Ode to joy

As I turned out the light last night, I said to Sandy, "If there's any way for you to come back, please do. And if you can't, can you at least come for me?" I wasn't any more bereft than I've been many times; I was just missing her and missing us and missing our life together. And if dying meant we could pick up the threads of that life, well, then, I wanted her to pull me towards her.

I slept well, and woke feeling refreshed, more centered. And then I opened the window shade. Warm, brilliant sunlight streamed through the window. The Japanese snowbell, which had been bare just yesterday, was suddenly clothed in tender green leaves. It had recognized spring, and in doing so, declared its intention to continue, its willingness to go on. Looking out the window, I said out loud, "Okay, I admit it. I'm glad I'm still alive."

And I was. At that moment. I wished Sandy were standing at the window with me, but unlike so many other moments in the past months, I was glad my heart didn't stop with hers. And, as Sandy would say, it "didn't suck" to appreciate being alive again. In some ways, it felt like a reconnection with a deeper me, a me who had this feeling freely and often just a year ago. The me who has always embraced life itself, even in the face of pain and injustice.

Cicero said, "Where there is life, there is hope." I've been dwelling on the inverse for so long now: where there is no life, there is no hope. Where Sandy is not alive, I have no hope. In the fourteen months before she died, so much of my hope had been centered on the goal of her healing and living a long, satisfying life. When that hope was gone. . .

Sandy and light go together well, I think. Her experiments
with taking flash photos of herself in the mirror were not
terribly successful, but they make me happy all the same.

But this tree that she and I planted together seems to me to be declaring otherwise. It's a reminder that while Sandy's life was precious, it was not the only life. Life itself is so much broader than any one individual, or couple, or family. The tree budding out shouts "Life!" enthusiastically, and I, in true call-and-response form, automatically shout "Hope!" right back.

Despite her fatigue and pain a year ago, several times in April, May, and even June, I witnessed Sandy spontaneously exclaim, "I have such a good life!" I said it myself, at different times. It struck me then how fortunate we were to be able to appreciate what we had rather than wallow in our misfortune.

I've wallowed — appropriately, I think — for many months now, and I'll wallow some more. The ache doesn't disappear all at once, and Sandy's absence is often more than I can bear. But more and more lately, I'm having these moments of being happy in the moment. Not forgetting all that transpired; the shock of Sandy's death hits harder if I've managed to forget it for several minutes. But moments of holding what happened, honoring the pain I've felt and the tremendous losses, and letting those feelings be bathed in the comforting light of hope and opportunity.

I wondered a few days ago if I'd ever truly feel joy again. I don't remember feeling it since Sandy died. But this morning, there it was. Almost as if it were waving to me. It's a welcome reunion. I've always loved having the sense that I might just burst from the goodness in the world. It had been a long time since I last felt that. And though the joy did not persist beyond the first few hours I was up, and though pain has washed through me multiple times today since that radiant awakening, I know those moments of joy will provide the fuel I need to keep going until the next time.