All Walks of Life
This is a story that describes the year after we lost my eldest sister and how her loved ones are processing the grief.
There are many stories that an individual can tell, and these stories give you a picture of the life that they lead. There are those that tell stories of others, those that tell stories of their families, those that tell stories of their friends, and those that tell stories of their own travels. With each story, they are giving you a piece of themselves, regardless of the subject matter. They are telling you if they are a traveler, an adventurer, a gossip, a voyeur, an exhibitionist, a hermit. They are sharing themselves with you and expecting a response. Excitement, fear, loathing, yearning, jealousy, validation.
There are some people that have much to say, but very little to be doing. They spend their time in front of objects — a computer, a television, a book, a microwave, a dinner, but there is very little exploration beyond those things. They are afraid of failure, of launching themselves into the beautiful unknown, and they are most at risk of dying without experiencing what is living.
Having gone about my life, albeit a better part of a quarter century, I have not cared much of risk or injury. I prefer to enjoy my moments of solitude in nature, and this has brought me great comfort. When encouraged to go for something, I ask myself if I will regret this moment if I ignore the impulse. Will I wake up twenty years from today and think, “What if I did that one thing that one time instead of walking away and going home?”
This past year, I have lost that yearning, that burning desire to explore and be curious in the unknown. I have always loathed the changing of a stable home, but adventure has always called me, and I have almost always answered, eager for the next solo experience in new territories. I am by no means the most traveled, but I try to go to places within my grasp, even if they are only, as the crow flies north.
Daily, I think of you, and how you were afraid to travel alone. How you were afraid to take classes that were hard, and anxious about hiking by yourself. You always said to me, “I am so amazed by your ability to hike and travel alone. I wish I could do that.”
I would laugh, and exclaim, “You can! You just have to try. To start, and then each time will become easier.”
I didn’t expect you never to have had the chance to experience the moment when it becomes easy, or even that first attempt when it is excruciatingly hard. That first solo hike or plane ride or ascent when you recognize, If I fall off the edge of the Earth, I am only with myself. I will remain there until somebody finds me, if they ever do.
When trail running or hiking or climbing, there is a period of time after the initial fear washes over you when your environment, the noise, all the activity that surrounds you and your thoughts about them slow to centuries speed. You are in your body. You feel your blood pumping through your veins, the sweat dripping down your forehead, your synchronized with your breaths, you are listening to the monotonous thump of your soles to the ground, or your feet or hands scraping against granite, and you are present. You don’t have any other choice, but to be there. I miss that place. I crave that moment of cathartic loneliness. But I’ve been so lost navigating this world without you.
The world I once loved and craved and felt so comfortable in has now been strewn with daggers and demons and devils hiding around every edge, every blind corner. Critics and heretics mock my every action, taunt me on my solo escapades, berate me in the mirror. Screaming at me and reminding me that I have not and will never accomplish anything. Home is not what it used to be. I am no longer safe within myself, nor out in the world without you. The memory of you, and our childhood haunts me. I see you everywhere, but I cannot talk to you. I cannot ask, “How are you?” or even, “Do you know what happened to you?”, following up with, “Do you know who murdered you?” You stare back at me, your dark red hair fanning around your face like a halo, flowers weaved into your curls, your face ashen and nearly porcelain with powder. Trying to reclaim your slight flush and freckles. I didn’t know the melanin disperses when you die. That apoptosis takes them first. That wasn’t what I expected in spite all my years of study, all the time spent remembering each bone in the skeleton. The slight blue and purple hue of your fingertips underneath watermelon-facade nails and the blue of your lips under sheets of pink gloss. Attempting to shield your friends and family from the chill that is your skin. From the hard ceramic that is your body. The ice that you are now encased in, and the odor of the formalin within your veins. This is the face that looks back at me when I close my eyes to sleep, and I look and see you standing in my room, in the corner staring. Not speaking to me, not answering my questions. Mute.
All the days of sitting and waiting and yearning seem wasted. All the stories you would tell and retell and share and ponder and watch and read and rewatch and retell, we must put back together from pieces of memory of all those people you shared them with. You are no longer here to defend their claims or justify or verify or exalt.
I close my eyes and am reminded that you lived a cautious life yet ended up where I could’ve been dozens of times before by acting foolishly. It feels selfish now to take risks. To put myself in a position of danger or possible injury when you executed your life with such strong intent to prevent death, to spite it, only to find yourself within its grasp and not even conscious of it. Just like that, the whole world you curated fell to pieces. And we are all still putting the story back together. From your friends, from your notes, from the little breadcrumbs you left, but with only liars as witness. Here we stand, our world ongoing, and without any clue on why you left us. So many unanswered questions, and while you are everywhere, you cannot respond to them. I close my eyes tighter, and place my hand on my heart, and ask myself, “Am I forsaking my family by continuing to live my life as I have lived it for the past twenty-six years?”
Is this that moment when I stop and watch gravity. When I put my climbing and backpacking gear in boxes and forget it? Is this the moment when I settle down? Or do I continue to live my life, with the purpose of accomplishing your goals, and continuing to explore the world, never leaving that question unanswered, “What if I had done x, y, and z? Then what?” My body needs permission to remember the quelling of anxiety when I say, “Let’s do it.” I am outside of myself, floating in the lithosphere, without motivation to be grounded. How does one get back?
