The death of my friend this week got me thinking about the death of my wife. A natural progression. It’s been three and a half years since she died. I knew immediately, it was permanent. It’s not like a lost love where you hold out hope. It’s death. It’s done. But like a lost love, where sometimes it’s best to admit it’s over and move on, that strategy is easier said than done, when it comes to someone with whom you’ve spent a large portion of your life. Still, acceptance was the key for me as it’s always been throughout my life when faced with irrefutable change.

I still miss her, but last night as I lay in bed, I thought about how much time and space I now had to pursue whatever. This week, for instance, I learned a new guitar chord. This week I got not one, but two, inquiries wondering if I’d be interested in performing in public. This week I worked on the manuscript of a friends book. This week, I cataloged our collection of China and silverplate. This week I prepared to have walls painted. That’s me. Living.

Of course, you should note it has taken me three and a half years to get here, to learn these new behaviors, to internalize everything. As I’ve noted previously, I believe the physicality of walking the South Rim at Big Bend last February and climbing Guadalupe Peak last November played a key role in helping my brain come to terms with it’s new reality. And now I’ve come down from the mountain to a new world, and what I make of it will be up to me. So far, it all feels good and promising, and I think perhaps I’ve come back to those things within me that made me so appealing to my late wife in the first place, and that, too, feels like a good thing.