It’s been nine months since Ian died…how strange is that? To me, it seems like two years have passed. The significance of reaching the nine month mark has been palpable and in line with the beginning of spring in the desert. Major life changes have accompanied the nine month mark, as if I have been waiting in the dark womb of grief all this time.

So many new things are being birthed into my life all at once such as…

I finally started working regularly at the elementary school! (Ian and I were both hired to be full time teachers for the school year, but our plans changed when he went missing). Working at the school means a lot of things for me: routine, greater discipline in fitting writing into my schedule, needing to know what day of the week it is, a greater connection to my community in Page, wearing a watch and knowing what time it is, showing up consistently, following through with a previous commitment, stepping outside of myself and being of service again.

Going to the school elicits an intense emotional response for me nearly every day. Tears escape the corner of my eyes as I picture Ian teaching the kindergarteners who are only as tall as his knees, and I wonder about the life we would’ve had together at the school. When I think of all the ideas Ian had to paint murals with the kids, my heart sinks when I see the blank walls that could really use his artistic touch. For the last nine months, I’ve been dipping my toes in the school and yanking them back, not ready to be committed until now.

Sleep was shallow and my nerves were high on my first day. I walked into the school feeling like the new kid that didn’t have any friends on the playground, until the kindergarteners poked my butt and said, “Hey…you’re pretty! I like your pink hair!” or “Hey, can I hold your hand?”

Each week that has passed working at the school brings me more joy and more relief. In the last nine months, I’ve seriously questioned if I want to keep working with children (the first time I’ve had that thought in my whole life, and a scary one too since it’s been my entire career so far).

I needed that sweet elixir of grief: time.

The administrators and teachers have been nothing but patient, encouraging, and supportive of my process. The kids are doing their part too cracking me open, breaking into this hardened exterior that I’ve been wearing and bringing me back into playful ridiculousness. Now when I walk into the school, I’m greeted with hugs, high fives, thumb wars, squeals and a chorus of “Miss Beth! Miss Beth! Miss Beth! Look! Look at me, I’m eating spaghetti!”

I get the pleasure of working with each grade level, and my goals are simple: be outside every day all day, use teamwork, and beautify the school. We’ve painted rocks to line a trail behind the school and adopted class plants to love, name, and check on throughout the next few weeks. So far the kids have named their plants Mrs. Bubbles, Spikey (spelled Spickey), Softy, Taco, and BillyBob.

Every day that I come home with paint on my shoes and in my hair, I can’t help but feel connected to Ian and laugh, thinking of how much fun he would have had painting with these kids.

I carry with me a legacy that he passed on, which is giving kids the opportunity to create art. Throughout Ian’s three years working in wilderness therapy, I watched him connect with some of the most volatile, explosive, angry, and suicidal kids through art projects. He got teenage boys excited to build massive sculptures with rocks and sticks in the desert and always made time at basecamp to pull out the paint. I watched him de-escalate scary situations that ended with Ian drawing peacefully next to kid.

Ian let the kids paint bones, skulls, the woodshed, and make signs that helped the wilderness feel more like home. I watched Ian incorporate art with students who were shut down, quiet, and scared to talk to anyone. He ran creative initiatives that involved painting or drawing feelings instead of having to explain them through words.

His language of art brought more voices to the table, and I see this happening with the elementary school students that I’m working with as well. Sometimes I get whole body chills watching the kids paint rocks in the sand, feeling Ian’s presence with us every day.

While I still battle the nerves and anxiety of managing time, being in public, and showing up consistently, working at the school is the medicine I need. Up until now, I’ve been a ghost in this town. Hiding in my house all morning writing, then escaping to the most remote trails to hike all afternoon. Leaving town every two weeks and coming back to retreat into my book. It’s been a month of expanding into my community and deepening my roots here.

Some other things that have been birthed this last month:

• Lots of new writing!! I’m two chapters away from finishing my entire manuscript. I signed up for another 5 week poetry course, and I attended the Voices for the West Writing workshop with Craig Childs which generated a lot of new pieces. I also sent in my first query letter to a publisher, which means I’m living my damn dreams and pursuing publishing.
• I have a roommate!!! who loves Mallow and helps take care of her. The house has been waking up to new life with more books on the shelf, art on the wall, shared meals, and a happy presence in the home. You’ll be pleased to know that I have more than two forks in the drawer now.
• I’ve been offered several jobs and travel/vacation opportunities for the summer and I have NO IDEA what I’ll chose! Every option brings me to a different corner of the country (of course). Making future plans has been my biggest grief battle, so I’m taking what free time I have to slow down and breathe through the uncertainty. Who knows where I’ll end up.
• Little tiny flowers are sprouting out of the sand!
• Ian’s birthday was March 1st, which I celebrated by paddling a canoe with rubber chicken and Mallow. It was an odd day- I woke up with a sudden desire to paddle at Lone Rock (a place I very rarely visit because it’s one of the main tourist spots here). When I got home, I saw a post from Halle, who was with Ian on his birthday last year. I completely forgot that Ian spent his birthday last year camped at Lone Rock with his Prescott class. And what a difference it was- there was no water at Lone Rock last year due to the drying reservoir. They endured a sand, wind, and snow storm that destroyed their camp while I paddled in deep water in a tank top from last year’s snow run off. (Don’t be fooled, the reservoir is still fucked. It went up from 27% full to 33% full from a record snow year…we would need another 20 years of those snow years to keep Lake Powell full. Dead pool is still a very close and very real threat).
• Spring winds are whipping through the desert, but the temperature has been consistently in the 60s, which means a lot more time outside, which means my body is feeling healthy and strong.
• Daylight savings time is about to hit the country, but not Arizona. Page is a funny place to live, because it’s on the border of the Navajo Nation and Utah- both of which do change their clocks! So if I drive ten minutes north of town or five minutes east of town, I’ll be an hour late. Which will only add to the absurd time warp I already live in.
• My friend in Page just bought her first house! The whole community (friends, parents, teachers, kids) showed up to clean, scrub, vacuum, and do yard work. We painted canvases for her walls and wore costumes, breathing a whole lot of new life into her home and our community.

With all of this change happening at once, I’ve had the feeling that I’m jogging to catch up with everyone who is walking to the beat of regular life. Overwhelm comes easily, but it’s accompanied by a determination and grit to jump back in. The speed of my daily life has picked up significantly, which is why I’m writing this post almost two weeks after the nine month mark. Several times I thought about skipping this month’s post, but I’m working on following through late rather than never.

In a few short hours, a whole hoard of Prescott Pals will descend upon Page for a crazy weekend where Travis will run 100 miles for Ian, along with Joey and Steph who are running 50 miles for Ian! Along with a whole crew of people who will pace the runners. For months, they’ve been training in the snowy mountains of Colorado and California, inevitably processing their grief through running in remote places. This is an event we’ve all been looking forward to, and I can’t wait to see them running the trails that inspired Ian to get back into ultra-running. When we moved here, Ian was ecstatic to bring all of his friends and family together in this red rock paradise. At last, the desert blazers will be reunited in the last place that Ian called home.

Thanks to everyone who has been following along and reading these updates. My heart is with all who love Ian and all who are experiencing grief.

With love from the desert southwest,

Beth

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