Grief doesn’t have a plot. It isn’t smooth. There is no beginning and middle and end.
I read through this slim volume in an afternoon, which is a rare example of reading focus for me, but – beautifully written – this is the sort of exploration of grief that captivates me>>The grief of a mother – surviving the unimaginable loss of a child and finding words to tell about it…..offers a remarkable window into the ways we find to go on living.
“But I will not tell you how long or short the way will be; only that it lies across a river. But do not fear that, for I am the great Bridge Builder.”
For now they saw something not only behind the wave but behind the sun. They could not have seen even the sun if their eyes had not been strengthened by the water of the Last Sea. But now they could look at the rising sun and see it clearly and see things beyond it. What they saw — eastward, beyond the sun — was a range of mountains. It was so high that either they never saw the top of it or they forgot it. None of them remembers seeing any sky in that direction. And the mountains must really have been outside the world. For any mountains even a quarter of a twentieth of that height ought to have had ice and snow on them. But these were warm and green and full of forests and waterfalls however high you looked. And suddenly there came a breeze from the east, tossing the top of the wave into foamy shapes and ruffling the smooth water all round them. It lasted only a second or so but what it brought them in that second none of those three children will ever forget. It brought both a smell and a sound, a musical sound. Edmund and Eustace would never talk about it afterward. Lucy could only say, “It would break your heart.” “Why,” said I, “was it so sad?” “Sad!! No,” said Lucy.
No one in that boat doubted that they were seeing beyond the End of the World into Aslan’s country.
Last weekend I snapped this picture with my phone and uploaded it to Facebook: “Awesome way to start the day.”
It was 10:30 on a blue-sky Saturday morning in Anchorage, Alaska. While the boys skied with their jr nordic peers, David and I headed out on the trails ourselves. Indeed, it was an awesome way to start the day.
In November 2011 when David first asked what I thought of his opportunity to move us to Anchorage for a 2-3 year work project I supported the idea with little hesitation. In spite of the huge disruption to our family’s routines and place in our community, I sensed that it would be a good move. The right move. But as the actual transition dragged from weeks into months and the details began to include unforeseen changes like selling our house and leaving our puppy, I began to lose my will to stay on the path. More than leaving our puppy, the move meant I was leaving my place in community. And I didn’t want to.
I often feel like I’ve been yanked around too much as I’ve tried to find purpose and place for my life. It’s been a frustrating, confusing road since that car accident claimed my teaching career. To be fair, I’ve had remarkable opportunities along the way. I’ve discovered creative talents I didn’t know I had, and I’ve learned many new skills to implement the designs and tell the stories. I’ve been twice to Africa and fallen in love with the land and its people. But this stretch of the journey has been long. And this stretch of the journey has been hard. And it has always smacked of Plan B.
This past October I read Cheryl Strayed’s memoir, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail. She sorts her life story as she navigates the physical journey of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. Reflecting on the journey with words that jumped out of her book and screamed truth to me, she says, “As difficult and maddening as the trail could be there was hardly a day that passed that didn’t offer up some form of what was called Trail Magic in the PCT vernacular. The unexpected and sweet happenings that stand out in stark relief to the challenges of the trail.”
I often look out my great big windows at the expanse of sky and water and mountains and I feel small and mixed up. In many ways it feels like I’ve been cut loose from some of my anchors. Granted, my friends and family stay connected via Skype and facebook and phone. Sometimes that holds me together when I need it most. But I’m struggling to find my way here in this place that is so similar yet so dissimilar from anything I’ve known before. I am grateful for abundant Trail Magic.
As David and I skied on down the trail last Saturday morning we stopped when we saw a moose off the path having breakfast in the trees. 
We weren’t at the zoo. We weren’t in the wilderness. We were skiing trails in town, less than 15 minutes from home. I call it #alaskamagic and it is sweet. I make a point of watching for it.