As soon as I landed at DIA the other night, a whole new wave of grief washed over me. Front and center again. Everywhere I go reminds me of you; there is always a connection. I am trying to shift from sometimes feeling anxious/sad/overwhelmed when I think of you to rather holding onto the good. A friend shared with me today a passage from a poem written by Mary Oliver, and I thought you would just love it:
maybe death isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
So I'm trying to shift from the darkness and instead hold onto the light you created in this world, the light that shines within all of us who love you. I know it will take time, but I know it will happen.
Beth and I took another snow hike today. At one point we sat down on the snow in a clearing of trees and talked about you. Suddenly Beth said, "By now, if Taige were here, he'd have made a bunch of snowballs and thrown them at us! SOS!" Later on we walked by a lone pine tree whose needles were just perfectly covered in snow; it had collected on them at an angle due to the direction of the wind. It was so beautiful! We felt your presence there today. We saw your light.
So keep it coming, Taige. Lots of love.