It’s Only Water
Email sent 8.11.24 | 1 year, 8 months, 1 day
Hello Beautiful ones,
The sunshine is here, we’re off visiting friends and family. We’re boating, swimming, catching sunsets and moonrises and are dedicated to looking to the light during this cycle of hope and grief. Through the slow moving calendar and long days, trying our best to ignore the clouds darkened with weather, lurking just out of view. Acting as a gentle reminder that our hardest work is yet to come. Admittedly this stretch has been a hard one and I’ll be damned, if we aren't trying. So if you’re feeling light in the heart, consider this my honest summer storm warning and I’d recommend filing these words for another day.
Raising Miles, water was his safe place. As a child, he would take a piece of grass and snakey swirl it through his water table, demonstrating that getting lost in thought was medicine. As a toddler his screaming brain was addled with confusion as to how the world works, at times his only pacifier was hours of watching David Attenborough's Season of The Seas. The movement of the waves and sea life, seals and fishies, the water and the water and the water and the water. We blew the dust off of those old VCR tapes in the early days after his accident and watched together as a family under blankets. We also were confused as to how the world works and wrapped ourselves in the sound of the waves and Mr. Attenborough's voice.
Swimming with turtles, the water of the Yuba River, the Pacific ocean, fishing with his dad and friends in Sausalito, drinking of the sea with endless oysters. The spring that percolates under our home on Spring street where Miles was raised, my parting vision of him on the back porch in the water of our outdoor shower. He danced like water. His body undulating like sea grass. He sang with liquid words. His love flowed with intention like a river to the sea. How we all wore blue for his Celebration of Life, and we walked together like a backwards stream to the top of the hill to hear songs to the universe in honor of our boy. The water of the swollen stream behind the reflection barn where everyone gathered to drink from the story of Miles’ life.
A handful of months ago my Ma called in a panic. Her roof was leaking. The rain had traveled through the organs of her home and was spilling into the basement. The ceiling was crying, Ma was crying mad. It was the worst thing that can happen when you’re living alone, you’re a homeowner and you don’t know what the hell to do. I could hear the panic in her voice about to bust. The panic in mine because I live so far away. My brain immediately kicked into the duality of it all. I interrupted our collective panic with “Mom. Mom. Mom…It’s only water”. And the two of us stopped in our tracks. The emotional frenzy recalibrated. It’s only water. The drought, the floods, the pool party, the glass with dinner, the warm swimmable river, the soaked sleek pavement, the leak in the roof, it’s only water.
Conceived and raised in the womb of water and yet it was the water that took him away. The 2022 winter rains came with much anticipation after years of devastating drought. The streets slick with an invite to lose control. The winter of 2022, drought breaking rains that saturated our parched western soil and re-filled our reservoirs during an End of Times, Chapter One episode of our current climate. It was so dangerously parched our baths were guilty secrets not to be shared with our dry lawned neighbors. Yet now, the stuff seems to be everywhere.. The boats are back in town and the gardens are bursting, the fear of drought settled. The abundant water is everywhere yet I am drowning while parched at the mercy of this powerful stuff.
We are 19 months in and counting. For us, December 2022 is only yesterday. Recently, on two separate occasions, I had an opportunity to meet newly bereaved parents. The very people who have the same softened despair in their demeanor and stories behind their eyes. My people! On both occasions there was an immediate desire to run headstrong, straight to the familiar unspoken. To whisper scream all the questions and statements I know we share. But, where do you even start? “How long ago was your yesterday?” “Oh nice to meet you, now hold me and let’s lay down in this dirt so we can whimper together. Here’s my number for our 3 am call, just planning ahead while we’re at it”
Too much to say, too many horrors to share, so instead we’ll pivot quickly to smiles and laughter and what’s on the menu today. We see each other now. On both occasions we knew emphatically one thing. The second year is worse than the first. The shock has found its resting place and is now busy calcifying in our bones. We live in a shared world where each daybreak is a morning roulette of complex emotions. With great intent we are ready to rise and try our best to jump in. Try our best to ignore these cement filled shoes. We welcome the collective hope from our loved ones, community and places of work because we also hope that we are “doing better”. That somehow this loss is something we can make our way past.
Grief, do you even go here? How does this even work? And who the hell told you my door was unlocked? Isn't it time for your horrors to retreat back to the shadows from whence you came? But we’ve learned it is in the shadows that we bereaved now live. This is our place amongst the moss and mushrooms and decaying leaves. We will come out and enjoy the sun, the company, the food, the wine and then back to dusk we rest and connect. In the messy underbelly we feed the soil for new growth. Hibernating in the places where we can hope to find our children and we connect with the spirits of our newly altered lives. Don't get me wrong, our joy is tenderly and genuinely cradled by the sunshine and laughter of your company. We are so very happy to be invited and uplifted each day as we incrementally inch to the next. Sometimes we’re even fucking funny. Happiness has a place in our worlds, it's just with a new and complex map and attached to a larger pendulum. Ah, the weight of water in those sunny day clouds.
Our May moment of joy was when our gorgeous Cherry Valley community came together to honor the best of all of our children with a nature trail work day and tree planting in the name of Miles and Georgia. This community has fostered a village of love and support that is now proving to be life long. With Izzy and Miles combined, our family spent 12 formative years at this special school. A gifted place where whole child learning reigns supreme, a mentor program kept all ages and abilities finding beauty in one another, and nature programs that remind you to remain tethered to mother earth.
On this special work day, alumni and current parents, students and teachers introduced themselves to one another and in one afternoon we weeded, raked, built stairs and planted trees. Our gratitude for this honor solidified and this school, our history, this day, these people will be forever part of our DNA. Cherry Valley was always instrumental in the growth of our healthy, sparkling and creative children and now is part of their futures in spirit. As these Oaks grow and beckon you to enter the nature trail, we hope the curiosity of new students will connect with nature and feel the history of this love through the wind in the trees.
Georgia’s father Frank captured this beauty while watering Mile’s tree recently.
It was at Cherry Valley where Miles performed on the variety show stage and found his confidence that later transformed to his art. Most importantly it was here that he was convinced that the vibrancy of his beautiful brain would not be confined by it’s unconventional way of learning. Miles had the honor of delivering a speech at his 8th grade graduation which has him bursting with gratitude spoken in words that felt well beyond his years. The young and confident wisdom of knowing he just experienced an extraordinary and formative era in his life, knowing he was about to leave a bit of his comfortable nest behind. I remember him crafting this speech so privately, not allowing for assistance or proofreading. Not even a sneak peek to share with this tenaciously curious mother. He delivered his words for the first time on that stage that evening which had us all learning a thing or two of the importance of dedication, love, confidence, strength and the impact of a proper thank you.
I hope you feel that gratitude from us as it makes its way slowly and methodically to you. We are learning about a level of kindness that has been elevated by the level of our unfathomable pain. A kindness we desperately want to share with others as we gain the understanding that this journey is by no means unique to us. We all have a story to tell if we take the time to ask.
My recent trip to Maine and Newport Folk Fest had me surrounded by the waters of your love and support. Each time I told an honest story I learned of all of yours as well and our cups overflowed together, our collective suffering welcomed the hugs that lasted a little longer. We owe it to one another to allow our forgiveness to rest in easily accessible places, yet all can be graciously demonstrated with laughter and joy at the ready as well. Thank you for opening your nests to this family of broken birds and sticking with us with ease as we ping pong laugh cry our way through our time together. Thank you for saying Miles’ name and listening until the end of our stories about him.
With so much love it’s just gross,
~ Laura, David, Izzy and Miles
PS!
I am updating beautiful Miles’ Soil map regularly, continuing to tweak the visuals and adding stories, pictures and journeys as they come in. Please send your edits if you have them and resend your pictures if I failed to post them. Mostly, have fun exploring!
