After the flight home, I arrive at my parents’ doorstep. Dad offers to drive me the 30 minutes out to my aunt’s acreage to pick up Habby. When my aunt opens the door, I crouch in ready position for the usual greeting. Habby races at me, licks my entire face with the vigour of a carwash, hopping up to get just that millimetre closer, interspersing licks with gentle nibbles of my nose. I laugh and try to keep my mouth closed against his gigantic tongue. Soon we roll on the floor.
It’s almost dinnertime by the time we get back to my parents’ house, and I’ve got two more hours of driving to get home to Whistler.
“You look tired. Why don’t you stay here overnight?” Dad looks worried. Why do I rush home to Whistler? Because I want to be there if Jim comes home. Well, there’s no rush.
“Okay, yeah, that’s a good idea.” I unpack just enough for the night. Dad looks relieved. I sleep solidly for nine hours with Habby curled up on the bed against my legs. It’s comforting to have a warm body in bed with me.
In the morning, Dad puts his arm around me and asks, “So, are you moving back to Vancouver?”
“I’m not sure how I would do that. I’m not ready to sell the house.”
“You could rent out the house in Whistler so that you could rent or buy something in town.” My throat tightens at the thought of a stranger living in my home. That would really be giving up on Jim. But part of me gets excited about a space of my own in Vancouver. I envision a spacious, bright place, close to the beach, where I can paint, write, meditate and do yoga. I say nothing.
“I think it’s time to take a break from your house, just to see how it feels. I think it’s an important step.” Dad looks at me earnestly. The lump in my throat aches. I nod. Scary. I could use logistics to dampen the idea, such as the money and time it would take to move. But I know moving is my next big challenge because the idea keeps surging up from a deep place within me, my sacred root, my inner Jim. Tears fill my eyes, and Dad squeezes my shoulder. I drive home to Whistler.
At five o’clock the next morning a sliver of a moon hangs in the blue sky over Whistler Mountain. I’ve lain awake in bed for hours with jet lag and the anxiety of being home. The walls, furniture and linen reverberate with memories of Jim. I fear my heart might stop beating from the intense pain.
Without my daily painting and cooking regimes, I search for purposeful activity. When faced with adversity, the heroines in Little Women fell upon their mantra “hope, and keep busy.” I get my hope from Habby and from my inner voice, my inner Jim. In my journal, I list things I enjoy doing with the goal of reaching 20 items. My pen keeps going to 29: playing guitar, walking with Habby, reading, writing, drawing and painting, yoga, cooking, laughing, dancing, biking, rollerblading, visiting friends, exploring the wilderness, hugging Habby, loving, listening to music, sitting in the sun, learning, climbing, ski touring, making love, being out of breath in a beautiful place, eating chocolate, drinking red wine, travelling, watching a video. These activities make up my safety map.
My routine becomes my tradition: wake up, meditate, write in journal, do yoga, walk Habby, breakfast, work at organizing my sixth Kilimanjaro trip.
My friends call to touch base, and it strikes me how much I learn from them. From Terri I learn compassion and understanding. From Susan I learn resilience and hard work. From Marla I learn that honesty and consistency allow clear communication and strong relationships. From Andrea I learn that self-confidence allows you to reach your potential. From Rose I learn not to take life and myself too seriously. From Jenny I learn the power of intellect to become self-aware. From Heather I learn how self-love allows you to love, understand and encourage others. From Karen I learn that to have a friend you must reach out and be a friend.
Learning is one of my survival tactics, as is having purposeful activity, not just busyness.