Sep
15
It's hard to believe a year has past. So much change can happen in 365 days. I've been honored to witness the first year of life of a sweet and magical little boy, and watched his parents' lives change drastically and adapt. Fantastic growth and enduring love. I've witnessed the marriage of sweet friends, and their lives beginning anew. Watched in awe as a small but powerful lady battled her way through a dark valley she'd believed she'd defeated once before- and not for a moment did she waiver. Wished a dear friend all the best in her new adventure on the West Coast, as the scenery of our little group changes.
And at the same time, s
ome things are constant from day to day, 365 days a year. There's an ache that some days is a loud, piercing scream, and other days a slow, searing burn. I'm realizing that it will kind of always be there, just under the surface. The choice lies in the daily decision to accept it and use it as a motivator, or let it slowly paralyze some of you with it's debilitating loneliness. I'm not perfect, and won't even begin to pretend I don't fall into the latter category.
Saturday was a little of both.Initially, I felt mind-numbingly alone- several hours away from anyone who had this same hole in their heart. My family was traveling, but they were together. They could commiserate, laugh about shared memories, reminisce, or mourn. They were with someone who could understand. While I adore my Charleston family, I couldn't help but wish for someone, anyone who felt the same.
Wallowing never does me any good, so I opted for 'cheesy'. Cheese is something I do well. Ultimately, I am a cheesy person - if I stop and am completely honest with myself. So I bought a small cluster of helium balloons in Mike's signature cobalt blue color, and wrote to the one person who needed to hear my thoughts- my baby brother. It was therapeutic. And perhaps I was the person who truly needed to hear those thoughts. I reaffirmed some promises and proclamations, and released them above the river and the sailboats. They flew so freely, and even cleared a low-lying cloud. Watching them rise higher and higher, I remembered playing astronaut, laying in the grass and watching cloud shapes, fly balls that never seemed to land, running out to look up and see the shuttle after watching the initial take off (the benefit of living in Central Florida), and remembered looking up at the sky knowing that it was the same sun and moon he could see from the Iraqi desert. Didn't even know I had so many "sky" memories. It was just what I needed.
I ended my evening of September 12th finally getting that tattoo we'd long discussed. I've known for years I would get my violin f-holes tattooed on my inner left wrist. But after losing Mike I knew I wanted to incorporate him into the design somehow. I couldn't have been happier with the result.
Picking up the violin in the fourth grade was what truly cemented my love affair with music. Something I could connect with on the deepest levels. I played when I was happy, sad, lonely, confused, and yes, I even played those freaking etude exercises when I really didn't want to. So the f-holes are indicative of my love for music, and also my family. It was such a sacrifice for my parents to finally purchase a violin for me- even if it was a 'cheaper' one from the pawn shop. It was brand new and still smelled of moth balls, but to me, my Eleanor May (yes, I named my violin) was my best friend and couldn't be more perfect. We took the f-holes of my violin, and Jason resized them to fit my wrist appropriately. And, instead of just adding the blue in a shadowing pattern, he incorporated Mike's color into the very center... As he finished, I finally looked- it was absolutely perfect. The f-holes are from where the rich violin sound resonates. They're the 'window to the violin's soul' if you will. And what is peeking out of the center of the ones on my wrist? Mike. Cheesy, yes, but I see it as my personal reminder to dream big, live without regret, and go balls-out instead of sit on the sideline.
