July 29th, 2024
Dear reader,
First off: thanks to the many who hit reply on the newsletter I spun out last month (016 — Life and Death and Tomorrow). In my overwhelm I didn’t write back to each of you, but know that I read every word and they were much appreciated.
From all the responses, it is clear that I’m not alone in feeling grief right now. I find a hidden hope in that - because within grief there is always caring, and that’s a good thing. I’ve been signing emails off lately with, “Take care,” and it’s absolutely intentional.
But there is also the tandem task of moving on. Nat’s unexpected passing hit me like a ton of bricks at a strange time. I had just returned from a whirlwind trip to Europe - my first at that. It was a FULL experience, with nigh a chance to write at all between the people and places vying for the limited and nonrenewable resource that is “David”. Upon finding myself a week behind in my journaling, it was clear a new strategy was needed. Cue a pivot to merely jotting a few notes down each evening before passing out...murmuring an exhausted promise to myself, “There will be time aplenty to flush these thoughts out after I return home.”
That didn’t happen for obvious reasons.
Now, I reach for memories, photos, and unpacked gear that were hastily pushed into an underutilized corner of my office.
This is the inside cover of my journal - a mess of ink on old school paper made from TREES (look it up, kids). Notice the marred edges, despite the leather case that was protecting it.
Tramping along the West Highland Way, we got stuck in what the weather forecast dubbed “a deteriorating situation.” This translated to three days of unrelenting rain that found it’s way through all the layers of waterproofing to bone and paper, drip by steady drip. Knowing that this is happening with no shelter whatsoever does make one question the sense of penning something important to a fragile sheet that inherently has no backup, but there’s something about the tactile approach that lets me digest experience at a more human pace. I question this sense once again come evening time, when hanging up the pages to dry.
But I digress.
The inside cover of my journal charts 34 days away from home in Europe (roughly: Winnipeg → London → Scotland → Portugal → Azores → Winnipeg). Each bubble is a place I slept at least one night, and the arrows point the path forward through time.
I flip the page and turn my gaze backward, to that which now feels like a dream.
Ah expectations. Plans naturally beget them. Heck, initial plans flow out of them.
After months of planning, I’m finally sitting in a plane waiting to depart. Of course a spring snowstorm is edging over us, so it is a bleak scene as I stare out the at a crew de-icing our metal wings.
A text comes in from a friend; a jest, “Ask them for an extra blanket. You don’t need to use it, but it’s your right to have it.”
“Already done,” I shoot a message back. “Only replace BLANKET with WHEELCHAIR in that statement.”
My left knee is buggered and walking is...unstable. It’s an issue that has been flaring up for two months and physio has been unable to get at its root. I’m on self-diagnosis #4b and I think the issue is IT Band Syndrome - a painful problem usually reserved for elite athletes, but also prevalent in us normals when bad form gets involved. I walk everywhere and it was an epically icy winter in Winnipeg, so...maybe?
Whatever the case, I cannot currently walk due to a fiery pain lighting up every step. An airport staff member spotted my limp at the check-kiosk and surprised me with a wheelchair after I dropped my bag, going so far as to usher me through security and to the departure gate. An auspicious start alongside what’s proving to be an open-ended question mark.
There is a little girl on board - two rows behind me and across the aisle.
“We’re on a plane!” Little Girl exclaims loudly to everyone.
Her parental guardian swivels to EVERYONE
smiling towards them. “I’m so sorry,” they say. “We were hoping she’d sleep.”
The engine begins to roar and I’m pressed into the back of my seat.
“We’re in the air!!” an exclamation comes from behind me with a giggle.
“We’re in the sky!!!” proclaims our self-appointed announcer, reminding the rest of us adults of what we take for granted.
Wisdom from the mouth of babes. Also, screams on the descent.
We touch down at the stroke of noon in London, but my internal clock chimes a discordant 6 AM. It was a long night and my leg has stiffened up sorely.
With hiking poles as my aids, I funnel into the mass of people, through the Tube, and up four flights to our room at the top of a walkup. I drop my bag and seek coffee.
The next four days blur into one another; oriented by coffee and croissants, disoriented by density and history. Rise and mobilize the body...coffee, food, parks...people, museums, landmarks...the city swirls.
What was planned to be space to deal with jet lag has turned into leg rehab with tentative starts and forced halts. London is a wonderful city, but its frenetic pace doesn’t match what I’m capable of right now.
Scotland and an ambitious itinerary looms as I find myself at King’s Cross Station, waiting to board a train to the north.
Note: This is newsletter 1 of 3 that I’m going to be sending out over the next month or so, vignettes to set up a couple dives into deeper ideas that arose in Scotland and Portugal. Good things take time. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy.