Here I am. At my retreat for one that’s really a retreat for two. I’m sitting in an above-garage studio apartment in the foothills above Boulder. It’s gorgeous up here, of course. I’m surrounded by pine trees, steep and windy roads, dirt-and-rock terrain that tells me I made it out of the city, mountain homes that blend with the environment, and chilly piney mountain air.
I’m sitting on a comfy chair with my laptop on my, well, lap, because there’s no table or desk. I’m hoping I don’t get a stiff neck on my weekend away where I plan to do a lot of writing. I might steel away to a coffee shop for an ergonomic break. When I look slightly to my left I am looking to the east, and out a row of windows, I can see the city of Boulder and plains beyond. When I look slightly to my right I am looking out the French doors onto the sunshiny deck and mature ponderosa pines dotting the property.
The closest branch is a mere 20 feet from where I sit. And this is my view if I were to look up and behind me.
My bed is under the skylights so I literally fell asleep underneath a bright crescent moon and stars.
You know what I wish? I wish I was in the Boulder area this weekend because I was visiting Kade at CU (as much as it would pain me that he wasn’t at CSU).
It would go like this. We would have planned way ahead, because he would be a busy student (and, oh yeah, I would be, too). He could meet me here at the mountain casita, or I could meet him at the place he shares with six roommates…OK, we’d meet here. 😉 This time it would be just me visiting, because most of the time Brian and Asher would be with us when we get together. He’d know where to take me to hike off the beaten path. We’d probably have to drive a ways, but that would be OK ‘cause we’d have time together in the car.
But it’s not that. This is something…less normal. This is something I felt pulled to do…but think it’s shitty that I am doing it. I took care to plan it…but was pissed off driving up. I couldn’t wait!…but tears came to my eyes when I walked in the doors.
I’ve been dying (no bad pun intended) to get away for one night to have alone time to be with myself, my grief, and Kade. In a paper in my Grief Therapy class (a YEAR ago) I remember writing that I would soon plan time by myself for this purpose. Months ago, I told a select few friends that I was going to do this soon.
Now that I have started the clinical portion of my program, the time crunch has been on. Commuting, learning, clients, groups, supervision, receiving feedback, documentation…But this weekend, book-ended with practicum obligations near Boulder, contained this 3-day possibility.
And here I am at Starry Nights Mountain Casita.
Happy and sad. Writing and hiking. Missing and being with. Mothering and indulging. Answering and questioning.
It’s 5:00 p.m. and I’m bushed. I went on two hikes yesterday and one today. The first was before lunch, down the road. The views in the neighborhood are stunning.
It was to be an easy little walk to just get outside before lunch, but I forgot: what goes down must come up. These hills are steep! After lunch I took the Airbnb hostess up on her hike recommendation: Mount Sanitas Trail in Boulder. Ahem, I wonder what kind of shape she thinks her guests are in? Evidently great, being this is Boulder, one of the fittest places in the country. Frick, it went straight up!
The trail required you to step up probably 12 to 18” each step. Not so bad going up slowly, but each step coming down was like doing a squat. I’ll just say I can feel my quads today. Not entirely a bad feeling, though, as it felt good to work out. Going straight up made for pretty views.
I started my days with yoga. Yesterday I found a video for energizing morning yoga, and this morning I found one for yoga for grief. I hope that after I get home that I maintain starting out my days by rolling out my mat, at least some mornings.
I’m excited to tell you about today’s hike. I feel like a real adventurer, finding my own (rated easy) hike, not relying on navigation apps because there was no address to plug in, driving there, and hiking by myself (well, I hope not really by myself). I did NOT think I would be driving far enough to be able to see Rocky Mountain National Park but I was treated to this when I was almost to the trailhead.
When I arrived, I was afraid at first. Iamafraidofbearsandmountainlions. There. I said it. I’m a Colorado girl, and admit that whenever I hike, I think of bears and mountain lions. (Are there support groups for that?) I told myself I would go out at least 15 minutes before turning back. But seeing other people on the trail, my bearmountainlion worries dissipated, and I was able to instead focus on soaking in all the mountain goodness.
When I wasn’t thinking of Brian and Asher and getting excit about hiking with them this summer, I was hiking alone with my thoughts. Not something I often do, and it was so cool.
I thought of Kade. I imagined us hiking together. He would be ahead, quicker and stronger. Akin to how Kade’s friends, Dylan and Jason, were on the fourteener they took me up last summer. No worries, though, as Kade would be patient like they were. I would tell him how his dad and I used to go “up the Poudre” to hike with our toddler, who was always up for running to the next bend and summiting the next boulder.
I thought of metaphors for my grief and my Ceran St. Vrain Trail hike. I was nervous about driving up the winding road, ever higher, ever farther than I thought it would be.
I kept going though.
I felt vulnerable, being by myself (well, you know, sort of by myself). That’s how most of grief is, I think. Sometimes it’s shared: in support groups, retreats, with grief friends, close family, my grief therapist, and other friends. But mostly, it’s experienced in my head, my heart, my body. Even shared moments of grief are just that: shared moments. But I was able to feel vulnerable, and alone, and still keep going.
There was a stretch where the trail narrowed, was covered with hard packed snow, and a steep drop off to one side. I was not a fan.
I felt some doubt with my old-ish hiking shoes, tired-ish legs, and out-of-shape-ish self. I don’t know if it was the smartest choice, but I checked my tread (looked good) and went for it. I was afraid of a rogue slip that I wouldn’t be able to stop.
Damn, like looking at this section of trail, there have been times in my grief that left my blood feeling cold. And, damn, there will be more. And I’ve survived all of them. Every godforsaken anniversary (how will it be six this June?) and birthday where my young man should be in his twenties, not dead. How have I, and others who love him, survived these perilous spots?
(And did a deer just bound through my field of vision out the window just now to let me know that Kade is OK? That it will be OK?)
Back to the perilous spots. I guess we get by by checking our tread, steadying ourselves, and just moving forward.
There were trees cut down near the trail where I could see their fresh looking exposed rings. I counted the tiny rings of one up to about 40, and there were probably 20 more. Why did that tree get to live to 60 years and Kade only got to live to 19? Why is Kade one of the cut down trees, and not one of the towering ones all around me?
I have joined the real world again, and said goodbye to my cozy mountain casita. I’m glad I got to wake to sunshine my first two mornings, but this morning it was a different kind of beautiful to wake to fog and flurries.
I did another yoga for grief before packing up, and I’m loving this stretching first-thing ritual.
I’ve joined the real world, in my work clothes, in a café, getting ready for practicum group tonight before I can finally trek home. I’m making last edits on my blog. I’m saying ‘bye for now to my quiet mountain retreat, which was at times a visit to my son, at times a visit to myself, and at times a checking out from evvverything and eating really. good. chocolate.