Possibilities

Trey would have been 2 years old next month.  And gone from us for almost as long as that.  

What a strange thing to say. 

Time has moved faster and slower, with width and depth that can't be quantified. The passage of time will never stop being as mysterious to me today as it was when I was five years old... trying to meditate on words like: "infinity" and "eternity". Life feels so vast when you're young. I'm sure everyone remembers a moment like that. 

When your child dies (or when anyone profoundly meaningful to you dies), time stands still. You're stuck in a purgatory of sorts. You grasp so tightly on to the time before your life changed forever. Trying to weave it tightly into something digestible-- into something that makes "sense". And since it doesn't, you can become...stuck. You live in the past, almost willing it to become your present. It's only natural to want to reel time backwards to when life was perfect. You become a time traveler of sorts. You can see the memories playing out on the big screen of your mind, remembering when they were right. there. The memories can seem hauntingly real. You can see it, taste it, smell it, but it's not where it "should" be: in front of you. It's a place when everything feels so close, yet so far. 

 You watch the world as it continues spinning (one of the most painful aspects). You feel like a spectator where you were once a major player. I'll never forget mindlessly flipping through the television days after Trey died, and I stumbled on the golf channel. I watched the men strolling the pristine courses in their crisp polo shirts and caddys in tow, and I couldn't believe it. They were playing...golf? But my son just died in my arms... Are they really allowed to do that? Don't they KNOW?! Obviously this seems irrational now, but in that moment my astonishment couldn't have felt more real. 

You watch others participating in a life you're not sure you belong in. And it hurts. It makes you feel lonely, isolated and alienated. It feels unfair. Except this level of "unfair" is more akin to cruel. Inhumane, even. I didn't feel human. I didn't feel like I was living, but instead existing. I was a ghost of myself "living" among the living. 

But then life does its funny little thing that it tends to do, and it just keeps moving. And even stranger than that, you find yourself longing, however slightly and without any clear desire or intention, to be apart of it again. Wishing you could be included, yet terrified to be invited. (Because then, you may actually have to show up.) 

Momentum builds while life gives you a lift...a push, even. It beckons you back in, seemingly overnight. Reminding you that you have not been forgotten and that your exclusion is not necessary. This is both an exciting and terrifying invitation. So you dip your toe in and withdraw. You dip your toe in, and withdraw once more. But before you know it, you're actually "in". You can see the people. You can feel the water. You can see the horizon you whole heartedly believed had long receded. A sliver of hope is found that maybe, just maybe, life is for you.  And then you feel guilty for even going as far as you have in this uncharted territory. How far can I walk towards the light without leaving you behind?  

As even more time passes and the scars of your heart start solidifying into sturdier masses, you ask even bigger questions about the possibilities of your life you never DREAMED you'd ask again. And it feels good... and daunting. And exhilarating. And scary. And at times, riddled with guilt. But you keep walking forward towards this unknown door of possibility. "Hand on the knob, trembling though you may be." 

The moment it takes to grasp that door handle takes just a moment of bravery. That's all that is required. It's almost like walking into your house alone late at night as you dart for the lights hoping "the bad guys" won't get ya. You don't think, you just quickly fumble for the lights with bated breath. That's what it felt like to me to start living again. 

But what I found was more than light. I found the people that had been waiting for me with graceful patience. I found myself feeling excitement about things I didn't even know I was passionate about.( I think my experiences busted open a whole new world of understanding, sensitivity and stamina that I had not had prior to the greatest loss of my life.) I found beauty that was previously unnoticed. In short, I found a spark in my soul again. 

And the guilt I had felt about following the light of truly living in fear of leaving him behind?  It vanished. He was and is the light, I believe. 

In Japan, there is a famous art gallery displaying a beautiful, yet cracked vase with a light fixture behind its display.  It's referred to as the "Wabi Sabi" vase based on the Japanese world view of transience and imperfection. It's a beauty defined as, "imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete." But just like the cracked vase, it is through the cracks of this broken heart that the light is let through. Trey is my light. He is my reason. He is my "why". None of the beautiful things in my life today would be mine if it were not for his light and the "cracks" that I will proudly call mine,  however crooked. However flawed. However broken. 

That's how the light gets through...