My new hometown
The summer of 2022, despite the lingering light and heat, was my longest winter on record, drawn out in darkness and cold.
I often wonder if you planned it this way, the extra blanket of heat to wrap my brittle bones. The sunlit stretched days and tender nightfall in the bleakest of winter months. The inward movement and desire for retreat and solitude, the need for rest and recovery abundant.
It has been over a year since you left this earth, and my inner and outer landscape has drastically shifted.
It has been startling and lonely, yet I am not as scared and alone as I once felt. It has been without a point but profoundly purposeful.
I am learning to route this new land without former navigation, yet somehow, I feel connected, attuned, and meaningfully prepared.
The moods of my inner terrain trade and transform frequently. The climate has been swift, severe, and skeptical, yet slow, simple, and stable. The days are still silent and unhurried, activity conscious and intentional, and need and priority for rest rich.
My emotions ebb and flow and shift like waves and tides of the sea. Some days are tougher and more challenging, and others are easier and uncomplicated.
You may not recognize who I am becoming, or the background we once lived in, but something tells me you are already acquainted and approve.
There are no longer empty Amazon delivery boxes on the floor for you to hide and seek and no bags to crunch and crawl. The corner where your scratching post and desired napping spot stood now has a potted plant resting tall, which oddly died the summer you did and beautifully came to life again.
There are no more visits to your home and bedside or conversations on the phone. My inbox is empty of your correspondence, texts are hollow of your words, and my voicemail and saved messages stationary since 2020 are void of your voice today.
A presence, once solid and sincere, is missing. A company and influence so loving, tried, and true, yet impact unique to each no longer exists.
The places and people in my community remain, yet shifted, and I have lost there too. Grief comes with a contingency, death is hard and uncomfortable, and few hold the space and skill to be with the heartbroken.
I am learning to carry the discomfort of my broken heart - the more I feel, the more I heal.
With each tear, I mend, and my generosity, capacity, and skill to hold space for pain and suffering shifts and swells. The less I resist and suppress, the softer and lighter I become, and the lens through which I view sorrow shifts, and life becomes more delicate and brighter.
The days turn into nights, and the nights turn into mornings and days again, and for me, I am grateful that they repeat. The trees and morning songbirds still call to one another. Time marches on, but what forever has changed will never go back.
In the quiet of the morning, when I first wake, I see you in the sky, the vast blue morning mist in the landscape of my love. I imagine my new hometown is where I will take you.
The narrow road to the land where my two-story bungalow sits has plenty of bends and shadows. I know the way well and could drive with eyes shut though I do not dare.
We arrive at the end of the road, astonished to see the beauty and uncertain ways of nature: a vast shoreline soaring with salty seagulls, waves crashing and succeeding, the circling of the sun, and the rising of the moon.
The hometown is charming, just as I like, painted with past and prettiness, simple and satisfying—a community where everyone knows your name and is glad to see you.
The town sits on a single street. There is a butcher shop that sells meat from local farms. A coffee café with delicious roasts and homespun baked goods. A co-op and natural food market with local produce, arts, and crafts to receive and give, with layers of fragrant bright bouquets hand-picked from the hands who raised them with love. A bookstore that smells of dust and used hardbacks by Mary Oliver, Walt Whitman, and Oscar Wilde that line the worn wooden bookshelves.
We gather around a bonfire just on the outskirts of town. We drink hot tea and warm our fingers and feet with the flames and honest conversation. We grieve in the intimacy of our shared stories of love and loss and weep in wonder and delight. We heal, listen to our soul's wisdom, and revere the earth and all She provides. It is an ancient ceremony beyond time, a sacred ritual, and a place where we belong.
Back on the homestead, we relax on the wraparound porch, savoring ripe watermelon and a big bowl of berries hand-picked from the garden. We sip cool iced tea and indulge in fresh sourdough bread sliced to perfection, layered with soft goat cheese and sticky honey spread.
Me on the front porch swing, and you two on the oversized chairs plentiful in pillow and pad, we meet magnificent hues and collections of color: opposing olives, creamy chocolates, stunning sapphires, buttery yellows, light lavenders, and rosy reds.
The sun lights up the sky with its ginger glow as we sit silently in the comfort of our company. We share a gesture of exchange - a laugh, a wink, a shy glance - between naps and chapters from our beloved books.
We bathe on long luxurious days with no place to go and nothing more important to do. We saturate in simplicity and appreciation for uncomplicated love. We welcome the winds and renewed taste of change and the magical nature of which it unfolds and uncovers, taking our breath away.
There, on the front porch of my heart, is where we will always be in the landscape of our love.
Prompt
When someone you love dies, the world you once lived in is entirely new.
The landscape is entirely shifted and changed. It's not the same place before death entered your life and home. Seasons change the landscape, and familiar landmarks come and go. How you connect with the place around you has changed, which also changes the place itself.
Imagine writing a letter to the one you've lost.
What would you show them in your new "home" town?
You can use my piece as inspiration and structure as your springboard for writing.
· Which landmarks would you show?
· What are the most notable features?
· Are there new historic sites?
It can be a real place, a place you haven't been yet, or even a place you make up.
Loss comes in many forms: relationships, jobs, health, humans, beloved pet companions, etc. This prompt can be used interchangeably. Remember, there is never a ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ way to do it.
If you are grieving, I am sorry for your loss. May my stories and prompts offer a safe space to be with your inner landscape and a reminder that you are not alone.
Grab a pen and paper or your favorite journal. Set your timer. Write for 15 minutes, pen never leaving the page. See what words flow.
I would love to hear about your journey and experience with the prompts and process of flow writing. Hit *reply* to share or *click* and leave a comment!