It was during this time she made me promise I would be OK after she was gone. I told her life wouldn’t be the same without her, but that I would try for her. I told her I thought about maybe going on the road, for one last monumental drive, to visit all the places we always wanted to see, that I would see these places through her eyes or mine. She stared off into the distance and then turned back to me and smiled. She told me, ‘I want you to go. You need to go. You need to be out there… Nature is your cathedral.’ I will never forget those words. My wife knew that being out in nature, amongst the wind and the rock, would be my medicine for grief, my place of worship and understanding, that the road would help me contemplate the complexities of the universe, of time, of space, of love, of meaning, of life, and of death. It would be the act of solace my soul needed.
I held her hand as I watched her die. She took her last breath and vanished into the air. I felt her soul leave her body. At first, there was anguish and grief, but I felt her energy pass through me and a beautiful peace washed over me and filled my body. It was as if she was telling me, ‘I’m OK. I’m not in pain. It’s glorious here.’ She showed me where we go when our hearts stop beating. I was able to be strong and sad, a stoicism that she gave me.
Two and half months after she passed away, armed with a map and her ashes, I set off on a journey of a lifetime. One that would take me 12 weeks, 19,000 miles, and from one end of the country to the other.
