Traveling Shoes

It’s spring; the season when Bruce died. It’s also the season when the earth does her best to show us signs of new life as everything seems to wake up at once. The cherry, tulip, and magnolia trees are BLOOMING! Daffodils wave from the sides of the streets. It’s magnificent (unless you have allergies and then it’s also miserable, still magnificent, but also miserable. Sorry, Robby, who has pretty terrible springtime woes in this way.)

I am back from my Winter Retreat (see previous post) and decided I would share what I wrote each day I was away for this day’s post. It really was a much needed time apart and I’m grateful beyond measure for the beloveds who made it possible. If you ever get the chance to spend some time in Astoria, Oregon - I recommend it.

March 17, 2026 | St. Patrick’s Day

I left Olympia in steady rain, pointed the car south and headed for water. I don’t know when I realized I was weeping, but when I did, I cried even harder. Eventually, what I would describe as “active crying” stopped and for the next hour, the tears just coursed down my cheeks. It was as though they were bottled up inside and something had uncorked them when I left home.

They felt like sorrow. Loss. Grief. Because of course, that’s what they were. I was headed into time apart because that’s the only place where I can experience the fullness of both the loss and the grief and who I am now.

My arrival in Astoria was just in time for a late lunch at a delightful deli. The kind that smells like Italy. And the man behind the counter complimented the green scarf I was wearing. My Beloved brought it back from Ethiopia for me, I wanted to say. He’s dead now, I wanted to add. And I’m here without him and can I have a bowl of soup, I wanted to conclude. Thank you, I said, instead.

The bookstore was closed without explanation today. The sign in the window indicated they are usually open all day, but the other sign announced CLOSED. I went for an ice cream cone instead.

The view from my room is breathtaking - water and the very high bridge and mist and so many sea birds. Bruce would have loved it here, but he wouldn’t have been able to sit still. He would have grabbed his camera and headed out for the perfect shot. I brought a little bit of him with me - Earth Funeral gave me some small containers of his soil. He’s sitting in the windowsill, next to the binoculars.

Enjoy the view, my love.

March 18, 2026

The plan for today….wait. There is no plan! Read a little. Write a little. Nap. Enjoy the view. Massage.

How today went. Read a little. Write a little. Nap a LOT. Chat with a friend for an hour. Massage. Nap some more.

My whole body feels drained. As though when I arrived here and stopped thinking about all of the things that have held my heart and mind captive, every ounce of energy left my body and and I just….snoozed. It was perfect. It wasn’t a hard sleep, where I wake up disoriented. It was a soothing sleep. But it was so constant that I started to wonder if I was coming down with something.

And I think I am. Burnout feels like a likely candidate.

I also watched BIG boats come by my window. By that I mean, cargo ships. That was cool. The hotel has a list of which ships are scheduled to come through and when, but I let them sneak up on me instead. It was more fun that way.

At dinner in the hotel’s lovely bar/bistro area, I met the loveliest couple! Ruthie and John from Poulsbo. And, of course, it turned out they are active in their ELCA congregation in Silverdale. The same congregation whose women’s retreat I led last month. We had a delightful conversation over dinner and it really was just a joy to hear their story.

Then it was back to the room for a bath in the generous claw foot tub, some more reading, and early lights out.

March 19, 2026

It was the day to return home and it was still rainy and grey. As I thought about the drive back to Olympia, I thought about the drive down to Astoria two days prior. On I-5 with semi trucks and other driven, distracted, determined-to-arrive-on-time people. No thanks. I’ll take the back way, along the coast and on the winding, two lane roads. Ten minutes longer said my navigation app. Who cares? I replied.

And it was a lovely drive, in spite of the rain and the grey. Maybe even because of it. (I was super thankful for the new tires I’d just put on the car, though).

Still, in order to drive this route, I had to first go over the very tall bridge I’d been looking at

out my window this whole trip. It was a conscious choice, even though I’m not a fan of heights. And I was fine, although my heart raced a bit because of the rain and slick pavement….couldn’t we all just slide right off?

Grief is not unlike that tall, seemingly tenuous bridge. There’s another way - we can choose to go around. But going over, doing the hard thing, digging in and going through the path is really the only way we learn how to do it again with each new day. We don’t get to some magical ‘other side’ of our grief. We simply learn, over and over again, like a car retracing the route, what it looks like to let the hard places be the hard places. And the thing is, I’ve driven over that bridge before - recently, in fact. I know how precarious it feels. Grief is like that, too. Eventually we know how it feels. How it looks. How our stomachs are in our throats and our hearts pound when we’re moving through it. Over it. With it.

As good as it was to be away (and it really was) there is something about returning home after that kind of deep rest that brings my wandering heart and traveling feet back to center. Where I belong.