Slack Tide
Email sent 3.10.2025 | 2 years 3 months
SLACK TIDE is the short period in a body of tidal water when the water is completely unstressed, and there is no movement either way in the tidal stream. It occurs before the direction of the tidal stream reverses.
I wrote these 2 words in my notes recently, not sure what my intention is for them, I still don’t. All I know is these days I am quietly, definitively steeped in it. The still waters of the slack tide, pregnant with the coming and the going’s of it all. Cautiously present and quietly waiting. Purposefully not absorbing the absolute global armageddon brewing outside our doors. Haven’t we all endured enough already?
My slack tide is a place I have been pining to be, in hopes that I would find some ripples of soul saving insight in here. Will the white robed lightning bolts of clarity make its grand and prophetic entrance? Probably not. Although I have to admit that would be impossibly cool and welcomed. This feels like a simpler place where our grief can breathe for a minute and potentially take on a new and softened light, where we can make room for the slow tide to seep its way in and out.
Scary as all this quiet is, clearing the clutter to find the peaceful conduits with Miles, seems quite logical and somehow weirdly indulgent. This shift from chaos to quiet is reminiscent of the times when I had young babies who inevitably became sick and their only remedy was to be held. My only maternal answer was to drop everything to sit with my sweaty, groggy, hot cheeked Benedryl babes, locked in my arms until the fever passed. Their warm faces held still and melted against my willing chest. It was a strange feeling to be happy that my child was fevered and quiet. Sentiments not to be readily admitted aloud unless in the right audience. But in those hours of holding, I wasn’t just able to be still and locked together, I was also steeped in the unintended white space of healing.
Last week, it was in the slack stillness of a quiet morning that I mustered the gumption to finally listen to this recorded interview with Miles. We hadn't known about this recording until after his accident. It was sent to us in our early hazy days of his loss. I had read and shared some of the transcript and was aware that it was charged with meaning, just not ready to hear his gorgeous voice until now.
This recording is now almost 8 years old yet you can hear and feel the timelessness in it. As miracles go, his thoughtful camp counselor saved it after all this time. Our gratitude to possess such beautiful evidence of our child is immeasurable. It was recorded in the calm summer air as part of a project at Cottonwood Gulch Camp in Albuquerque, New Mexico. If you can take a moment for the 12 minute listen, I promise it’s worthwhile to stick with it until the end.
Affectionately renamed Mount “humble” for the remainder of the summer, the young Miles in this recording, who to me (his unabashed supermom champion in life and spirit) sounds a lot closer to Buddha speak than I would have been at a summer camp. My teen years were spent 100% focused on chasing boys and embracing all the tedious details involved in being very good at it. So many frogs, so little time. But not Miles. He was busied in other ways. Calmly sorting the pearls of the human experience balanced against the grandeur of mind altering nature. Removed from technology and chaos, sleeping on the hard earth, while admitting he is but a speck on the horizon of this majestic universe. Seriously?
Did we know such a tender and brilliant boy existed in him when we put him on the plane to New Mexico? Sure. Were we equally exasperated, exhausted and confused as to why he was torturing us with his out of conrol behavior? Absolutely. His teenage bullet train, led by his own anxiety, hormones, thrill seeking and self doubt consistently and regularly clunked off the tracks, despite the amount of unwavering and loving support.
Teenage Miles, according to his inches thick files at school, and the back room whispers amongst those who like to whisper, was most definitely labeled in ways unsavory. In all fairness, by the age of 17 Miles had an arrest under his belt for stealing Whole Foods hot bar snacks for his stoner party, harbored an obsession with mind altering drugs without preference of appropriate timing, had run away from home which led to a 5150 and a 72 hr stint in St Mary’s psych ward, didn’t have his license or any future plans typical of a kid this age. He was officially failing every class except dance and maybe an English class that allowed a heavier weight for oral reports. He couldn't remember to tie his shoes, zip his fly and lost track of everything equally, no matter its level of importance.
This is what learning disabilities can look like when they are making their way through the hormonal infused pipelines of a high schooler in an antiquated system. Tender development be damned.
But of all the things that we didn't know, we did know he needed to be uncluttered and removed so he could see and feel his own super powers again. For three summers he went willingly to the careful hands and thin air of high elevation wilderness to find his white space. Best we didn’t let his soft layers of development become a hardened nacre due to exposure of his self expressed failures.
I share Miles’ worst moments because his best are glaringly easy to access and speak to. Not long after that summer, Miles felt the same way too.
photo by Evan White
Currently, as I steep in the wilderness of my own kitchen, in the wide open space of quiet. I am looking to Miles to help me make some sense of the world without him and the all encompassing mind and body fuckery left in his wake.
Sitting at my breakfast bar I was driven to make a list of all the things I do know about child loss 2 years in, lest I get lost in the storm of the things I don’t.
My child’s death feels equitable to the physical and mental entrenchment that was warranted at his birth. There is a consistent “always on” ache like the care of a young child, a relationship to be tended to and grown.
The gut punch of “did this really happen to us?” still intermittently sneaks up on me, followed by the thud of knowing it did.
Spending time with others who have experienced loss is a deep seated priority. These visits are not measured in frequency but in quality.
The regret, anger, or any shoulda-coulda’s around Miles’ death still have not made their way to my psyche. I wish this for everyone in our shoes.
His room is almost exactly as he left it and there is comfort in its wholeness.
Time is spent at his altar everyday. Amongst the photos, letters, feathers, seashells and bones of love, there is moving sunlight, rainbows and disco ball reflections which feel like a gift. On our adventures, we collect natural objects of love as gifts back to Miles.
At a sloth’s pace and with a deep appreciation we are making our way through your gorgeous letters of love and understand that this will take years for us to savor.
Art found me again and I learned a new medium. I float when creating in an unexpected and welcomed reprieve.
Although I rarely post on social media these days, it feels good to know that my heartfelt stories don’t reach you while you’re sitting on the toilet. I’ve since moved my personal marketing to emails. (If you’re a toilet emailer that’s your problem) It’s funny that I feel a twinge of guilt about hoarding my vast new collection of sunsets, clouds, art, and travels to myself. (I guess that's my problem)
I secured and then lost a dream job, because my dreams have changed.
Although still exploring what I want to be when I grow up, I do know that power pirates, gossip dredgers and judgie judies are to be carefully avoided. I still cannot process anger like I used to. Mine or others.
My quest for learning continues to be incessant and powerful. Deep diving into the science and spirituality of my newly challenged human existence. I have chomp chomp Pac-Man styled a small sea of books, podcasts, websites all blooming with new information.
Magic moments are experienced regularly which I am quite grateful for. With goosebump happenings, dreams, synchronicities and readings. I understand that not every butterfly is a sign from the other side but it’s the hope that it is that keeps me looking.
I still cannot drink or smell coffee. This physical reaction has proven to be a very difficult and nostalgic break up.
For almost a year I couldn’t wear the color red or silver metal yet I am able to incorporate them now. Still leaning heavily into the color blue.
Unfortunately I do not ingest joy, humor and frivolity the same. These emotions are welcomed but navigating new pathways in my body with roads still under construction.
I still cannot listen to music as I once had. It knows too much.
We are so thankful to have people in our lives who make and share their delicious babies with us.
As a former loud and insatiable extrovert, now I cannot ever seem get enough time alone. This energy did not disappear, it’s just looking for a new outlet.
Although the ache is with me daily, the edges have softened. The pain sits like a stone in my pocket. Worn smooth and layered with the oils of my constantly caressing hands.
David, Iz and I are so thankful that we have been able to live together to learn how to be a family of three for 2 saturated years. Izzy moved out this week and we have embarked on learning some more.
I cry everyday
That last line is a doozy and makes me cry just reading it so you’d think I’d refrain from writing it. But the truth is what it is. This life is a fine balance of remaining gracefully alive under the weight of the unbearable, and it just squeezes the juice right out of you. I’d like to make a t-shirt with those words “I cry everyday” with the smallest and squintiest of fonts and I hope you catch me wide mouth laughing while I’m wearing it.
With so much love, deep breaths and white space,
Laura, David, Izzy and Miles
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