A different kind of life ever after

My first encounter with an elaborate and overwhelmingly sad memorial was for the death of my father when I was 16. After the pomp and circumstance of a military funeral, he was cremated, and my mother kept his ashes in the cupboard for years waiting for the right place to inter his ashes.

Sometimes she would still get phone calls for him, and she would say, “I’m sorry; he can’t come to the phone right now,” as she glanced over at the door of the cupboard that held his remains. A headstone at a military cemetery in Denver finally became his permanent resting place, and her intent was to be placed beside him after her death.

We did honor her wishes when she passed, but we also kept some of her ashes and gathered as a family at the river she loved to spread them. Months later, my brother and I purchased a stone memorial bench and placed it next to the Poudre River with her name and an inscription that simply said, “She loved this river and this park.”

I thought about that bench as my husband and I hiked parks in the southeastern section of Vancouver Island last week. No matter the park, at every beautiful vista or every serene scene, a bench waited, each with an inscription for someone’s beloved.

I stopped and read who was remembered at every single bench. Some lived many years. Some died very young. All were honored by the words left in their names. As I read through the inscriptions, I realized I was reading about people I probably would have loved had I met them on the trail.

Because people you meet on the trail are never strangers. They smile readily and share easily. Moments of conversation on the trail, however brief, create a micro community where scraps of stories get shared and love flows between with nature the common bond.

We stop and ask directions from a young woman getting a respite as a mom from a busy four-year-old. Before we head on our way again we have learned that she and her husband are expanding their 600 square-foot cabin, but it will not need to be bigger because they do not need to accommodate the child that never made it to birth.

When she points to the direction we need to head, a bench waits there in the forest.

A woman stops to pet our dog on the trail, and we learn about the loss of her beloved dog and hiking companion of 15 years. She tells us that today is the first day that she is able to go out of the house and walk these trails he loved, and she is letting herself be happy at the memory and weep for the loss. And we weep with her.

I glance back at her disappearing form, and at a bend overlooking the river, a bench is waiting.

I can not help but think about the prayer, “May their memory be a blessing.” In the Jewish tradition that means that we focus on how a memory helps us bring warmth, joy, and purpose to the living and calls for a commitment to bring forward the values of the person who died.

All of those ideals live in these benches.

The memories etched on these benches have held those inhaling a shared joy of wild places.

The memories etched on these benches have provided shared respite for those weary in

body or soul and seeking a moment of peace.

The memories etched on these benches have held the shared tears of those with hearts broken from grief and needing comfort.

I did not know a single name on a single bench on a single trail I hiked those seven days. But they became alive to me through our shared love of wilderness places.

Through the words written by family and friends I learned why they were treasured. I learned of their hopes and dreams and what they valued.

And I learned that love is not a static thing buried underground, but a living, breathing, comforting memory – a blessing from generation to generation.

May his memory be a blessing.

The long and winding road…

Only five days separate my neighbor’s birthday and mine. Had we known each other in our youth, we might have gone to kindergarten together and played on the playground. But here we are, meeting each other in our 74th year - she mostly confined to a recliner or bed, and me searching for new hikes every day with my golden retriever.

As we have become friends, I have learned it has been, “a long and winding road,” for us both. We both grew up with mother figures who were less than mothering. We both made choices that were unhealthy, and we both experienced much trauma. Whenever I sit with her, I am struck by the decades long depth of her sadness and anger, and it leaves me wondering what made the difference between her reality now and mine, only five days apart in age.

Perhaps I will never know the truth of it. But, I continue to be haunted by the question.

As I search for the answer, I carry her with me in spirit whenever I head out for an adventure. Today as I hiked, I could feel my aching feet and sore hips and wanted to quit early and go home. But I reminded myself that the only exercise she would get this day was pushing a button to make her recliner go up and down or awkwardly maneuvering her walker around the house. And so, I pushed on.

Small pools came into view below the trail fed by a diminishing waterfall. I hungered to hike down to the banks, but the way was a minefield of tree roots and tangled rocks, and I feared losing my balance and again thought about turning back. My younger self would have bounded down completely confident and unconcerned. But now, staring at the rugged trail, I thought of my neighbor who often strides out without thinking or without using her walker in her rush to be independent, decisions that have resulted in many falls. I did not want to follow in her steps.

Pausing to catch my breath, I pondered what the best decision would be. Should I turn around in order to be safe, or was this task simply needing to be approached with discernment? With some fear and trepidation I chose the latter, and I picked my way down slowly and carefully, making sure that the placement of every foot was secure before moving to the next – that the branch I reached for was in fact attached to a tree.

When I reached the bank, a quiet, overwhelming beauty was the reward for stepping carefully through the fear. As I watched my dog meander through the quiet pools, my first thought was how I wished I could actually share this moment with my neighbor. But I had to settle for stopping by when I got home, and I sat on her bed to show her pictures, hoping for one tiny moment she would get to experience a world different than a mattress in a darkened room.

Perhaps if we had spent years coming to places like this together, her spirit would have been softer, her life more fulfilling. But that time has passed. So now I can only carry her with me as a reminder to cherish every breath and to appreciate every moment of peace found in wild places

because the freedom to move easily through this world is a gift not given to everyone, regardless of their history or circumstance.

A bikini epiphany

Last summer as I walked through the underbrush on a trail down to the river, loud music and boisterous laughter rose from below. Thinking a gathering of teenagers must have overtaken the beach, I was surprised when a raft the size of a small living room floated into view overflowing with women well past their teenage years. In the middle, a woman held court, her full-throated laughter leading the others.

There is a boldness to women who laugh loudly with such abandon - who wrap voluptuous bodies confidently into neon-colored bikinis, unconcerned about lowering their voices or hiding their bodies so as not to be noticed.

I stood there in awe, soaking in the freedom of their wildness, and whenever I encountered them last summer, my heart was filled with unexpected joy.

Now the summer begins again, and today the leader of the bold women was back at the beach. She had staked her claim on the rocky shore, and her presence compelled me towards her to engage in conversation. As she was beginning to stretch out alone on a blanket on the shore, I greeted her and asked about the missing swim dock.

“It belongs to a friend. We will be bringing it out soon…” and then she added in a gravelly voice, raising one arm in the air to wave an imaginary jug,

“It’s our pirate ship. When we float on it, our motto is “t*ts ahoy “

Caught off guard, I burst into laughter and had to keep myself from running over and giving her a full body hug just to say thanks.

Because I think I have been looking for her since birth.

All my life, I have hungered to come into a space and not diminish myself just to avoid drawing negative attention. I have hungered to be comfortable with letting the joy I feel within escape without parameters. I have hungered to not feel I have to stand on this same shore in an oversized grey t-shirt just to feel safe in my own body.

So, yes, I wanted to hug her and say thank you from the deepest reaches of my heart.

Thank you for taking up the space you deserve. Thank you for talking in your “outside voice”. Thank you for taking the part of your body that society objectifies as the focus of male sexual desire and unapologetically claiming it as your own.

Every single time I encounter you on the beach, your mere existence encourages me to claim the space that is my birthright. You exemplify what it means to live with a “t*ts ahoy” attitude, boldly and unapologetically. And you give me hope that maybe someday I, too, even at 74, can live free from the unwritten rules that have shackled me on my own shore.