This November we returned to a familiar place. For three or four years, we had attended a family camp each Spring and Autumn. In the midst of caring for my mother in the last two years of her life, I isolated myself there. I went to create home base for my children and solitude for myself. Then in the aftermath of my mother's death, being there felt like more of a burden for me. My children were adults by this time and they took themselves there, forging their friendships, finding love.
It is where my Noah fell in love with his Atlas.
When Noah died, this community which belonged more to my children than to me, offered me solace and comfort, with their memories and their love. Many of them came to our gathering to honor and remember Noah.
It felt right to return. I wanted to be in this place that was his place. I wanted to walk those roads and paths. And I did. I felt Noah there stronger than I had in some time. There was a remembrance in the land that showed up so strongly, reminding me where he had walked, where he had gathered with his friends. I held his spirit close to me.
Sometimes, now I feel like I am merely living a reflection of my life. It is clouded and shadowed from the grief that constantly lurks below the surface. It is intangible, non-existent, a facade. I am going through the motions, doing what needs to be done, and checking things off a list. Each day I mark as another first day without Noah in the world, another week, another month. I write these words and they sound so bleak, hopeless, unmotivated. Yeah. I feel that way sometimes. Not all the time. But sometimes.
I think I do believe that if I wake up each day and go through through the motions, reaching for some semblance of living well, that eventually I will step into alignment with something, with whatever exists above the surface, with something of substance.