Oof, my heart.

August 15, 2019

Have you ever laid eyes on something and been quite certain you’ve never seen anything so beautiful? The rational part of the brain tells us that this thought is, of course, not founded in reality. You’ve seen other things equally, if not more, beautiful than what is in front of your eyes at that moment, so it just simply can’t be true. But the soul tells us something entirely different.

There really is no word in this English language that captures this type of feeling, so I used to say, “oof, my heart” when it occurred and you would instantly understand, without further explanation. A silly little phrase written in our own language, but one that had more meaning to us than anything in Webster’s.

I had a pretty major “oof” on a recent trip to New Brunswick. Despite growing up just outside of Boston, I had never been to Canada save a trip to Niagara Falls as a kiddo. Coastlines are hard for me to resist, particularly ones I’ve never explored, and a nine-hour road-trip sounded right up my alley.

Arriving to the cottage in Petit-Rocher-Sud, I was impressed. A cozy little one-bedroom guesthouse, it sat right on the water and next to a pen of enclosed ducks, chickens, and a donkey. Adorable and quaint with views to die for, AND a donkey neighbor?! Perfection.

Just out of frame is my donkey friend…

…he was shy.

I settled in and unpacked, went and said hello to my new animal friends, and decided on a dinner spot called Bistro Coeur d’Artishow. Described by online as a “bistro meets art gallery meets music venue” and that is precisely what I got upon walking in. The walls were covered in eclectic art pieces and the antique light fixtures intermingled with the setting sunshine creating a golden, ethereal glow. the entire place had a quirky, yet warm, atmosphere.

One of the owners, Michele, was breezing around the room; touching base with diners, suggesting dishes, and detailing the specials. He introduced himself as he sat me at a small table, wondering who i would be meeting. upon telling him i was a solo traveler, his face lit up and he insisted on a couple of stories, which I willingly shared. we bonded over our mutual love of wine and he insisted I sample as many as I desired to ensure I selected my favorite. he asked if i was picky, hungry, or famished, as he had food recommendations for all the aforementioned options, all the while smiling and radiating infectious energy. i had him choose my dinner, the famished option, which ended up being a buddha bowl of sorts with lots of fresh, seasonal goodies. His engagement was so warm, so welcoming, familial. He even made me a special dessert sampler, so I could taste both his homemade cheesecake (yes, please!) and the local classic, brown sugar pie (wow!). I enjoyed my time at his inimitable spot sharing his table, his love of food, and his presence.

image1 (6).jpeg — the special at bistro coeur d’artishow

i truly was quite hungry, and had already dug in before i thought to snap a photo!

My first “Oof” in New Brunswick and it didn’t involve a landscape, or a sunset, but a human interaction. My time with Michele, although limited, was connected and his kindness resonated with me. He made me feel as if I were his only guest, despite the room being full, and his desire to share his passion for food and hosting was infectious. his curiosity about my story was sincere and he was quick to notice, and point out, a subtle melancholic undertone to the “levity and light” i brought into the room.

but I didn’t tell him about you. It’s not because you weren’t on my mind, because you most certainly were, but our conversation just didn’t lean that way. I realized on the drive back to the states a few days later that for the first time since you’ve been gone, I didn’t self-identify as the “girl who lost her person.” I engaged with Michele as, well, me; someone who keeps you inside of them always, but is growing into their own person.

It was an overwhelming realization that left me at once nostalgic and hopeful for the future. Oof, my heart.

Soar.

August 8, 2019

Fear is a strange thing. It takes on many shapes and appears in the oddest places, creeping into crevices and crannies of our lives we didn’t know existed. It’s an emotion that often manifests physically; sweaty palms, a quickened pulse, labored breathing. Some psychologists even suggest it is one of the few innate emotions, which would mean none of us are immune.

After you left, I didn’t anticipate fear to be such a prevalent force in my life. I expected despair and intense sadness, anger, panic. But not fear. It felt out of place, so foreign.

I feared a life without you. I was scared of being lonesome. I was terrified of moving forward – not “on”, but forward – alone. I feared the mornings the most, when sunlight pervaded the bedroom blinds; what was once the promise of a beautiful day became a simple reminder of your physical absence on this plane.

The things I should have feared, at least a little bit, I found no trouble in tackling. Solo travel through Europe, hiking in extreme weather conditions, speeding through fjords on a rib in the northern Atlantic donning a survival suit. They were all amazing experiences with the potential to be really scary but for whatever reason, fear was never part of their equations.

Fast-forward to a couple months ago when I was invited to join on a trip to Iceland by a few friends who had never been. With a background in geology and a love of earth science that has spanned literal decades, it’s one my favorite places on this planet. And one of the many places you and I planned to explore together, if for no other reason than you being so excited to see me in my element. So clearly I didn’t hesitate to say yes to the invitation. While putting together a loose itinerary for the group, I remembered reading about a tour that I didn’t experience my first time there. A quick pang of fear hit my gut and in that moment I knew we had to do it.

Þingvellir (“Thingvellir”) is a gorgeous national park where the North American and European continental plates meet. You can stand between them and physically see the continental plate divide. There are also multiple fissures that resulted from a series of earthquakes, one of which has been filling with glacial run-off for hundreds of years. Named Silfra, it is where the two continental plates are diverging (pulling apart) at a rate of about 2-cm/year and the only place in the world where you can snorkel (or dive) between two continental plates.

The water hovers around 35° F and is some of the purest water in the world, as it travels through incredibly porous basalt (rock that acts much like natural filtration system) to reach the fissure. This allows for visibility of up to 100m with the naked eye. While all selling points for me, this type of expedition is certainly not for the timid, but I did convince the group to book a tour with Dive.is.

Our snorkel trip was booked for 5pm on our second full day in Iceland. Our spirits were incredibly high but the entire day was infused with an undercurrent of nervous energy, and fear, both of which only heightened as the four of us met our tour guide and began to suit up.

The prep involved was extensive and included geologic explanations, safety briefings, medical waivers, and mask/snorkel instruction. It was during that briefing the group, and the guide, learned I had never snorkeled before. Everyone looked at me a little wide-eyed, considering I had been so cavalier and insistent on this adventure, and in that moment I felt that pang again.

I felt fear. Guttural and adrenaline-inducing fear. I focused and attempted to isolate the source; it wasn’t the cold, or the expansive fissure. It was the snorkeling itself; I was scared of breathing through the snorkel, fearful I would panic while soaring over an underwater canyon and suffocate within my mask. Practically impossible, I knew, but the intensity was gripping.

I suited up. A full Nasa-like jumpsuit, a scuba dry suit, hood, gloves - all the while nervous laughter and mild panic emanating from all four of us. Our guide, Fee, was patient and kind, helping us with our equipment and checking our seals multiple times to ensure water would not seep in where it shouldn’t. Our hands would likely get wet, as the scuba gloves were not part of the dry suit. Our cheeks and lips would be exposed to the water, as we would be facedown horizontal the entire time.

We began the march up to the fissure opening. Masks and fins put on, we descended into the water. Air began to disseminate throughout the dry suit and my body wrapped in what felt like a cold hug. the fear hit again as we were told to put our faces in the water, and slowly extend forward as if flying.

The cold struck my face like a punch. After the initial shock, I leaned forward, stretched out my arms, and gave in to the water. Momentary panic seized my heart before realizing how buoyant I actually was, and then I focused on my breathing. After about 30 seconds, my air intake became less sharp and I found a rhythm by singing our song in my head. I matched my breaths to the beat and thought of how proud and in awe you would be, and then I began to soar.

Have you ever dreamt of flying without wings, effortlessly careening above the clouds without a care in the world? That is the only way I can think to describe what floating/swimming weightlessly down the fissure was like. I was between two continental plates, submerged in glacial run-off, and able to see it all so perfectly clear. I have never been more in awe in my entire life.

The fear but a memory, I took in as much as I could and attempted to burn the natural architecture into my brain. Neon green algae on basalt, some oxidized into a bright orange-red hue, intermingled with the crystal clear blue water that ranged in intensity from turquoise to a deep cerulean. I couldn’t bear to take my face out of the water, and did so only to see the exterior landscape and take some photos with the group. Despite the extreme nature of the surroundings, I felt at home flipping through the icy water.

Our trip lasted about 45 minutes and coming out of the water I relished in the beauty of my environment. I felt fulfilled and invigorated. Once the fear was tackled, all the adrenaline and nerves dissipated into wonderment and awe. In a way, it amplified the emotional intensity of the experience as a whole. I pondered this as our group trekked back to the staging area, chilly and giggly and happy.

Maybe now, when that fear comes creeping in through the blinds on a sunny day, I’ll remind myself of that moment in Silfra when I heard your voice in my head, singing our song. The moment my breathing slowed and my eyes finally opened wide.

The moment I soared.

Port 'O Leith.

July 30, 2019

“Amazing, and occasionally scary.” That is the phrase used by a thirty-something Edinburgh resident to describe the neighborhood. The amazing part didn’t appeal to me quite as much as the scary did. It was my first solo night in Edinburgh after my Mom and brother left to head back to Boston, and I had been wanting to explore Leith as I heard it was younger, hipper, and a bit more lively than where I was staying Merchiston.

Merchiston, Edinburgh, Scotland. 4/23/19.

Port ‘O Leith was my destination – a local bar recommended as a great late-night haunt. It was a Monday, so I didn’t anticipate a lively evening. As soon as I walked in, the smell of stale beer and too much whisky permeated my nostrils. The lighting was dim. Worn embroidered pillows adorned the benches lining the exterior wall. I smirked. I could appreciate this place.

I ordered a cider and snagged a seat at the window box. I noticed a few books scattered on the sill and figured worst case I could do a little reading. Upon settling with my beverage and perusing the books, I was instantly gut punched. Two bindings of Calvin & Hobbes filled with comics and drawings and stories. The tears started building and I was taken back to six months prior…

“It would be SO funny if I were Hobbes and you were Calvin.”

“But it wouldn’t make sense. I’m so tall and so furry - Hobbes. And you are cute and little and feisty - Calvin.”

“Please, please, pleeeeeease! Really I just want to wear a onesie out in public...”

“Of course you do, my little monster.”

We weren’t able to utilize that silly Halloween costume idea. You and the band decided on a group costume - professional wrestlers - and in retrospect I’m glad you got to dress as the Undertaker, who was a childhood crush of mine. It was hot. I wore a wolf onesie, so I still got my way. But I digress…

I began flipping through the comics, all the while you, and that conversation, coursed through my veins. I quelled back the tears. The memories were sweet but the pain was so raw. Visceral. Slicing. At this point I was so accustomed to crying in public I generally didn’t flinch when tears began to fall, but the small group behind me noticed. And then I noticed that they noticed.

I got it together in time for them to invite me to join their table. Grateful for their compassion and kindness, I accepted and began chatting with Katie, Sarah, and Sir Jacob.

Sir Jacob bought a round of drinks for me and Katie as Sarah had run off to see her self-proclaimed “friend with bennies”. I learned Katie was a single Mom of a 9 year-old, and Monday was her one free night a week. I learned her ex had been terribly abusive, the physical manifestations still visible in the form of a large scar that cut through her left eyebrow. She spoke about her son vibrantly, and her desire to give him the best life possible was evident in her tone alone. I instantly liked her and her quiet confidence.

Sir Jacob was anything but quiet and was vocally fighting his own demons, attempting to mend a strained relationship with his wife. He detailed the last year as “the worst of his life” as they lived apart and struggled to effectively communicate after twenty-two years of marriage.

I never really did get the full story as to why Sir Jacob was called, well, Sir Jacob. He may have been an actual knight, but from what I picked up it had more to do with a friend accidentally carving off a piece of his shoulder in some sort of hunting accident. That latter seemed more likely given his demeanor and immodest, but kind, exterior.

I grabbed everyone another round of beers. Sir Jacob looked at me sternly when I sat back down. “Is there a man back in Boston I should have a word with…?”

I whipped my head around to meet his gaze, head-tilted and squinty-eyed.

“Why were you crying?” he asked.

I looked around, somewhat frantically, searching for an out. I half expected you to saunter up to the table, appearing at my time of need as you so often did in life. Instead, I rambled.

“My person died on Thanksgiving and we both loved Calvin and Hobbes and the books…”, the words cascading out of my mouth before I even had a moment to process what I was actually saying.

Katie grabbed my hand in a moment of familiarity; the gesture had an exclamation point at the end of it.

I started talking. And I don’t think I stopped, save to answer the occasional question. First I told them what happened to you, the logistics of losing you. Because it’s technical, more literal.

But then I started talking about you. About your energy and about your light. I detailed the guttural connection we had, one that was evident to both of us from the first moment we met. I crooned about your touch, and your kindness, and how one of my very best friends from home described you as a “gentle giant.” I told them that home was wherever you were, and how the hardest battle I have ever fought in life was not actively following you to where you had gone in death…

I told them how I planned this trip I was on not only to escape the monotony of life without my person, but also to find ways to stay close to you by poking holes in my paper bag. By doing and seeing things you would have been excited for me to do. That if I ever had a number one fan in my life, it certainly was you.

By the end of my spiel, we were all in tears, the three of us holding hands in a symbolic circle of unity across a pub table. Both Sir Jacob and Katie looked at me as if I were an other-worldly creature having crossed the universe in my shuttle, only to land at a pub in Leith.

“How are you even walking right now, let alone traveling around the world?”, Sir Jacob asked. “You are a seriously bad-ass human. ARE you human!? ”

I simply did not understand their confusion, but accepted their comforting hands and words with as much grace as I could muster, albeit with that quizzical head-tilt.

“You are 3,000 miles from everything you know, but your home…well, he’s on a spiritual plane you can’t travel to yet. And I’m telling you right now Kelly – do NOT try and find that plane. But you’re here and you’re walking and talking and spreading this love that we can physically feel.” Sir Jacob wildly and empathically gestured to himself and Katie, as well as the rest of the bar who at this point had been listening in on the last few minutes of conversation.

Cue more tears. And a group hug. And then a sing-a-long of some sort. It was the most random Monday night I’ve had in quite a while. You would have liked it.

I think of Katie and Sir Jacob often; about their resiliency and their ability to humanize grief in a way I hadn’t experienced. There was love in that bar, Port ‘O Leith, and it wasn’t scary. It was amazing.

Home is wherever you are.

July 29, 2019

“Home is wherever you are.” It wasn’t something we just said, it was something we lived, every single day, since the moment we met. He was my comfort, my joy, my light, my person.

When we lost Jason the world became a much darker place and my world shattered into an infinite number of pieces, if it even existed at all anymore. There are still no words to describe the void I felt when he died; I feel his loss on a cellular level.

I began seeing a therapist about ten days after his death knowing that if I didn’t get help, I would dive into a trench so deep it would be impossible to escape. After a few months, the despair was still severe and I traveled to a state of mind I began calling the “dark place.”

In that place, I pondered constantly how I could get to Jason again. I wanted to continue moving forward with my life, but my longing for him was so intense it became all-consuming. I simply wanted to be home.

Medication was suggested to help keep me out of the “dark place.” Worried about the effect it may have on my personality, I initially fought the idea. Through research guided by my therapist and doctor, I made the decision to try. I was already religiously exercising and ensuring proper nutrition and it seemed another viable option - anything was better than those guttural moments of anguish when I thought my insides would tear me apart.

And I’m really glad I took that leap. I still felt like “me” on meds; the sadness and longing were still present, but the lowest of low places had been mitigated and the “dark place” was swept away. The brain is an organ, no different than your heart or liver, and mine needed a little extra help to get healthy. Admitting that was, and is, difficult, but there’s no doubt in my mind it was the right decision.

Once my brain started to heal I began to think about traveling again. I wanted to escape what felt like a paper-bag prison around my brain. Jason and I had booked a trip to Europe for April and while I knew I wouldn’t be able to follow our itinerary, I still wanted to adventure to places I had yet to experience. I dove headfirst into planning, researching flights, hostels, camping, AirBnb, backpacking. The logistics of a month long European itinerary kept me busy and engaged, and when some friends and family asked to join for various parts of the trip, my excitement heightened. Four AirBnbs, six hotels and eight flights later, I had decided on Spain, Scotland, and Norway.

I left Boston for a month and explored places I thought only existed in my dreams. The food, the people, the music, the art, the landscapes – the literal everything - was soul-crushingly refreshing and beautiful. I met some of the kindest, most gracious humans along the way and had to pause multiple times to remind myself it was, in fact, not a dream. I still missed Jason, every single day, and I felt him with me multiple times as I explored. I reveled in moments of sheer bliss, all the while longing to hear his voice or feel his touch. I felt sad watching the most striking sunset I had ever seen wishing he could view it alongside me, while simultaneously in a state of complete awe and wonderment, grateful to be alive and present in that moment. My perspective started to shift and I began to feel at home in places that were brand new.

The culmination of hundreds of moments like the ones above, where I stopped trying to focus singularly on grief OR joy, led me to the greatest realization of my life thus far: grief and joy are not opposing or diametrical forces, but parallel ones. I allowed them to subsist alongside one another and share the same emotional space; feeling the cutting daggers of heartbreak forced me to open my eyes wider to the wonderment that was right in front of me. There was an abundance of laughter, a lot of tears, a few hilarious missteps, and most importantly there was SO MUCH LIVING.

Now over eight months out from his death, I find myself appreciating more. I feel what I need to feel when I need to feel it and as a result, I’m becoming a kinder, more understanding human. No amount of travel or experience will mitigate this loss but I have learned that I can do more than just survive in this new reality; I can live, too.

So, why am I here? I’m here to share, collaborate, and connect with others who want to journey through life gratefully living, and not just surviving. I’m here to share stories, photos, recommendations, and create a dialogue about love and loss and life from a ground-floor perspective. I’m here to share my travel experiences – past, present, and future – and work through how they contribute to a continuum of peace after loss. I’m here to share the wins, the losses, the successes, and perhaps most importantly – the blunders.

This journey is certainly not linear and I would never suggest that there is one true way to grieve. Or to live for that matter. I have learned that opening my mind and heart to new experiences has allowed my internal landscape to flourish more than I could have ever imagined. I’m looking forward to sharing this voyage with whoever wants to join me. Where shall we go next?