Lessons carved in weathered oak.

I went to the mountains over the weekend.

I could write about all the "adventure" part; the creek crossing being uncrossable, smoking the clutch backing up the hill, guns being shot off in the middle of the wilderness, rental cars and crazy tow truck drivers. But that is all really distraction to what the whole trip was about, and it took me until today, three days after arriving home, to slow down enough to process it.

I went to the mountains to get back something that is exclusively mine.

Let me tell you the whole story.

In 2001, my ex-husband and I "lost" a baby. I have always hated that term, "lost", as if a child could be misplaced like keys or a jacket or a cell phone. No, my son died. He was a stillbirth. He was my heart. His name is Seth.

The summer after Seth died, my husband's best friend made a "marker" out of a beautiful piece of honey-colored oak, at my request. On it, engraved in the wood, are my son's name, "Seth Trinity", the words "..off to play with the wind and the moon...", and the date "8 February 2001". Earlier the same year, we had taken Seth's ashes (there was only about a tablespoon of them, he was very small) and mixed it with 2lbs 3oz of Carmel Beach sand (he weighed 2lbs 3oz) and were going to scatter the sand-ashes various places of our choosing, as we saw fit. One of the places was near a spring located on some family property. We decided to locate the carved-oak marker there.

If you know anything about wood in outdoor settings, you know that all things weather, and age, and crack, and stain, and need maintenance in order to be preserved. The same is true for Seth's marker. It had started to crack, dry out, turn a whitish gray color, had hosted a few bugs, and been gnawed on by a few larger critters. It needed some help. I knew that from the photos, since I had not been to the property since 2008, but my ex had. I asked to have the marker brought home so I could repair it, tend to it, seal it, whatever was needed to make it last in the mountains again. My request was at first ignored, and then outright denied. I was not to touch the marker, or see it, repair it, or move it in any way.

Then came this February. The decade point. And the email. I have already written about the cruel words used by my ex to deny me a request for remembrance of our son. Actually, the whole denial basically eliminated Seth as a person at all in my ex's eyes. It left me struggling and afraid and sad. Out of that though, came my overwhelming need to have everything back that is mine. That included Seth's marker, located on the property that used to be ours.

I went to the mountains this weekend, and I brought the marker home.

I learned a lot in the tears and sobs I had as I pulled the stake (that I did not attach, but my ex must have at some point in the last couple years) out of the rocks, and cleaned the marker of weeds and tree debris all around it. I learned a lot as I carried the marker (and the stake, attached in a way I could not remove) back to the car. I learned a lot as I let a friend help me.

In the tears I found that letting go is not a bad thing. I learned that I am stronger than I thought because I still have the ability to cry, and then walk away. I found that I could share a burden, and it does not make me any weaker for having accepted help. I found that I could be in a space that I used to love with all my heart, and still love it, while knowing that there are lots of other places and spaces to love, because I take the love with me. I own it. It is mine. I choose.

I went to the mountains this weekend.

I thought I would find an old piece of wood that needed a little love. What I found was my heart. Worn a bit, in need of some care, but intact. I can say thank you to Seth for having brought me this far. I can see him, letting my love embrace him even as walk down the road, smiling and saying "Go for it, Mom. Love you! You can do this. You don't need me any more. Give my love to Haysten and Mariah!" "I will son, thank you!".

I will make a decision about the marker soon. I think I might throw a party. On Carmel Beach. With a bonfire. I will invite you.

And fifteen minutes outside of Winter Park, CO, this happened.

I wrote as my status on Facebook today that if you have ever felt like a train wreck, I totally understand. Here is my perspective on the thing though, and how my vacation played out in me having to write this down.

A train wreck, everyone expects to be chaos and misery, fire and death. Having now survived one, literally having my train crash into a truck on the tracks on the way from Denver to Frasier, the majority of train wrecks are really more like the one I was in. It was a loud screech, a big bang, a forced stop that leaves you off balance and shaky, and then a whole lot of waiting that really just fucking pisses you off.

I realized, as I laughed with my kids once we knew no one was injured or killed, that this is life. One train crash after another, completely out of your control except for how you react. And the waiting, well, that is just the next thing too. It is the way it needs to be, a way to steady yourself again, so you can stand and breathe. It allows you to get completely angry during the wait, doing nothing but waiting, and then the cheer of relief as you actually start moving again.

In this scenario, life as a train wreck, I realized I have chosen to be the train. Maybe it chose me, but whatever. The train gets to stay on a track, head in a chosen direction, pick up speed or slow down as the circumstances warrant, hit the brakes when necessary, and has a really cool horn. It also is bigger and more bad-ass than some wimpy sedan that ran the gate and gets plowed down.

I am not saying that being able to run people over is a good thing, I am just saying that the train survives 99% of the time. Yes, it has to wait, and it's schedule gets all hosed in the process, but mostly, it just gets to wait the crash out, sometimes getting pissed off in the process, while others make some irrelevant decisions, and then gets to get back on track, so to speak. I like that about my decisions. I like that eventually, while waiting around in a huff, I will get to move on again. I will know the path as it was, right there waiting for me all along.

My counselor will probably say this is counter productive. Something along the lines of "Does everything in your life HAVE to be a train wreck?" I suppose not, but it is what I have. My life always at some sort of crossroads. Always making decisions. Sometimes the decisions are hard, and I fail. Sometimes they are about things that are scary. Sometimes they are just about being needy or lonely. But while standing on the crossroad, I don't always have to be the sedan getting smashed. Maybe, instead of being the person who cautiously looks around and makes sure everything is in just the right place before moving out across the tracks, I could just be the train, already knowing my path. Maybe I don't have to look back, or even forward, but the tracks will just open out before me, wide and strong and headed in the right direction.

Either way, it is at the top of my list, and I am not ignoring anymore train wrecks in my life. I am just picking to be on the tracks when the wait is over.