The Adventure Continues…
…and life goes on.
“What advice do I tell my grandson? I listen to him.”
A dear friend shared a memory on his social media thread that, when I read it, caused me to pause, and say, “Yeah… I get that.” He wrote: “While I don’t live each day in grief…”
While I don’t live each day in grief… What a monumental statement. There is an ebb and flow to grief. There are days you’re movin’ along and life goes on. And, then there are days you cannot get out of bed much less function like a productive individual.
On this journey, I witnessed many unpleasant aspects of Self and got to know the beautiful spirit within. A lot shifted and evolved. I healed, or transformed, a lot of my self-beliefs and found the friend within. Actually, I got to know a very nice person who is loving, caring, compassionate, travel-savvy and acknowledge the intelligent woman that resides within.
When the intention that I would have my feet in the ocean on the anniversary of Jeremiah’s passing was set, the determination to drive was intense. I had no desires to wander the tourist attractions between New Mexico and North Carolina. I simply wanted my feet in the ocean and to be with the one person who’s helped me get through this period of transition – my sister.
This was the first location that I stayed in an independently owned campground. All previous campgrounds were either state or national, and not an option if I wanted to be within an hour drive of Chris’ apartment.
My first impression of Cabin Creek Campground was that the campground was home to the majority of the camping folks. I felt save. It was clean. And, the laundry facility was ultra-clean. The campground is on the corner of a main artery to the Marine base and a well-traveled side road. The traffic was always moving. In a conversation with the owner, a day before my departure, I learned that many of the people staying at the campground have been there since last fall’s hurricane. I could feel her pride and heart-full compassion to provide a safe haven to the displaced families and the workers helping to rebuild the community after the devastation.
From the road, all you see are travel trailers in neat rows. I was pleasantly surprised on my first walk around the park to find their tent-camping area. It’s a wooded area with a small pond adorning a covered bridge (for walking only). Towards the back of the acreage, warning signs were posted not to feed or get too close to the natives that live in the marshy area down an embankment. I’m a Michigander, I guess I didn’t realize that alligators live anywhere and everywhere there is water in the south. I feel fortunate that I grew up in an area that if you wanted to go swimming on a hot July afternoon, you simply ran into a nearby lake or river. The only thing in the water to fear was leaches, snapping turtles and the very rare sighting of a water snake. No alligators. No sharks. There was nothing big enough to swallow you whole (or in three bites).
The guys at Chris’ work got to know me as the sister-wife. Most days I hung out at her apartment using her wifi and chillin’ with Maddie (her black lab). Dinner was ready for her when she got home after a long, hard day at the office along with a chilled glass in the refrigerator next to the bottle of wine.
It was good for both of us to spend non-trauma time together. No one was sick. No one died. No drama-trauma. We soaked our pant legs each visit to North Topsail Island Beach on our quest for more shark teeth. Our days together were filled with laughter and conversations. We wandered stores as she shopped for life’s necessities. I sobbed; she listened.
During one of my solitary ventures to the North Topsail Island Beach, it occurred to me how grieving is the most isolating and lonely periods of transition. Grieving is a very personal journey. We may walk similar paths, feel recognizable emotions, share tales that are seemingly familiar, but when it comes right down to it our grieving journey is a very lonely one. This is one of the reasons, I feel, that it’s difficult to console and be consoled.
…and life goes on.
In our moment of devastating heartbreak, life stops. And yet, life goes on for everyone else.
I’ve gotten acclimated to moving locations on a weekly or bi-weekly time table. After two weeks, I could feel my inner guidance nudging me to move along down the highway. Destination: Texas. I experienced a sense of home in Texas. In my heart I know that Michigan is no longer home. It’s where my family is – oh, how I miss my grandsons’ hugs and giggles! But, I don’t belong there.
I set a loosely general target area to travel towards. Cruising down the highway, I decided to change course and head for Stone Mountain State Park. After driving the mountainous back roads (a more casual, less white knuckle drive than New Mexico’s mountainous backroads), I learned they had one campsite for one night. I chose to head west to another state campground. Upon arriving, I could feel I didn’t belong there. The longing to see my grandsons grew so predominately strong that I could not resist the need to surprise them with a visit as physically soon as possible.
I promised myself I would make this a pit stop on my way back west.
The closer I drove to the community I raised the fifth generation of my family, the more I could feel what healing I gained fade. Somewhere in West Virginia, I shed my shirt and pants and left them on a mountain pass. In Ohio I took one sock off and then the other and tossed them out the window. The sign centered in the median between the north and south lanes of Interstate-23 welcomed me to Michigan with my old clothes on a broken hanger.
My past does not fit who I have become and desire to be. Only a few people understand the metaphor while others are insulted by it.
The memories of the past six plus months faded with each mile I drove down the familiar roads that I’ve driven since I was sixteen. It literally feels like it was all a dream and really didn’t happen at all. It’s as if I never left. The reminder that I have to know – without a doubt – that what I experienced happened is when I open my eyes in the morning I wake up in my travel trailer.
Life went on and never skipped a beat while I was living a dream out of state.
Captured moments along the way…
Explore the adventures that got me here…
An Ultimatum Directed at Spirit is a Bad, Bad Idea
The Adventure Continues...“You do what you can for as long as you can, and when you finally can’t, you do the next best thing. You back up but you don’t give up.” ―Chuck YeagerWhat are a few of the lines they say about tempting fate? If you want to hear God laugh,...
19 to 75 in Less Than a Week
The Adventure Continues...“Life is an amazing adventure; it was never intended to be lived in gray-scale.” ― CK KochisMy breath hung frozen in the air for a moment before evaporating into the dawn of the day. The words thank you slipped through my lips as I observed...
Letting Go & Shrinking Spaces
The Adventure Continues...“How can you write from your heart if your head is busy yelling at you?” ― Barb ParcellsIt's not easy to let go of the critical monkey-mind voice somedays. When I edited the podcast interviews with Barb Parcells and Christin Bjergbakke, I...
What a powerful post. I hope you soon find a way to reconnect with the healing from your journey.
Having been born and raised in New York City, I cringe at the thought of going back. There is no one left there for me to visit and the old neighborhood bears no likeness to what it looked like where I grew up. I do take an occasional day trip to Manhattan over the Christmas season to see the tree lit up and visit old haunts, but that’s it. I don’t belong there and I spent my entire youth up to the age of 22 wishing I lived somewhere else. After another 21 years living in PA and not feeling welcome there either, I moved to upstate New York and I’ve never felt so at home in my life. You have to live on the spot where it feels like the Earth welcomes you with open arms.
Thank you for sharing your wisdom and experience with me (us), Barb. And you are correct, it’s wise for me to live at the location where it feels like the Earth welcomes me with open arms.
We are never the same after undertaking the journey, Cindy, and in a sense, the healing has happened and will continue to happen at a subtle level. Welcome to the new you!
I have changed; that is for certain. Thank you for your continued support and shoulder to lean on, Vatsala.
I’m so glad this journey help you to know yourself better. Sometimes we can lose our self. It’s good to shed all the excess baggage we can collect and carry around. To heal and transform is what we all need. Thank you for sharing your thoughts.
You’re welcome, Heather. I’m glad you are “here” with me and enjoying the journey.
My husband and I travel a lot in our RV. It’s been our healing place. In 2007, he was diagnosed with base of tongue cancer (cancer free now). During his treatments, we lived in our RV closer to Johns Hopkins in MD. The doctors thought we weren’t taking his condition seriously. We did what we felt was right for us.
Although this is different from the grieving you’re going through, I feel nature helps us to heal of whatever is ailing us. There’s no judgement, no criticism. it just is. There is a lot of positive and loving energy in nature, on the road, in the wild.
May you find what you are looking for, on your time.
I love that the two of you followed your hearts and spent time in nature so your husband could heal! To me, there’s no better place to be. Based on my experience with hotel rooms, they are ‘dirtier’ than any camper/RV the owner is maintaining. It warms my heart to read he is cancer-free. Many blessings on your travels.
I found traveling after my Mom’s death helped me to heal. Whether your journey is grief and/or traveling, you emerge as a new self. Thanks for sharing both of your healing journeys Cindy. Grief is universal and can be supported, however, it is a deeply personal road each one of us must travel on our own. I send you much love, Lisa xx
Traveling for any reason always changes us, doesn’t it? We expand our knowledge of other cultures and witness a way of life outside of our “normal”. Thank you for you continued support and love, Lisa.