18 Months

Eighteen months ago today, Matthew passed away.  Eighteen months ago, we lost our son, our brother, our grandson, our nephew, our cousin, our friend. Eighteen months ago, our lives changed in ways we never could have imagined.

Hiking in Nicaragua at the end of 2009

I've been reflecting a lot this weekend about the past year and a half.  We've had glorious weather and I've spent a good amount of time outside.  I took long walks, worked in the garden and mostly just sat in the sunshine and thought about Matthew. 


I saw the tree he fell out of as a nine year old when he broke his arm. I saw the batting cage where he took cut after cut all the way through high school. I saw the path he built the summer before he died. 

I feel Matthew the most when I'm outdoors. From the time he was a very little boy, he loved spending time outside as much as possible. For me, the spaciousness of the outdoors helps remind me of the great mystery that surrounds us.  When I'm outside I'm much more able to feel the interconnectedness of all life--past, present and future. It's a comforting thought. 


I want to share a poem that a friend sent me on the first anniversary back in October. I find the last stanza to be particularly powerful.

When Great Trees Fall

by Maya Angelou

When great trees fall, 

rocks on distant hills shudder, 

lions hunker down 

in tall grasses, 

and even elephants 

lumber after safety. 

When great trees fall 

in forests, 

small things recoil into silence, 

their senses 

eroded beyond fear.

When great souls die, 

the air around us becomes 

light, rare, sterile. 

We breathe, briefly. 

Our eyes, briefly, 

see with 

a hurtful clarity. 

Our memory, suddenly sharpened, 

examines, 

gnaws on kind words 

unsaid, 

promised walks 

never taken. 

Great souls die and 

our reality, bound to 

them, takes leave of us. 

Our souls, 

dependent upon their 

nurture, 

now shrink, wizened. 

Our minds, formed 

and informed by their 

radiance, 

fall away. 

We are not so much maddened 

as reduced to the unutterable ignorance 

of dark, cold 

caves. 

And when great souls die, 

after a period peace blooms, 

slowly and always 

irregularly. Spaces fill 

with a kind of 

soothing electric vibration. 

Our senses, restored, never 

to be the same, whisper to us. 

They existed. They existed. 

We can be. Be and be 

better. For they existed.