When I hike, I often find symbols in nature that help me process and make sense of what I am feeling in the moment. I scribble these reflections quickly in my journal, often while sitting beside a stream or overlooking a beautiful vista. More often than not, the symbols I see are connected to my grief. They are one of the ways I carry Reed with me while I hike, one of the ways I find him on the trails. Thee are the conversations my heart has with him, big ideas and feelings that he and I make sense of together. Some days I find him everywhere; some days…I don’t.
Resuming my work with Project Dragonfly in Costa Rica this year felt momentous in ways I hadn’t realized until I was there. I was drawn back to memories of the last EE I was on, where I was pregnant with Reed, in a world before Covid. I was a different person then, and in the beginning it felt uncomfortable to be slipping back into this role as though nothing had happened. It was also the first time I was away from Sage since he had come home. All of these factors combined to trigger my PTSD and force a shift in my thinking. It was busy and fulfilling and wonderful, and I desperately needed time to process everything I was feeling. Fortunately, at Monteverde Cloud Forest during the second half of our course, we spent our days walking the trails. Finally, an opportunity for silent reflection. Finally, an environment where I could slow down and make sense of things.
On these hikes, I found myself drawn to all the missing pieces I saw. Surrounded by plants and epiphytes, the forest bursting with fullness and life, it was the absences that spoke to me. Leaves turned into lace by the number of holes nibbled through them. Gaps in the tree trunks where a host tree had become victim to a strangler fig. So many of these absences had rendered species more delicate and fragile than if they were still whole. And somehow, it was these very gaps that added such complexity and beauty to our surroundings. These absences made the forest more complete.
It’s a contradiction I often try to make sense of - this idea of feeling complete while also knowing I am missing part of my heart. For years, I have made peace with the fact that I will never be wholly whole again. I have learned how to live and find happiness amidst the fact that I will always carry an aching sorrow. And also…since Sage was born, I have felt whole again in ways I thought were gone forever. Going on this trip gave me back a sense of who I was before all this - before grief, before covid. It filled me up. It made me feel…whole. Even that was confusing. How could I possibly be whole? It felt like a betrayal, to Reed and also to Sage.
On one of these hikes through the cloud forest, as I found my eyes drawn to all of the absences, I caught sight of a leaf that took my breath away. This leaf was somehow a portrait of my heart - riddled with holes, pieces that could never be replaced. It was delicate and fragile, beautiful…and somehow still complete. Yes, there were missing pieces, but the structure of the leaf was still intact. Instead of looking like something was missing, or broken, these gaps made the leaf look whole. It would have been far less beautiful without them.
Seeing these delicate leaves helped me understand my own struggle with wholeness differently. It’s still true - our family will never be whole. My heart will never be whole. There will always be an essential piece missing, and no amount of time or healing will ever fill that piece in. But I no longer see it as something that needs to be filled in. Rather, the missing piece where Reed should be is what makes our family whole and beautiful. His absence is heartbreaking and unfair…and it has shaped our family into who we are. We are delicate and fragile, beautiful and incomplete…and we are whole. All four of us.
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