Movement

In science class (or if your husband is a physics major) you learn that objects tend to remain in a perpetual state of motion. Unless, of course, they encounter an equal and opposite reaction. At which point, at least in my case, the trajectory changes and you start moving along a different course.

Since leaving the United Kingdom in January, I have been in a perpetual state of motion, moving away from all the places I thought I was going. My physical self has metaphorically matched my inward sentiments of feeling unsettled. The saying “home is where your heart is” takes on a new meaning when it feels as though your heart belongs to the ether. In some senses, there is not a need to feel settled. Nothing can truly feel like home in the immediacy of grieving.

That is not to say I am not grateful for the way my family have extended their homes to me over the past few months. I have needed time to understand my direction—to gather momentum for this monumental shift in my life. In the beginning, I needed the closeness to my Stover family. I needed their understanding of Chris, their memories, pieces that drew me close to him. In the shadow of the accident and his funeral, my movements were focused on Chris and needing to keep what is left of him close to me.

As I have gradually accepted his loss (not fully, but in small doses), Michigan provided a place for me to re-center myself for a time. While never the permanent plan, spending time with my family was a safety net for progressing toward rebuilding my own life-- finding a place that could be home on my own terms. To finally reclaim choice for myself.

When your future is literally ripped from the sky, choice, in the short term, becomes irrelevant. Everything I would have chosen following Chris’ death was impossible. If my bargaining and choices were sufficient, I would have traded places with Chris without question. Though I do not wish my suffering on him, I am saddened by all the world lost in him and would gladly do anything to give that back, if I could. But I cannot.

What I am left with now are choices to move in directions that can help me heal and continue his legacy as best I can. 

Schrodie loves his new yard.

Finding a home in Colorado has been a good start in the process of healing my soul. As I scrape ceilings, and paint walls, I feel a sense of responsibility and ownership over my physical space that I know translates into something greater for my spirit. For a time, the raw physical labor of working on the house has been cathartic. I have worked until my hands are throbbing and calloused, feeling both exhausted and satisfied at the end of each day to see some physical evidence of change. A sign that I am making some sort of progress. I have needed that feeling.

In the midst of all this physical transition, I am still overwhelmed in certain moments by the absence of Chris. As I paint, I think of how he would want to do the edging because it was the easiest part. How he would tell me I was better at seeing the places where the paint was too thin, so I should roll. I miss him questioning whether or not the details I am fussing over really matter. Or how deeply he would laugh with me at my ridiculous mistakes (like spraying the carpet with paint). Sometimes I smile when I think of what he might say, or how he must be looking on with laughter. Other times I cry because I miss his presence so much.

In addition to the house, starting my Masters program in Counseling has been another element of movement that has felt very satisfying. It feels good to be actively working toward a new goal that I have set for myself. In Man’s Search for Meaning, Frankl talks about the healing power of transcending our own circumstances to help other people find purpose and meaning in life. Counseling, for me, is the place where I can integrate Chris’ legacy of positivity and service with my own strengths, experiences and journey towards healing. It is humbling thing to realize you are not the only person to suffer, and that your suffering may pale in comparison to many others. My pain helps me understand the helping relationship in a new light, and is something that I believe will make me an effective counselor.

My own healing process is still there. The move to Colorado, starting school are all physical movements I am making, but the emotional journey is the most significant. For me, moving to Colorado has forced me to acknowledge that Chris is never coming back. He is the one waiting for me to come “home” this time. Here, I face creating a new life that is shaped by our love and experiences together, as well as the tragedy of our parting. Here, I visit his grave because it is my strongest physical proof that he is gone. At his grave, I cannot pretend this is just another deployment.

Moving here has also brought me closer to the parts of Chris I wish to hold closest to my heart. Cool mornings, copious running trails and mountain air all draw me into the positivity I felt with Chris. I am motivated to be the person he would be proud of. That is the strongest factor in my emotional healing process. 

My move and my new physical environment seem to reflect the progress I am making internally. As much as I wish I could see immediate results, it takes time to craft a new space the right way. Cutting corners will not grant me the results I desire. I cannot rush the process. I can only make choices to prioritize manage projects one at a time. I must seek help when I need it and recognize my limitations (new flooring being one of those limitations). I also have to trust that over time, with some intentional work and dedication interspersed with periods of rest, the house will come to the place I would like it to be. Like the house, my heart is moving in the right direction. That path is not as clearly defined, but I know I am making progress as best I can.

Woody and Schrodie, pre-furniture arrival.