I returned on Mother's Day. Jeff and El had planted new flowers in my garden, scoured the house, made beautiful cards and drawings. There was no where else I wanted to be. The blessings inside our little home were vast and perfect.
The integration continues. The first little while after Brandon died, I only listened to his music when I was focusing on him. Reflecting. Feeling sad. Wondering. It was a conduit for memory and emotion.
But then yesterday I found myself on Mt. Jumbo after dinner. The sun had finally come out after three straight days of rain and gray. The sun was bright, my energy was high. I was thinking about the energy in Bran, in his creativity, in the way he loved. I decided to put him on my headphones. Like my man Michael Franti says, I put my headphones straight into my heart. I decided to take myself up to the sacred tree. The tree I hiked to the day before I birthed Sol. The tree that pops out of nowhere, alone, beautiful, wild on the side of the mountain. I thought deep about all of his lyrics, trying to figure which girl which song was written for, analyzing phrases, appreciating the musicality, his gorgeous voice. It was a new kind of reflection. It was happy and appreciative and almost uplifting. His ardent voice matched the bright green of the hills. The river looked extra wild and wide, the mountains higher, the sun brighter. I could have hiked forever.
I reached the sacred tree. And it had been cut down. My gorgeous tree. My birth and death tree. All cracked and chopped and lying all sad and bereft on the green earth. I denied it at first. I hoofed it up to the next hill to make sure that perhaps this was a different tree before the sacred tree, one I'd never noticed, knowing darn well it was my tree.
So I stood and stared at the gnarled, chopped tree, hot and sweaty, Brandon's voice pumping in my ears. Nothing stays the same. Change is life is time is age is now. Deep breaths.