the progress we had made on the building being refurbished. When I arrived, the gathering had already begun. I was coming from my work, so filled with energy and satisfaction. I was so excited to see you smiling with your body leaned up against a parked car waiting for me to approach you. Your sparkling eyes took me in as I ran toward you. Not even knowing what my excitement was about but appreciating all the joy you could see and feel in me. I felt so received, and I knew you had an embrace and kiss waiting for me, too. I could not get to you fast enough. Today, I got out of bed, let the dogs out, and got back in bed with my cup of coffee to write to you. Our talks or silence together was better when you were here. I miss you. I love you. 

I am more cracks than pieces, more pieces than whole parts. I am living in the liquid of transformation, change, the goo of the cocoon where a caterpillar grows her wings changing her form forever. The liquid state is not so terrible all the time. Sometimes it feels like home, like the warm bed where I can stay covered up, curled up a little longer. When the world doesn’t insist upon my participation, when I can stay in the dream, being between the cracks and swimming in the liquid loss and lost are the most comfort I have felt since he left this plane.  

If I am lucky, the grieving part sleeps in, giving me a reprieve, letting me move through the morning covered up in the liquid of dreams and his essence. The blanket of softness and fluidity shields me from the harshness of Edmond not being here. 

Sometimes, grief wakes me up before my body can adjust to sitting or standing. Before I can open my eyes to the light of the day, I feel the shaking of my body, the heaving of my chest, and tears streaming down my face. Tears are a different liquidity that eventually soothes the ache in a different order from the inside out. 

For Christmas, I managed to surprise our two youngest who no longer wait for Santa Claus, but still need to feel the magic whenever possible. For William, I created a baseball throwing station with a turf-grass carpet in the garage. I now park on the half of the garage where Edmond used to park his truck, so the absence of his truck and the shifting of my parked car opened up space for this workout area. Our friend Chad helped me hang the plywood on the wall so William can practice and build throwing speed and strength. The shelves are now emptied of the booster seats and terrariums from different a season of life so they can hold weighted balls, bases, and arm care bands. There are buckets of wiffleballs and baseballs and various bats—wiffel, wooden, and metal  For Elaine, I reorganized and cleaned the attached shop to create a studio-shop for her to paint, sculpt, and make creative messes that she doesn’t have to clean up until she is ready. There is a clearing for an easel. Her new Dremel tool, epoxy set, and beautiful wood scraps a client donated to the cause are waiting for her brilliant visions to become manifest. We will finish reorganizing the cabinets and drawers together to make the space hers. They were both surprised, had no idea this was coming, and were so grateful. It was sweet to see that sparkle of Christmas magic in their eyes, especially this year.  

Perhaps you planted the seeds for this surprise in my mind. I would like to think we did this together for them. By the way, Moreland men for the last several generations sure do love their tools in triplicate. Lord, we have a lot of hammers, screwdrivers, and wrenches. Although, I am quite attached to a hammer with a leather bound handle I found. It looks right out of the 40s, probably is. I still cannot part with your things, maybe I never will. Instead, I am rearranging, reordering, and remembering. The memories fill my heart and gut me, too. The focused task of repurposing your spaces so we can be with you in the places you used to inhabit is a way through to the liquid and flow of grief. I now park my car in the place you used to park your truck. It left a space on the right side, open, available, empty. It was space to imagine something else, a space that opened up a way to bring new order to our lives. It is now the space for William to throw baseballs hard and fast.  

Ruby’s absence, too, has opened up spaces. Her crate remains empty. I cannot disassemble it yet. Its emptiness honors her absence and the presence she was in our family. In fact, I will probably offer it to Bayou and collapse hers into a thin metal rectangle to be stored someplace in the garage. Bayou will move one sleeping place to the left like my car did in the garage, like I still cannot bear to do in our bed. Pillows along the left side of the bed still hold me in place on the right side of the bed through the night, creating a comfortable, warm nest that Edmond’s body once did.

Inhabiting new spaces that belonged to those we love is a way through, a stepping stone in the waters of grieving. Bayou spends much more time in the house these days, needing her pack closer now that Ruby is not here. This next change in the familiar, Ruby’s unexpected death is creating new routines for us and the dog-members that remain. Bayou and Buck are finding their new places in the pack, filling the roles Ruby left for them.

When I was cleaning the garage and shop, I did have to let some things go. Toys that were broken or no longer being used by our kids. I was quite cognizant that the oil rags, tools, and gas and paint cans were some of the last things you touched, or rather, you were the last to touch them. As I moved things around, held these objects in hand, I realized you are now the second to last person to touch them. As I picked up these things from one place and before I put it back down in it’s new home, I tried to feel your touch, your warmth. I also had to remove and relocate the wren’s nest that for the last seven years or so has been between the two booster seats on the shelf, one flipped upside down upon the other creating a perfect little nook for a nest. Each year those wrens return, adding more cedar threads and other nest materials. You were much less concerned than I was about the baby wrens each spring. I was fixated and fretted that they would be separated from one or both parents every time we shut the garage door at night. When we left for Colorado each summer, if the babies had not flown yet, I was crazy worried they would die inside while we were gone. I also found the bowls of seed and the little water bowl I placed there a couple years ago. It wasn’t until later that I learned about how birds line their nests with food for their young. I hope they find and love their new nest location. I love you. I miss you. Thank you for listening to my worries then and now about the wrens and all the other things. I love you. 

The nest was too near where William will be throwing baseballs. It wasn’t a safe place for the nest any longer. When relocating the wren’s nest, I had to think like a bird, or rather a wren. As I looked closely at the messy entanglement of their home, I recognized that perhaps the wrens understand the tangle ball for a different reason. Wise as they are, the wrens create a tangle ball and live in its center. It is safe there for their babies, because who in their right mind would enter the tangled territory? They are the funniest birds, sassy and messy, and like all mothers and fathers, they love their babies. If you get too near their nests, you will piss them off, and they will let you know. I have been chewed out by a handful of angry wren on various occasions.

So, as I reordered our lives, the wrens shared in our experience. I had to consider their patterns and habits since I have known them. Wrens love to forage in small, dark crevices. I can relate. Wrens have constructed a few nests around our home that may or may not belong to the same couple, but still it is a pattern among the bird family. One nest rests on the kitchen casement windowsill on the front porch which means we cannot open that window any longer otherwise the nest would be knocked down to the ground. They do seem to like these cozy nooks near people and our things. Maybe human smells and activity provide protection. Additionally, I had to consider their predators, snakes, raccoons, and other birds. They love to leave the cedar bark all strung out of their homes making it look like the nest has already been raided.

Last year, the wrens born in the garage learned to fly in the corner space between the side of the house, the chicken coop, and the garage—a nook for flying practice. But, I have never noticed a wren nest in any of the lower tree branches despite the eye-level of nests built in the garage and on the windowsill. I also remembered how each spring the wren babies from the nest on the front porch hop down onto the bench and then the stone patio. The wren parents usher the three or four baby puff-balls into the adjacent garden through a little hole at the base of the cedar fence that encloses the area. In the garden, near the worm compost bin that is about two feet from the ground, the baby birds begin practicing flying. Pretty quickly, the babies are perched on top of the cedar fence planks, bravely and proudly fluttering out into the world and back again. The garden is a safe place for trying new things.

So, with all of these knowings from years of observation in mind, I found a sweet empty ceramic pot with a faded dragonfly on the side. With a small spearheaded spade shovel, I carefully scooped the wren’s nest out of the booster seat and placed it into the pot. I put the pot on the a stone windowsill in the garden. I hope they find it. I hope I see them one morning when I look out onto that ledge. Change is hard. I hope the wrens do not get too upset with me. I hope they like their new space, and change is hard and it happens. We will all adjust together. Maybe I will even go into the garden and plant this year.

The hammer with the leather wrapped handle is inside now, in a drawer in my kitchen where I will find it easily and use it more often. Some part of Edmond and his lineage are closer to me. Collecting, cataloging, and cherishing the pieces that remain is another object as ritual action. The essence of the loss and the presence of Edmond’s essence are both here. I continue to reassemble, reorder, and repurpose within the space he left behind. 

I am noticing the gaps everywhere. The spaces between allow me to find the liquid center, the flow of tears and rivers that hold me buoyant from the inside and the outside. These days, I would rather be in the gaps swimming and surrounded by the liquid that keeps me afloat than on firm ground where gravity forces me down planting my feet in a position where my choices are linear: past, present, or future. It is easier to have every direction available in the sea of grief than to be plodding one step at a time on the limited linear path. I want more choice, so I jump and dive deeper into the waters.

I will continue to search for the new pieces in the world of the living and line my nest with them. It is what I must do because I am choosing to stay. But I will not give up the sea, the liquid living that provides me comfort, flow, and access to Edmond’s essence.