Farewell to 2014

“Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And auld lang syne? …

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,

And surely I'll be mine!

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne…

We twa hae run about the braes,

And pu'd the gowans fine;

But we've wandered mony a weary fit

Sin' auld lang syne…

We twa hae paidled i' the burn,

Frae morning sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roared

Sin' auld lang syne…

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,

And gie's a hand o' thine!

And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.”

-Robert Frost

Bidding farewell to the most difficult year of my life is bittersweet. Almost one year ago, I could barely fathom how I would make it through the year, believing my heart would implode with grief. I am both grateful at the idea of ringing in a new season of life (a muddled combination of sadness and thriving in spite of the circumstances) and greatly saddened that I am letting go of the last year that Chris was a part of this (my) world, however briefly.

Instead of ushering in the hope of a new year, the season now stands as a reminder of the age Chris will never be. Each first of January will be another birthday he never reached. Nearly a year ago, the thought of observing the day was incomprehensible. But the day has come and gone, and I am still standing.

One of the greatest pieces of advice someone gave me was to not attach too much expectation to any given day or event. Don’t assign emotions to something that has yet to transpire. Chris inherently knew how to do this—I had to go through therapy and the grieving process to learn it. Even now, almost a year later, it’s still a day by day process in learning to be gracious toward myself and the way that I am grieving.

 Rather than create a day of sorrow for myself, I sought moments that made me feel connected to Chris—things he would have done. I ran a race that morning. And got lost. A feat Chris managed years earlier in his cross-country days. The moment I realized I had run the wrong direction (4 miles into what was supposed to be a 5k), I could only laugh and think of Chris.

I reveled at the snow that kept me from driving out to the cemetery that day. Snow has become one of the ways I feel Chris. It snowed at his funeral. It snowed every time I visited Colorado before I moved. It snowed on Veteran’s Day, on Christmas. It snowed the day I left for my marathon, when I longed the most for his encouragement. And it snowed on his birthday.

I drank a craft beer with his best friend and his wife that evening in honor of Chris. My own cup of kindness raised to the person who continues to inspire the best in me.

I am not certain what 2015 will hold. I am not holding any expectation other than to give it my best, grounded in the knowledge that I am just one of many people I know who have survived one of the most challenging and demanding years of our lives. Like a bad romance, we had our moment 2014, but I am glad to see you go.