Taking My Best Shot

Today, on our last day of Spring Break 2022,

I'm thinking about this shot and the adage about pain.

Actually, my thinking is ALL over the place, but since I just listened to this podcast episode that invited me to do some free-form writing for twenty minutes straight for four days in a row, here's my shot at that exercise.

I've known about this quote for some time now; I first heard Michael Josephson use it many years ago when I was actively working as a Character Counts! national trainer. I cautiously thought that it had merit, that we get to choose whether we suffer or not, to choose to move from "why me?" to "now what?" as we use the pain of our experience to propel us forward, to find meaning around it even. I think it encourages us not to get stuck in the suck. Because here's what I've learned, the death of a sibling (and really any loss) sucks. Big time. It's painful and messy and isolating and sad. So. Incredibly. Sad. But is suffering truly a choice? Somedays I'm on the fence about that, but here's what I do know:

When grief does start to overwhelm, I remember that I'm not alone;

my friend Ann came by with this hand-made reminder of that.

I put it on the piano by our picture and some of his treasures

so I can see it as I head outside to listen for those cardinals.

And though it feels like my Lincoln Log barn just blew over

and that it's up to me to put the pieces back together,

the artwork on the wall that moooved from Mipps' place

to our Wisconsin room this week gently whispers that

I don't have to do it alone. I hear ya, Snowball, I hear ya.

Then there's these seeds sent my way by Melisa, a sweet teacher

friend who was thinking about me and sending love from Ohio.

These seeds of humanity grew out of the rich compassion in her heart, seeds that are already planted and ready to bust through the soil any day now, a colorful reminder that I don't have to carry the weight of my pain alone. So much goodness sprouting from the fertile soil of grief and loss.

Last year around this time, when Mipps and I were on a walk in Wayside, he shared that he was contemplating retirement and thinking about things that he could do, besides to continue his volunteerism with the Ronald McDonald House Charities and BASIC Nicaragua. One of his thoughts was biking through Brown County up there in Wisconsin, and taking pictures of all of the old barns that he could find. He was positively giddy describing where that project might lead him were he really to get a lot of great shots (and maybe a few compelling stories to go along with them) and put them into a Coffee Table book for others to enjoy. Turns out, he told me, that the old timber-wood barns are being torn down because, once empty, they are a tax liability; he wanted to capture their essence and beauty before they all forever fall. Out with the old, in with the new, right?

His plan involved freeze-framing them in time.

Time we didn't know that he didn't have.

Time that froze for us the day he died.

Or at least that's how it felt.

And still feels some days.

Ok, most days.

But the trees are budding again

and the sun has come back out.

Life marches on and it's time

for me to switch the lens

through which I see

his passing,

our loss,

my pain.

So ...

when I found his camera in his room, I tucked it into my suitcase,

only to take it back out again and give it to his biking buddy Andy,

who was also his photography friend ... and rival.

I found out that they would compete over who could get

a better shot of the sunrises and sunsets on their rides. 📷

Anyway, I've now purchased a camera and started reading the manual so I can learn how to use it. I've purchased a plane ticket to WI for mid-June so I have until then to figure it out. My version of his adventure won't likely include a bike, though Mipps' ride IS there in case I get a wild hair.

My plan involves four wheels (and less pain) and driving to the barns with mom, dad or a sibling in the passenger's seat, ready to record a story or two about the structure if we get lucky enough to meet the farmers who have made their living off the land, just as our family has since the 1880s.

I can't wait to see what develops as I get

a wide-angle view of days gone by through

the stories that these barns will undoubtedly share.

Say cheese and smile because I've got a picture-perfect shot

of carrying out one of Mipps' many lofty retirement ideas.