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I’ll never fully get over the fact we can get in a metal tube with wings, fling ourselves in the air, and be on the other side of the country or the world in a day. It’s pretty incredible to be in cold Walla Walla one day and then Florida and the tropics just a few days later. I got to be on a cruise ship, one of the smaller ones out there, that’s about 100 feet longer than the Titanic was. Cartegena, a city nearly 500 years old, had sky scrapers in one section that they referred to as their Miami. Going through the Panama Canal, seeing all the tankers, shipping vessels, cruise ships waiting to pass the locks, was remarkable. I learned a lot on this trip–wonderful, fascinating, heartbreaking, and infuriating all at the same time. If you’d ever like to catch coffee, I’d be happy to chat.

But coming home–there’s something so wondrous about home. Every tour guide had that same sound in their voice–love for home. Their love for their places had that mixture of awe and chagrin. Here are the things that are great. Here are the facts of history we can’t change and how we bear the consequences of them. Here’s what we would like to change and the challenges to doing so. An honest look of home is like that. I love this place. To live here, it’s imperative to have an honest look and understanding of the history we can’t change. And sometimes with that comes responsibility and chagrin in facing the consequences of that history and new challenges simultaneously.

Our biggest industries–wheat, wine, tourism–are dependent on Walla Walla’s location, soil, and climate. Things that affect a small island in the Caribbean also affect us. We, too have an indigenous and migrant history. Concerns of fresh water, land, energy, and changes to climate are ours, too. The cost of living (to rent or to buy a home particularly), the increasing gap between the haves and have nots, and those with the means and power ensuring they maintain it–is not different with different scenery; it’s just a different flavor of the same thing.

I am happy to be home in this familiar, beautiful setting that gets increasingly so as the light comes back and the early flowers like snowbells (snowdrops/johnny-jump-ups) and crocus start to appear. My kid, friends, coworkers, kitties seem happy to have me home, too, and that’s an incredible feeling.

This week, there was a Chamber of Commerce event where folks in our community were honored for their service. Teachers, firefighters, police, members of the three colleges in town, got honors. Whitman chose Sarah Hurlburt for her work related to Frenchtown, history of people and place, and they also honored Bryan’s memory for his contributions to our town, too. It was such a great reminder that this town is full of folks who love this place, who recognize the complicated history that got us to now, and who are also doing their very best to make it better. Sarah is doing that. Bryan did that. It’s easy to throw rocks and complain about things you don’t like. Statler and Waldorf-ing the world, can be amusing, but it doesn’t get anything done. I’m glad to be home and among folks who get stuff done for all our benefit.

Over the last week or so, people have sent me little messages, notes of encouragement and love. Sometimes they just send me funnies to help me laugh. I appreciate every single one. Thank you.

Grief is universal in that we all experience it in some measure or another. And it’s as personal and unique as each individual. It’s very easy to second-guess what to do or say because the “do unto others” paradigm doesn’t always fit so neatly. I might like X, but so-and-so my hate it, preferring anything but X. I have a couple of examples that come to mind that bring a chuckle…now.

But I can say without hesitation how much I appreciate these little texts and notes and affirmations of our shared humanity. All of you have made this past year do-able. Thank you. I love you.

This is something Mary has said a lot. And I’ve echoed the sentiment. I’ve lived an entire lifetime in two days and I have had 14 and a half years go by in a blink. I don’t understand it, this strange accordion effect. Here it is a year and a day after Bryan’s passing and that time has also been a lifetime unto itself and very short simultaneously.

Bryan often used to say, “when you lose, don’t lose the lesson.” I’m afraid I don’t have some great sweeping lesson, some incredible insight, a roadmap to grief and suffering. I don’t. I know this—grief is personal. My way isn’t the right way or the only way; it’s my way. I can say that doing something every day that helped my future self has been good counsel. Growing a garden, being in nature, not isolating myself from friends and family who love me have all helped me. And sometimes just letting the tears come and hunkering down with my kitties has been just the right thing.

I’m on a trip with people I love very much. We’re all experiencing this trip differently. We take different photos. We go on different excursions. We pick different things off the menu. We compare notes. Grief and life are like that. 

I am still very sad, missing Bryan every single day. And I am still very much alive, determined to not fold in on myself or give up. This life is short so I’m going to continue to hunt joy nuggets, love, sing, dance, grow flowers, and create. Hmmm maybe I learned something after all. He was so right. 

Hey friends, I know you’re missing Bryan, too. I know this one year marker that’s coming up doesn’t just affect me or Mary. Bryan lived big. He loved big. His friends, his colleagues, his family of blood and choice meant the world to him. You feel his absence too and we are connected in this shared grieving, loss, and love.

I’m taking measures to absent myself from the most painful, acute reminders for a bit by going on a trip, hopefully doing so with sunshine, adventure, and great memories with dear ones to help accompany older ones.

If there are ways you would like to remember Bryan, to commemorate him meaningfully, I encourage that. We have lost him in the corporeal sense, but we have not lost the way his love and enthusiasm have changed us. Ask questions. Push boundaries. Let your passions be big and unreserved.

And when I get back, I look forward to reconnecting, reminiscing, laughing, crying, hugging. 

Love always,

Becci

I think I mentioned that I got a new job at the beginning of this month. Full time. Monday through Friday, 8am to 5pm. The real deal. I’m in an evaluation period right now, but everything points to this being a great fit. I’m currently the Front Office Coordinator or the FOC for Express Professionals here in town. There’s so much to learn and some of it is starting to sink in–the rhythms of the week, the humor of my coworkers, the beauty and idiosyncrasies of human behavior.

The first couple of weeks were really challenging just because I had had such an amorphous schedule for so many months before going back to work. Prior to Bryan getting sick, I worked only parttime so that I could focus on my art and jewelry. Before that I worked very different hours at Shop Eleven. A couple of things that I’ve noticed with the new schedule–I have gotten a lot better at Gantt-charting my days and week; I can get a lot of errands done over the course of a lunch break, and the time, weirdly, goes incredibly quickly.

Things I’m learning and re-learning are the importance of hospitality and grace. I’m also discovering that for every person who complains of hurdles, there’s another one working their damnedest to obliterate them. I find helping match people with their interests and skills to gainful employment very compelling; my colleagues work incredibly hard to make that happen.

Finding the right balance of work, art, jewelry, writing, walking at Mill Creek, spending time with friends is really challenging. I don’t have it all figured out. For this first month, time has largely been split between work and painting. Jewelry has taken a back seat, so has the blog and my other creative writing endeavors. My brain tries to tell me I’m bad, a failure, or incompetent. I have to remind myself this is winter. Self-loathing in winter has to be taken with a heaping wheelbarrow full of salt. I also have to remember that lots of things are seasonal and some things on the back burner will come to the front eventually