(SEPTEMBER 1999)
There are only a few hours before I have to be at the first day of my new job at Trek, teaching outdoor/environmental education to grade 10 students at Prince of Wales Secondary School. I am too exhausted to be nervous.
I mount the stairs to the stage and address the 90 students in front of me. I tell them how I remember I felt when I sat in their place, both eager and terrified of what I had signed up for. And I tell them how excited I am for them that they were courageous enough to step out and try something new.
We are a team of five teachers: Robyn, Lynn, Andrew, Jamie and me. It is the first year at Trek for all of us except Lynn. Each day, we allocate tasks and share ideas, and Lynn steers at the helm. Jamie’s laughter, Robyn’s enthusiasm, Lynn’s experienced calm and Andrew’s tireless compassion jell us into a supportive team. My mind is stuffed with details of lesson plans, schedules, trip plans, administrative tasks and deadlines. I yearn for quiet time but hold tightly to the rope that attaches me to a sense of the normal. The first week whizzes by.
Dad constructs a suite for me in their basement in Vancouver so I can stay in the city during the week while teaching at Trek, and return home to Whistler, my safe haven, on weekends. He spends his evenings and weekends buying kitchen appliances and hooking them up, installing a gas fireplace and painting the walls. I leave a toothbrush and some clothes there but everything else stays at Whistler. I feel alone and eat most of my meals upstairs with my parents. After the first week of school, however, a ray of hope appears.
I return to my house in Whistler and go to see Marti and Lisa, to bring the puppy, “Whitey,” home. He is almost four months old now and all legs and tongue. When he bounds over to greet me, I laugh and let him bowl me over. I rename him “Habby,” one of Jim’s nicknames. Lisa gives me a record of Habby’s shots and a list of his needs: lots of water, putting his head in your lap when he rides in the car, being with you (she took him to work with her most days). Before Habby gets in the car, Lisa takes his face in both of her hands and says goodbye. He sits beside me in the front seat as if he had been there all of his life. That night, I leave him in his crate and his brown eyes watch me as I go upstairs to bed. He does not cry, bark or whimper. For the next eight years, he is my most faithful friend.
Back at my parents’ house on Monday morning I am getting ready to go to work when it dawns on me that I have no plan for Habby. I cannot leave him here all day. So, I arrive at work with a blonde bundle in tow, open our office door and say to my colleagues, “I have no idea what I was thinking … I have this puppy and nowhere to leave him.”
Robyn immediately says, “That’s okay, he can stay here.” And he does, for six years.
Before and after I got to work each day, Habby and I walk in the extensive forested University Endowment Lands just minutes from my parents’ house. Twenty minutes into the walk, I stop to stretch and to breathe. Deep breath in for four seconds, slow breath out for eight seconds. Warrior pose. In for four seconds, out for eight seconds. Tree pose. Tension fades from my body. The fear and doubts in my mind quiet. My inner voice sighs and whispers ‘I miss Jim. I’m so sad. Thank you for taking the time to listen to me.’ I follow this regime to stay connected to my heart, to my pain. Before I leave the woods I tell Jim why I am grateful. Most often I am grateful for him, but I am also grateful for Habby and my family and friends. This ritual starts and ends the day on a positive note.
Day by day, autumn seeps in and the rain softens the earth beneath my boots. The leaves explode into colour, then fall and bare the trees to the cold winter until the new growth of spring. Is it difficult to let go of all of that beauty and stay naked for so long with the uncertainty of new buds? They are brave, the trees, to face change with such diversity and creativity. I would clutch my golden, auburn and burnt-umber leaves with all of my strength. Why would I let go of such an exquisite part of my being, which I had nurtured to climax?
I gather my past life, try to reattach my leaves. But they fall so quickly and rustle at my feet. With each step, I dig them into the rich humus of the earth, where they will help to feed my new growth.
The expression “Don’t waste a crisis” comes to mind. Crisis leads to transition and to change – a difficult yet exciting time. I am anxious to take some action. I want to write a book about grief. Why? Catharsis? To give some meaning to Jim’s death? To hold on to Jim? Jim wrote a book after Dan died, and if I do what Jim did maybe I’ll survive grief too? A friend’s comment swims in my brain: “You used to be Miss Culture, Miss French Literature, Miss Art, before you met Jim. Maybe it’s time for you to get back to that. It’s an opportunity for growth.”
I look at the trees again. So brave. And I continue to gather my leaves.