After my beautiful backpacking adventure, I returned to find the contents of my refrigerator not quite cold. My front yard showed off a more distinct browning with a lush green section highlighting the leaky sprinkler head. Holding onto the memories of dome-top views, I refrained from melting down.

This morning however, when little thing after little thing chipped away at my tolerance, I finally lost it. A back up in my kitchen sink, thanks to a teenager who isn’t used to having to scrape food scraps into the garbage rather than the disposal, remained after two treatments of Drano. I pulled on my yellow gloves, donned an apron and, with plunger in hand, I made a final attempt to free the blockage. No luck. I turned to my refrigerator only to find the door had been left ajar AGAIN. I groaned, pushed it shut, and prayed that the issues surrounding my less than cold food were from actions like this rather than the need for a new appliance. Then I turned to take in the rest of my house.

Junk mail and gum wrappers were strewn across the countertop, a dead rose sat in a vase of water on the dining room table, and the back to the computer keyboard’s battery compartment lay in the living room (far away from where the computer that refuses to recognize the keyboard sits). *sigh*

I went into the bathroom and reached from some toilet paper to blow my nose. There was none – of course. Just like there was none in MY bathroom this morning. [meltdown/tirade starts NOW] Storming around the house, I replaced the toilet paper which was basically missing from ALL three bathrooms. I picked up garbage and glasses, threw out the junk mail, pushed in chairs, and basically tried to return my house to a state in which I can function properly. I thought about how I’d cut the weekly house cleaning to save money – yet here I was barely able to keep up with clutter management. [feet are now stomping and doors begin slamming HERE]

I empty my backpack from that wonderful vacation, wishing I could go back there RIGHT NOW, throw the clothes into the washing machine, and prepare to leave the house. I’m out of coffee which means I won’t have my usual latte for the morning drive. I grab my water canteen and reach for my pitcher of filtered water. It’s missing. I look all around the counter, in the other rooms, and in the refrigerator. It’s nowhere to be found. I begin to lose it.

In walks BoBo. “Momma, what happened?” I start to cry and complain. He just hugs me as I sob. It’s all small stuff; I know this but I can’t help it. It’s hard going from paradise to long work days and a world that seems to be falling apart. My 18 year old son tells me not to worry, that he’ll “take care of it.” Damn. He’s trying to be such the man. And even though I wonder if it’s too much to ask of him, I tell him to wear gloves and show him where to look for the pipe blockage.

I leave for work – trying to remind myself that this ain’t nothing compared to all that I’ve been through. Still…it kinda sucks.

Theory on the stages of grieving stops short at a stage called “reorganization.” I’m not exactly sure what that’s supposed to represent but it hardly seems like the right word to describe the process of starting anew and moving on. Even further down the road from this, there seems to be a point where one is no longer defined by the loss.

Somewhere along the way I quit thinking of myself as a widow, although I suppose I am still that too. Like the pain, I find the scar on my leg (resulting from a treadmill fall on the 2 year anniversary of Tom’s passing) has faded considerably. I once thought of the scar as symbolic of what i’d become. I let it define me as hurt, ill-fated, scarred, and even ugly.

Today, even though I know that there is a residual scar visible to all, I hardly remember it’s there unless it is inquired about. It’s there. I know it is. But no longer am I self conscious about it. Sometimes, I even forget it’s there. And do you know what? People have even stopped noticing it.

If i were to say that the scar on my leg is symbolic of where I am at in the process, I would also have to say that my healing is complete. In this I am not saying that I won’t ever be saddened in thinking of the way things were or acknowledging how different things like graduations and weddings might have been. There is a residual scar you know. I am simply saying that I have found a new path forward and I’m going for it.

I did it! It is AMAZING!

With my pack fully loaded, I huffed and puffed up the winding dirt path. Exquisite views passed on either side of me as I became acquainted with my new trekking poles — compliments of my forgetting the ones I’d borrowed.

Like on those long runs where you suddenly find that the miles are passing quickly and with ease, I suddenly found myself in a groove.

Flick – plant – pull… it was effortless and exhausting at the same time. And I couldn’t help but think how sweet my triceps would be looking if I make this backpacking thing a habit. You think these things when you’re trying to make it up a giant mountain and no wimp out.

I was quietly celebrating the little success of the day as we pulled the packs off of our backs and began setting up camp. For on this 1st day of this grand adventure, I pat myself on the back, then immediately begin psyching myself up for the hike up Half Dome. I am more excited than ever. This place is far more beautiful than I’d imagined. I am surprised to feel a new sense of confidence — one that I’ve not known before.