On Loss

When I was a little girl, I had the most fantastic bicycle. Perhaps its magical entry into my life -- found parked under the Christmas tree one thrilling December morning -- marked its inevitable role as a cherished and often-remembered part of my childhood. It was pink. And it had a banana seat. And a little white basket with plastic pink & yellow daisies on the front. And sparkling streamers from the ends of the handlebars. -- And my mother had also hung a small horse-shaped Christmas tree ornament from one handlebar, fond as I was of horses at that age.

I loved that bike. In truth, I thought I was pretty hot shit, riding around the neighborhood on my brand new bike. (My dad tended to be thrifty, so almost all our toys were secondhand: pogo sticks with broken springs, jigsaw puzzles that were missing pieces.) 

But, here's the thing: I don't remember what ever happened to that bike. I have to imagine I outgrew it. But it's equally likely it got broken somehow. Or maybe one of my teenage brothers hocked it for some weed (not an implausible scenario).

And also, I don't really remember that it was pink. I think it was pink. I mean, I'm pretty sure. But I can't swear to it. Or, honestly, the banana seat, either. Maybe that was a later bike. 

But I loved that bike. It's safe to say I probably loved that bike then as much as I love my dogs now, which is to say, a lot. Like "I'd throw myself in front of a car to save it" a lot. And, yet, I have no recollection of how or when that bike left my life, or even clear memories regarding specific details about it.

Which leads me to contemplate how the mind processes loss. One moment you have something, and the next you don't. Loss can impact our lives in an infinite number of ways: death, divorce, illness, breach of trust, friends moving away, betrayal, injury, … The list goes on.

At some point, after loss, we must each reach a point where we "move on." It's been almost a year since my divorce, and I'm still not sure what that means, to move on.

There is, of course, action. The actions of moving through life and completing the necessary movements to be perceived by others as a sane and functional human being: grooming, dressing, eating, paying bills. Perhaps even conversing with friends and coworkers. 

A more personal level of action might be one we take in our own private lives: trying to sort the memories (and sometimes actual physical objects) which remind of what we have lost. The amputee who throws away all their left shoes, for instance. Or in my case, all the photos of my married years being packed away for another less vulnerable time -- sometime, in the future. Supposedly.

Maybe it depends on the way you lose a thing that determines (at least in part) how you recover, what your timeline looks like. My parents were sick with Alzheimer's for years before they died from it. My father's death was preceded by several months of illness which our family elected not to treat surgically, as he'd long been unresponsive by that time. In the end, his death was a blessing, and though he is still missed, these four years later, "getting over" his death wasn't nearly as difficult as accepting the previous losses of his intelligence, his wit, his personality. 

My divorce, on the other hand, was abrupt. I was informed in one thirty-four word sentence that my ex-husband was finished with our marriage, when I'd had no advance notification that he was even unhappy. Our marriage was like a murderer accused and convicted, with "no priors."

And so it's taken some time. To "move on." But I finally feel this loss morphing into something that "just was." Not unlike my childhood bicycle, it seems no amount of backward glancing serves to further clarify or explain what happened to it. And, like my bicycle, I have some theories, ideas, recollections --  some more plausible than others. But there's little to no evidence to support these ideas, only the unreliability of memory, distorted by personal perception.

There's a sadness of its own in letting something go. A guilt in "moving on," as if the thing lost never had the value attributed to it in the first place. It seems strange to have a numbness in a place in my heart, in my brain, which previously held buckets & buckets of love and concern and intimacy and joy and friendship … and love. 

Twenty years ago, I had surgery on my knee, and there's still a spot just below the kneecap that has no feeling. The doctor explained the nerve had been severed and might never grow back. It's a small area, maybe a half-inch diameter, but no matter how hard I poke it, I feel nothing. 

Maybe loss is like that: scar tissue. The inability of certain sensations to ever regenerate, leaving behind a persistent "dead spot." And, like that scar tissue, I'm certain if I probed hard & deep enough, I could find pain there again, or maybe create some where none even previously existed. But where's the good in that?

Lying Under Trees: Wasting Time in the Great Outdoors

I spend a lot of time in my head these day. Anyone who follows this blog or who knows me personally knows I've recently been through divorce, the circumstances of which left behind many unanswered (and more than a few unanswerable) questions. Some months ago, I posted an arrogant column boldly declaring my quest for reason amid the storm, over. -- It's funny now to think I ever thought that was true.

Yes, since that column, I have continued to pad the pockets of Jeff Bezos & co., buying self-help book after self-help book. I realized a couple days ago, the book I'm currently studying -- because that's what I do, I study these books; they aren't entertainment, they're the Rosetta stone to the demise of my marriage -- 

-- was written by two comedians. No psychology training whatsoever. 

Nevertheless, I must confess even their layman's approach offered a few viewpoints I'd not previously considered.

And currently, I'm considering a lot of different viewpoints. A lot. The view from inside my head looks a little bit like this:

So sometimes it's a good idea to get out of my head. (Many would argue -- and some brave souls already have -- that the frequency with which that's a "good idea" far exceeds "sometimes.") 

Fortunately, I have dogs. And, though tolerant, they willingly admit they haven't gotten much out of my endless days spent poring through books with titles like, "It's Called a Break-Up Because It's Broken" and "Coming Apart: Why Relationships End." They much prefer my reading Amy Poehler's "Yes, Please." I laugh a lot more and the chapters are short, which means more snacks for them and me, both.

Nevertheless, I try to get out every day for a walk or a run with them. Some years ago, a respected runners' magazine featured an article advising me (as a master's [old] runner) to run only every other day to avoid longterm joint damage. I don't even know if that's still the prevailing theory, but I heard it once and that's good enough excuse for me to take every other day off. I mean, I enjoy running but let's not be ridiculous. (By the way, if that's no longer the prevailing theory, I'll pay you ten bucks to keep it to yourself.)

So on days I don't run, I mostly hike through the woods. All the little nooks & crannies give the dogs the opportunity to feel like the big bad hunters their ancestors were, so they can feel all righteous and supreme when their lying on their double-decker dog beds back in front of the fireplace at home.

"Only double-decker?"

I've also discovered a new indulgence while hiking. It's called "resting."

I've always fancied myself a bit of an athlete, so for me hiking is frequently equated with working out. In general, I prefer to just do my workout straight through, no breaks. In fact, it could be argued I vaguely resent taking fitness classes and being advised by the instructor to take a break & go get a drink of water. Breaks are for wimps! And who needs water? This isn't the Gobi desert!

So, while hiking, I typically only stop long enough to "refuel" (eat), then onward (and, usually around here, upward).

But here's the thing. I enjoy being outdoors. I like the trees -- actually, I love the trees. I tell them so all the time. 

A tree I had a crush on, in Corvallis, Oregon

And the earth. And the snow. And the grass and leaves and mud and streams and wind…. Yeah, I really dig the wind.

So then why don't I just hang out more when I'm hiking? Well, currently, it's because I've got this little professor in my head nagging at me to get back home to my homework. I've got some Very Important Questions that still need answering! And, let's face it, a warm fireplace on a cushy sofa with a warm mug of tea. Well, that's not a bad trade for a little more reading now, is it?

But lately I've been forcing myself to stop and smell the roses. OK, not roses -- maybe hemlock. Or pine. Or clean Alaskan air. Whatever. -- Be Where You Are. My mantra. And currently, my mantra involves me lying under trees, for however long I need to do that.

So, at some point in the hike (usually after I've been out a while), I'll come to a spot that seems especially lovely. A good place for a rest. And I'll do my best to rearrange my gear so I'm less likely to get snow down my neck or in my pants, and I'll just lie back on the snow. And look up.

I prepare to endure the inevitable dog-panic for those first few seconds as the greyhound mix, in particular, simply cannot understand why I would choose to stop moving for even a moment unless I'm injured, so she pounces around my head in some vague CPR-like movements. The husky mix also saunters over just to see if there are snacks involved. When both have satisfied themselves that I am neither dying/dead nor noshing, they quickly find some tiny woodland creatures (real or imaginary) to unleash their Inner Predators upon.

And … I just …. lie there.

I look up at the branches and marvel on their beauty, watching them sway in the breeze. I enjoy the soughing of the wind. I enjoy remembering there is such a word as "soughing." I quietly appreciate not hearing humans or human sound, other than the occasional jingle of one of my dogs' collars.

I let my entire weight press into the earth -- it's solid, it supports me no matter how heavy I try to make myself. -- In Life, I feel sometimes as if I'm always holding my body ready to flee at a moment's notice, never quite entirely relaxing into rest. But the earth has my back, literally in this case, and I can settle down into her with confidence.

Of course, in time, something almost inevitably interrupts the reverie. Usually, it's other humans coming up or down the trail -- I could let them go by & resume my meditation but usually by then the moment has passed; I'm not yet so Zen as to be able to recall it quickly or with grace. -- Sometimes it's the cold of the winter earth creeping up to remind me how vulnerable I am as a human out here in the big bad world and maybe I should just scurry back to my little den in the big city. -- Come to think of it, I may be getting a bit peckish.

So I gather up my belongings, desecrating the moment just long enough to snap a few photos with my phone, and head back to the car, dogs dashing ahead, having been glad for the quiet time at the playground but happy to be once more back on the move.

Meanwhile, I'm learning to embrace a new meaning of being out on the earth -- these days, less treadmill, more chapel.