Sí, tú puedes

Reading: Little Fires Everywhere by Celeste Ng

Listening to: "For the Movies" by Buckcherry

Outside: April breathes deeply, whooshing away the winter 

Travel veterans flank Indiana, limbering up for his first flight
Easter Sunday, March 31st 2024

After the passing of my dear friend in February 2022, my entire world went gray. The colours of my life's palette mixed up, all those rich purples and reds and blues and yellows swirled together into mud. Dark, murky, numb. I couldn't consume novels like I had before  - and I say consume deliberately. I used to eat them up. But the words ran together, the same sentence didn't go in. Over and over again. Instead, my train journeys to work saw me staring listlessly out the window, the way I'd observe other passengers doing that used to baffle me. Why stare out the window? What was out there? Well, it turns out - the world on a treadmill, rolling past, the same trees, over and over again. Nothing.

My favourite songs, the ones that always made my heart beat a little faster, no longer had the same effect, and I was distracted every day by those little moments that cut through, the ones that sliced: Before and After. (That book he borrowed and returned, the joke we had about Tom Waites. Before, Before, Before.) All those moments in between those Before and After ones - the ones were I held the book I was reading when he died, fanned through the pages again, rubbing salt into the wound - were me in a soundless room, where I made meals for my children without really paying attention, slicing carrots and boiling water for pasta. Placing heavy plates on a dinner table, serving food I couldn't taste. I was stuck. 

I guess it was fitting that we hadn't flown for a while. Would I have been able to board the plane? What other terrible things could happen? 

But we did it. Finally, after five years, we boarded a plane again, for a cheap holiday to Spain. My toddler son was brave through take-off, leaning into encouraging words from his big sister, who knows much about flying. Bolstered him with pro-tips throughout. Glued to the window, he and Lena watched the ground disappear. We enjoyed an uneventful flight, nice and short, and landed in Almeria just as the sun was setting.

And in the morning - colour!

If you look close - there are parrots in the tree

From our balcony, resort guests strolled around the pool below, staff in starched white and bow ties and aprons served drinks. A vast array of deck chairs shined in the sun, which reflected even further out across the expanse of the Mediterranean Sea, endless, criss-crossed with shards of sun and one or two slow, lonely boats in the distance. 

From the speakers in the restaurant, music full and fresh, as rich as the food as they served - anything you can want and more. 

The restaurant staff were as warm as the Spanish sun, always generous, muy simpáticos. By the end of the week, they all seemed like friends. One of them showed me a picture of his own toddler son on his phone, and I said, "¡Qué guapo!" (how handsome), and he laughed and pointed to himself. "¡Y tú!" I said. (And you!)

That connection. I felt that. 

Maybe I just needed some Spain to help feel my life again. Even just a little bit. I don't know where it came from, but I heard a voice in the middle of the night on our last night there, say to me, "Sí, tú puedes." Yes, you can.

For any of you grieving, remember there is always hope. There's always help. 

Remember to allow yourself to enjoy your life. It's okay to do this. Let yourself do this.

Sí, tú puedes.

In the moment -
 the world's beauty
waits patiently
for when you're ready
to see it again.

Happy Saturday, everybody.