God has given us music so that above all it can lead us upwards. Music unites all qualities: it can exalt us, divert us, cheer us up, or break the hardest of hearts with the softest of its melancholy tones. But its principal task is to lead our thoughts to higher things, to elevate, even to make us tremble. . . . The musical art often speaks in sounds more penetrating than the words of poetry, and takes hold of the most hidden crevices of the heart. . . . Song elevates our being and leads us to the good and the true.
While living with Miles afforded me a stability I never could have imagined, I was still prone to my share of rough patches, still trying to reconnect with that guy I’d always been, that guy who felt happy, curious, and enthusiastic about life.
One of the most challenging aspects of this time in my life was my chosen career as a lawyer. Over the years, Amy and I had talked so often about my finding a bit more meaning, even joy, in my professional life. I knew that trying to emulate Amy’s level of utter joy and commitment to her work, though she never considered what she did for a living as “work” in the technical sense, was impossible. At the same time, I was forced to think about the ultimate pivot. Unfortunately, it sometimes takes a profound event like the one I was faced with to really deeply consider what purpose work has in this life. That certainly was the case for me.
I’d been self-employed ever since the kids were little, which provided me the freedom to be the family man I wanted to be and was. However, this moment in time caused me to really reflect on the day-to-day insignificance of what I had been doing. Did I want to haggle with insurance adjusters? Hell, no. Was financial comfort all that was left of being a solo practitioner? Administrative obligations overwhelmed the actual practice of law. This was not a path that I wanted to continue on for long. My entire life’s focus had changed, and my law career compounded my lack of clarity instead of bringing things into focus.
My presence at my law office diminished quickly. As I began to take better care of myself, I did not beat myself up if I went to yoga in the morning instead of rushing to work. If I was in the throes of a good book, I might keep reading for a bit before feeling that draw, that need to be in the office at a certain time, that plagued me most of my adult life. Even to this day, I am unable to completely shut my doors at the firm, still dealing with the idea of closing off a part of my identity. But as the days go on and I continue to focus on what is meaningful in my life, the practice of law, such as it is, has moved to the bottom rung of the ladder. Mindfulness, meditation, yoga, music, family, and friends have guided me to think about new ways to contribute in this life. It is a work in progress.
And in many ways, having Miles around reinforced the need to start doing new things even more. Because his presence was such a welcome change, it helped me think about what could happen if I began to make other changes. I could see clearly now, for the first time in months, that I was in serious need of a place where I could figure out how to be myself again.
Not surprisingly, my thoughts drifted back to places Amy and I had traveled, in particular on our honeymoon. California and Colorado. Big Sur, and the mountains. We’d loved it there. Majestic, exhilarating, brand-new air with every breath, life everywhere. The more I thought about it, the more it felt like the perfect place to rejuvenate. Though to some it might seem difficult to revisit a place so integral to my life with Amy, I wasn’t worried about going there by myself and feeling her presence all around me. That was already happening no matter where I was, so I might as well let it happen in a couple of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen.
I ran the idea past Miles, who thought it was a great idea. Then he casually added, “Why don’t you do something you would never have done with Mom?”
His words stopped me in my tracks: what a simple, powerful idea. I would never have thought of it. This boy always was wise beyond his years.
For starters, I did some research that night and found out that one of my favorite bands, Tedeschi Trucks Band, was scheduled for an upcoming gig at the Red Rocks Amphitheater, ten miles west of Denver, famous for being, among other things, the world’s only naturally occurring acoustically perfect amphitheater. Yes, please.
Then, under the heading “Something you would never have done with Mom,” I tossed out an invitation to my crew of friends to meet me in Colorado for the Red Rocks show. I hadn’t done a “boys’ trip” during my twenty-six years of marriage, preferring to be with Amy if we had any time to travel together. Why not now?
Much to my delight, five of the guys said yes, and we were off.
From the first hour we were together, I knew this decision was just what I needed. The concert itself was spectacular—an amazing show in an amphitheater you have to see to believe. It’s built into a rock structure, with a large disc-shaped rock forming a backdrop for the stage and huge rocks framing the stage, so that the almost ten thousand people in the audience feel as if they’re cradled in the most unparalleled beauty nature has to offer.
More powerful than the setting, though, was the fact that every one of those friends stepped up to encourage me to just relax and have fun, without a moment of guilt or judgment if I had an extra tequila, or let go with a long, cathartic laugh, or stood up and danced. It was the first time in a while that I didn’t feel as much like a widower as I just felt like Jason, hanging out with some old pals who knew me and wanted nothing but the best for me. I hadn’t realized how much I needed it until I was in the middle of it, felt myself taking long breaths of fresh air, and heard myself really laughing without wondering if it was too soon for it to be appropriate.
Of course, my thoughts would always drift back to Amy, but instead of getting swept up in them, I was able to acknowledge them without losing myself. The day of the concert, we were wandering around the quaint, tiny town of Morrison, Colorado, home of the Red Rocks Amphitheater, and happened to stroll into a tchotchke shop to browse around. I did a double take when I glanced at a display and saw this tile:
Was it serendipity? A sign? An affirmation from Amy somehow that this was all okay? Even if it was none of the above and I was reading something into pure coincidence, you can bet I bought that tile and brought it home.
I found out later that my friend Michael called the trip “the Heal Jason Tour,” and in a lot of ways, he was exactly right. I still had a long way to go—there’s definitely no timetable for grief and all of its complexities. But it was a huge step in the right direction. Time out with great friends, a major change of scenery, and a thrilling infusion of live music were enough to reignite my pilot light.
As my plane touched down in Chicago, I instantly recognized the impact that the trip had had on me. Not only was I proud of myself for having initiated it in the first place, I remembered all at once just how transformative leaving home can be. I promised myself I’d say yes to every possible new opportunity and let travel and music help give me the emotional nourishment I’d been missing for a long time.
After the Heal Jason Tour, the floodgates opened, and I soaked it all in. I went on a ski trip with a college buddy, where I hung out with a bunch of great guys I had never met before. Justin, Miles, and I accepted an invitation from a dear friend to his secluded home in Montana. I had been to this idyllic spot before and was aware of its healing power. I also knew that these friends made things so easy and exerted no pressure on me. There was something about that place in nature that provided serenity of mind and body. Merely sitting and watching a stream roll by, hearing the beautiful sound of flowing water, made me grateful to be there in that time and place, to appreciate what was in front of me—literally, and in the sense of how essential it was to appreciate this life and the short time we all have in it, as well as to follow Amy’s edict that I must go on.
Perhaps most affecting and important, the kids and I went on a wonderful excursion a few months later, in December. Planning this trip for the four of us came with mixed emotions. The last big adventure I’d planned for our family, for the five of us, had to be canceled due to Amy’s inability to travel. But we had a rich history of annual family trips that always included some time to be just us Rosies, and I sensed that we needed a return to this comfort, to peel away from the everyday, from the rest of the world, no one else, only us.
This was our first trip without Amy, and I was not sure how things would shake out. I was confident that all of the kids wanted to do this, to be together. I was aware that they were all incredible travelers, adventurous because we’d exposed them to travel from an early age. This was new territory, however, for all of us.
Many of the experiences we shared on this wonderful trip felt natural, like we were meant to be there together. We had fun, we did things we could not do at home (a camel ride, walking the tightly woven streets, visiting old synagogues), and we made new memories.
We were good at talking about Amy by now, but this time of reflection allowed us to check in with one another and see how we were all doing, individually and as a group. We freely and easily talked about their mom, and we laughed a lot, but there were tears as well, of course. I was the only one who got really ill on this trip. But I pressed through, realizing the beauty of enjoying these delicious children, now adults, reminiscing over a bottle of red wine and appreciating the planning their dad did to bring this trip together.
Justin has become a natural traveler. It is in his DNA now. Regardless of his physical health—okay, he did get sick while we were literally in line to check in for our flight one year—he is an enthusiastic travel companion. A pair of headphones, a good movie, and a hoodie to keep him comfortable, and he is good to go. His needs are few as well. Have you seen his suitcase? Perhaps one pair of pants and a couple of shirts is about all he needs. He has a thirst for different cultures and a yearning to immerse himself in the people and the music. The amazing thing about Justin also is that no matter where we are in the world, from Atlanta to Zagred (okay neither of us have been to Zagred, but you get the point), Justin can pick up his phone and message or Whatsapp someone and have a plan for the evening.
His passion for life stems from the experiences he shared with each of his parents one on one. Amy took Justin on a trip to Thailand at the ripe age of eleven. The exposure to this unique country cemented his goal to travel the world. He has since lived in many places, including Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. When Justin was young, I spearheaded his first foray into music, a deep passion for which he has since cultivated and made uniquely his own. On our trips to basketball practice when he was a very young boy, my car would blast tunes ranging from The Who, Live at Leeds; Rage Against the Machine, The Battle of Los Angeles; or anything by Tupac. Is the statute of limitations up for DCFS to come after me? I know. Not the best lyrics to introduce then, but the emotion and the vibe was what mattered. We had a blast jamming to that music.
Justin’s commitment to his mom at the end of her life and to me now fuel my pledge to parenting this amazing child/man/human without Amy, a job that will never have an expiration date.
Music, of course, had been one of the bedrocks of my marriage to Amy, as well as a big part of my life in high school and as a young man. I have seen some of the greatest bands in the world with my sister, Michel. Music always brought me to a specific moment in time, a memory, an experience that became a significant part of my life.
After Amy’s death, listening to music took on new meaning. It brought me toward emotions that were the essential elements in the grieving process. I listened to plenty, and I cried a lot in my car alone. Luke Sital-Singh and Manchester Orchestra were crucial to helping me during some really dark times in those early months.
But listening to music and really engaging with it are two very different things, and the trip to Red Rocks helped me to understand that in a way I hadn’t. In my grief, music had come to represent a coping mechanism, a way to help me with sadness. To my ears it lacked the joy, the release, that it had always possessed. After Red Rocks, all that changed. Music became something I pursued with a hunger and a passion that I hadn’t possessed in years.
I sought out shows and regularly scanned venue schedules to see what new bands were being added, as I always had before Amy’s diagnosis. The Chicago music scene quickly became a part of my routine again. While it was a helpful way to get me out the door, it was clear that this was about something more. As at Red Rocks, when I was out at a show I was able to uncover a part of myself that had been hiding, let loose just a bit, dance just a bit, laugh just a bit.
Experiencing music had been so important to my life with Amy, but rather than feel sadness when I was at shows without her, it felt like I was reconnecting with her, like perhaps I was starting to understand my blank space for the first time, to understand what she’d wanted for me, and what living my best life might actually look like.
Additionally, I made new memories for myself, and rediscovered the joy of seeing the kind of live music I really loved. Live music had always been something I felt deep passion for. Seeing a good band perform live made my soul feel deeply, made my body move to the beat, and allowed me to get lost and separate from the depths of grief, except when I trended toward those feelings, to deeply emote in a way only live music allows you to do.
After losing Amy, I went to shows by myself as well as with friends. Being alone allowed me to appreciate the music and the performance. I was also able to stand wherever I wanted to, unlike Amy, who was vertically challenged and always had to stand on the side of the stage to have any chance at a view.
I was also free to combine my passions for music and travel. If there was a good show in New York, I was all in. I went to Madison Square Garden for the first time ever to see Radiohead, and then Eric Clapton. I was in Brooklyn with my brother and best friend to watch the Class of 2017 be inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. I hit all of the local venues in Chicago to see bands as varied as LP, Rhye, Bruce Hornsby, The Brian Jonestown Massacre, Amber Mark, LL Cool J, and many Manchester Orchestra shows. As you can see from the variety of artists, some were shows I could be found dancing at and others just jamming. Both of these feelings were emotional connections I could find only with live music. (I kept a list of all the shows I saw in one year.)
Obviously, it was a lot of music and a lot of travel, in between a whole lot of loss—either because of those losses or in spite of them, maybe some combination of both. There was excitement and joy in it. It made me feel alive. It saved me from spending too much time in my head, where it was too easy to get lost in all that darkness.
Besides, I had a blank page to fill.