For Those With Eyes to See

What a morning with my dog at Conecuh Open Pond taught me about loss.

I was speaking to one of my oldest friends recently online. We don’t talk regularly, but it’s the kind of friendship that can be picked up at any point in time without consequence. I was reaching out because I had noticed that at some point in the recent past, there must’ve been some sort of fracture in her marriage because she was no longer using her married name and by the content that she was posting, clearly a betrayal had taken place. So I reached out to offer some support. 

She shared that what I had observed was indeed correct and that her marriage was over. More importantly, she also shared that in the middle of that grief, her faith and her relationship with God had deepened. She'd had to lean on God harder than she ever had, and it had made her relationship with Him richer than ever before. I told her I was glad something so awful had led somewhere beautiful. She thanked me for the kind words and our conversation moved onto other topics. 

But this stayed with me, because it's something I think about quite a bit.

I remember a morning, a very special morning, when this whole concept hit so close to my heart and soul. I was camping at Open Pond in Conecuh National Forest in Lower Alabama. Just me and my dog. We had gotten up early and were out for a walk around the pond. We happened to time it just right as the morning sun broke over the tree line on our left and lit up the far side of the pond. Suddenly every tree was on fire with light. It was the kind of beauty that rearranges something in you. I looked around to see if anyone else was seeing what I was seeing, and although there were a handful of other campers occupying the campground, no one was up yet. In that moment I understood that my dog and I were the only two beings on earth witnessing this. The only ones, anywhere. Just us. It was so special. 

That dog is gone now. I imagine him waiting for me on the other side when my time comes, and I picture asking him, "Mixon, do you remember that morning?" and him saying, "Yes. How could I forget."

You see, in that morning, I was not very far off of my mother’s death. I was in my forties and I had buried my aunt, my uncle, my son’s father, my brother, my grandmother, my mother-in -law, my grandfather and my mother — the whole of the family I grew up with and then some, gone, and not in the order anyone plans for. I don't know that "survivor's guilt" fully covers it. For a long time it was more like shell shock that you just can’t awaken from. I had spent a lot of time wondering why I survived when nearly all of my family didn't and that morning I understood.  

Since that day, paying attention has become the most important discipline in my life — not paying attention in some vague mindfulness sense, but actively looking for the places where an ordinary moment is asking to be made into something richer. And if it is not seemingly there, creating it. We can create meaning and add value and purpose to everyday moments. I don't know how much time I have left on this earth. But I want to know, whenever it ends, that I spent what I had looking and creating. This is one of the most important things to me now. 

None of this — the noticing, the gratitude, the sense of purpose — would exist without the losses that came first. I didn't get here despite the grief. I got here because I stayed in it long enough to come out the other side.

That's the only thing I really want to offer anyone who's mourning right now: not a timeline, not a silver lining, just this — there is a version of the other side of grief where the world gets more beautiful, not less. I hope you get to see it too.