Start Here: Notes on Love, Mortality, and Wonder

"All sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story or tell a story about them," wrote Isak Dinesen.

Ours was/is the story of a second chance at love, and the wild risks of moving across the country for an impossible dream, and the man whose heart and mind enlarged my own. 

In May 2019, just 4 months after my beautiful complicated sister died, Tom and I  celebrated the publication and release of my first novel. Ok, my only novel. It had been a life-changer in all kinds of ways – leaving a job I’d grown weary of and restless from, moving from Dallas to Beaufort, and learning the craft and business of writing, or at least trying to, making new friends in our new community, learning the names of new-to-us birds and fish, learning how to prepare for hurricanes, learning to slow down, gawking at sunrises and sunsets, watching the river run.

After a few fun months of book events, 2019 rolled into 2020 and boom – Covid. A dear friend in Dallas died, not from Covid but an unexpected cancer diagnosis complicated by a stroke. George Floyd was murdered and finally black lives mattered, to the consternation of way too many people. And then the 2020 election. My dad’s dementia accelerated and he died two weeks before Christmas. The world seemed more unbalanced than ever before. I felt like the little marble in an old-fashioned pinball machine, the kind we used to play at the Putt-Putt in Amarillo in the late ’60’s.

Introverts by nature, Tom and I stayed blissfully isolated through the early months of the pandemic. We liked being together, it was easy for us, and we had plenty to do around the house. We walked the dog through our neighborhood, or at the beach, or around our quiet downtown area. And our little house has a big view of the Beaufort River, which is actually the intracoastal waterway. We loved watching the marsh grass, the birds, the rise and fall of the tides, the sunrises and sunsets. We loved our neighborhood and our sweet old house. In fact, we’d begun interviewing contractors for some much-needed updating of our original 1970 kitchen and bathrooms. We wanted drawers that would actually open and close, maybe we’d replace the formica countertops with something nicer.

And I decided to begin another novel – this one would be fictionalized but kind of autobiographical, about a woman who’d left a toxic marriage, happy being single but deeply disillusioned with her work… she meets an intriguing man, one thing leads to another in story-book fashion and they move to SC where she writes and he plays tennis. It was our story, and moderately interesting. To  add drama to the plot, I’d introduce a tragic twist: one of them would face a devastating diagnosis. The woman would die, but with great courage. Very inspiring. I even had a working title: All of It. This novel would plumb the depths and scale the heights of life’s great triumphs and tragedies, family and friendship and faith, courage and risk and love and loss – and, well, all of it. 

In January of 2021, excited by a long-awaited partial renovation of our 50-year old house we cleared out the kitchen and bathrooms, and on inauguration day we moved into a friend’s beach house for the four, five, six, seven months of our renovation project. Turns out some things just take longer and cost more than anticipated.

How could we know that the entire year would be filled with doctor’s appointments, surgeries, biopsies, endless blood labs, numerous trips to MDA Cancer Center?

The novel plot was happening in real life. Except it wasn’t me.

How could I imagine that by summer of 2022, Tom would be gone? The intriguing man with the brilliant mind and beautiful smile, the energetic and athletic tennis player, the world traveler, the non-stop reader, the feeder of birds, and lover of life – gone.

Some things happen so fast, so unexpectedly, at enormous emotional cost; they leave a legacy of triumph and tragedy, family and friendship and faith, courage and risk and love and loss – all of it.

All of it, all of it, in real life.

So many people have told me that they wished they knew Tom. I wish that too. And I want to tell you about him. I want you to know that he was brilliant. I want you to know that he was beautiful. I want you to know that he was funny. I want you to know that he was quirky. I want you to know that if you did know him, you were blessed. And enriched. And I want you to know that if you didn't know him he still made the world a better place. I want you to know how I loved him. And how he loved me. And what he’s still teaching me. 

Our story isn’t unique, really, except in the ways that it is, just like your story. Who among us hasn’t longed for love? Who among us hasn’t known the gutting pain of grief? Who hasn’t heard the music of rainfall or laughter or poetry or birdsong? Who hasn’t pondered the eternal questions of birth and death and justice, who hasn’t raged at the horrors of violence or the hassles of traffic and all the large and small offenses of life?

Who hasn’t wondered – when sleep won’t come, when glaciers melt, when puppies play, when passion storms or fades, when life is too everything, when we ponder all of it– who hasn’t wondered Why? Or Why not? Or What now? 

I’ve pondered, a lot. I’ve thought a great deal about love. And mortality. And wonder. These hard years have invited and provoked me to ponder this broken and beautiful and dare I say blessed life. Not just mine, but ours, all of ours. Yours. Everyone’s. 

It’s a glorious and gutting truth: Even the longest life is too brief; even the deepest love could be deeper; and all of it – if we choose – all of it is wondrous.

Now I’m in my own late 60’s, watching the river run, and I have a few things to say.

These are simple notes on love and mortality and wonder.