The Impossible

We are home from a week in Colorado. Last week was as far from the typical vacation as one can get. It was more of a pilgrimage. Per the title, I am going to attempt the impossible by putting words to our experience. It will probably take several posts.

Mountains or beach? I have always preferred mountains. Maybe it's because I grew up here, maybe it's genetics, I don't know. But I have always felt the most peaceful, least stressed, and closest to God in the mountains.

We decided many months ago that we wanted to scatter some of Weston's ashes in the mountains (only a very small amount: we're keeping most of them so that he's always with us). I proposed Flagstaff, Telluride, or Switzerland (Shannon has Swiss ancestry, and, well, it's Switzerland). There's this thing called money, though, so Switzerland was out. Shannon chose Telluride.

Telluride has always held a special place in my heart. I've been going there, in summer and winter, since I was a teenager. Shannon and I have been there together four times now, and I was barely pregnant with Caroline the last time we were there.

We wanted to go over July 4th weekend and spread Weston's ashes on his actual birthday, July 7. Circumstances arose that are too boring to describe here, and we ended up leaving for our trip a week after his birthday. We were fine with that; we just wanted to be there at some point between Weston's birth and death dates.

If 2012 was my year of the black hole, July is my month of the black hole. Last year, we left for Park City, Utah three days after Weston's funeral and stayed there for a week. A week or so after we got back from Park City, we went to Connecticut for two weeks. We were just trying to escape from our nightmare. That was the plan for this Colorado trip: to escape from the ugly reality of life without our son during the month when we should be celebrating his one-year-old birthday.

My family has driven over Imogene Pass a few times. It is heaven on earth. I am not exaggerating; google some images. (No, I am not being compensated by the Town of Telluride to write this post.) I wanted to introduce my family to the Pass and scatter Weston's ashes there.

But then, fear set in. A couple of weeks before we left, I started thinking about the logistics of the drive. It is treacherous and requires a four-wheel-drive vehicle. By treacherous, think single-lane, rocky, washed-out roads climbing an 80-degree mountain ridge with a sheer drop-off inches from your car.

Now, I personally have not driven Imogene Pass, but I have been in the car with my dad driving. No cars went over the edge; no one fell off the ridge or the pass; no one died. But for some reason, my fear was paralyzing this time around. I don't know if it's simply because I'm a mom (and my mom has done this trip too, with all four of her children in the car) or because I'm a mom of a child who died. But there was just no way I could think about taking my baby up there.

So we decided to try Ophir Pass. Much tamer, right? And still a beautiful resting place for Weston. Well, it turns out that Ophir Pass is way scarier than the picture, especially when one is riding in a Toyota Corolla in the rain, although it's nothing compared to Imogene Pass.

This was last Tuesday. We made it partway up Ophir Pass with Caroline half-crying with hunger before I completely flipped out at the drop-off (and some people in an SUV very kindly told us we were idiots for attempting the drive in a Corolla). We were getting pretty discouraged.

So we turned around and drove back toward Telluride, trying to figure out what to do. We had planned so well, you know: picnic lunch packed, diaper for my city girl whom I knew would not pee in the woods, etc. Anyway, we saw this little sign pointing the way to Alta Lakes. Not knowing the road conditions, Shannon turned onto the dirt road. We passed a truck, and the driver said we'd make it up there just fine. It was about five miles.

Alta Lakes is sacred. There's no other word to describe it. It was very overcast that day and started raining after we ate lunch. It rained as we spread Weston's ashes and really picked up after we were finished. Perfect: the heavens grieved with us. Caroline was enamored with the lakes as well, and especially the baby ducks.

There were a handful of other people there, camping and/or fishing. It was so quiet, though. Caroline was a trooper; we walked around the entire lake, and she kept up just fine. As we ate lunch up there, I had a bit of a knot in my stomach thinking about the ritual we were about to complete. But I was also at peace. That's one of the things about grief: you can feel two completely opposite emotions at the same time, and it makes complete sense.

So, then it was time to find a spot for Weston. We started walking...and walking. The rain picked up, and I finally told Shannon it was really time to find a spot. He replied that he just wanted to find the perfect spot.

We had three "pinches" of ashes, one for each of us. We had tried to explain to Caroline what we were doing, but I'm not sure she understood that her brother was in the ashes. So we laid a part of Weston to rest in this heavenly place:

Shannon's turn (there is his arm on the right):

The moments of spreading Weston's ashes were sacred and indescribable, so I won't cheapen the experience with my inadequate words. The pictures give a little taste.

Caroline took this picture:

As I stated above, grief can encompass opposite emotions simultaneously. As soon as we finished spreading the ashes, this happened:

Silly girl. I love her so much it hurts.

It was a day I will never forget. Far from being an escape, we came face-to-face with our grief for the entire week and met God in the process. I try not to speak for Shannon on this blog, because it's about my journey, but we were profoundly touched by multiple events on this trip in very similar ways. I can't think of the last time we had similar emotional and spiritual experiences regarding Weston since the day of and days immediately following his death. I feel like the two of us are taking a big step forward, together, and I am so thankful.

I'll close tonight with this poem. One day in Telluride I walked to the little local bookstore while Caroline was napping and found this gem.

He did but float a little way
Adown the stream of time;
With dreamy eyes catching the ripples play,
Or listening their fairy chime.
His slender sail
Ne'er felt the gale;
He did but float a little way,
And, putting to the shore
While yet 'twas early day,
Went calmly on his way,
To dwell with us no more!
No jarring did he feel,
No grating on his vessel's keel;
A strip of yellow sand
Mingled the waters with the land,
Where he was seen no more:
O stern word - nevermore!
Full short his journey was; no dust
Of earth into his sandals clave;
The weary weight that old men must,
He bore not to the grave.

He seemed a cherub who had lost his way
And wandered hither, so his stay
With us was short, and 'twas most meet
That he would be no delve in earth's clod,
Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet
To stand before his god;
O blest word - evermore!

~James Russell Lowell

Rest in peace, my little love.