Grief has shown itself lately in the form of avoidance, procrastination, indecision, distraction, obsessive cleaning, and did I mention…avoidance? It took me weeks to write this first sentence, and not without trying.

Avoiding what, you may ask?

Well, the one year mark of Ian’s death is rapidly approaching (June 24), and that has been pressing down on the back of my mind like a heavy weight.

Life after death cannot be measured in calendar days. One year since I last spoke to Ian…really? How could this be true, when it seems like just a month and also five years have passed at the same time. It simply doesn’t add up.

But nature’s clock is starting to make sense.

Signs of summer are everywhere. Snowmelt has started which means the shores of Lake Powell are changing daily with the rising water. The hunt for the perfect beach spot keeps us on our toes as the summer heat beats down. Routines are changing. Exposed hikes on the sunny slick rock are becoming scarce as I cling to water in the daylight hours.

The sun is setting later and later, drawing out the hot days of a seemingly endless desert sun. Nights are warmer and perfect for camping. Swimming is in style, it has once again become essential to surviving the 85 degree dry heat. Late afternoon clouds are moving in, threatening monsoon rains. And the temperature keeps climbing up, snuggling closer and closer to the steady 90s.

At the end of April, I turned the air conditioning on for the first time. Immediately, I smelled Ian. Or at least, I associated the smell of air conditioning with summer and with Ian. Next week (May 25) will mark one year since Ian and I moved to Page. The prickly pears flowers are blooming like they were when we first got here. A year really has passed, it seems.

But counting time betrays the heart. Healing doesn’t follow any sort of clock.

My grief is showing itself less and less through tears and more through frustration, indecision…I am frozen perhaps. The inability to choose drives me crazy.

Indecision for making summer plans has been my normal. My therapist told me not to make plans, just do what I feel in the moment, that it’s okay to let myself drift.

Me? Not making plans? I’m the queen of plans, I love to plan, and usually I love to plan summer. But not this year.

My choices are heavily weighed on invisible obligations.

To Hesperus or not to Hesperus? I wonder.

Some days I think being up at the Hesperus meadow on June 24th sounds like the perfect plan. To reconnect with the mountains and Ian’s spirit that wanders there. I’m curious to see the raging river that took Ian’s life, to see if last year’s record breaking snowpack was truly an anomaly or not. I’m curious to wade into that river, to feel that cold snow melt rushing around me.

Other days, I think maybe I’ll be in the Redwoods or still in Page, swimming in the lake.

But then I question myself- why the need to go on June 24th? It is the day he died yes, but to me it was the day the search began. Ian didn’t die in my mind until the fall when his body was discovered. I wonder why am I so attached to being up at Hesperus on the June 24th date when I could perhaps visit at any point in the summer or fall.

Ian’s family is hosting a memorial for him in New York…to drive or fly? 2,400 miles of driving one direction or a 16 hour flight with three layovers. Leaving the remote southwest is not easy with limited airport options. And if I flew- who would watch Mallow, my high maintenance dog? Of course, I’ll drive so I can take her.

Or perhaps not go at all? Stay in the west, accept a job offer in California, accept a job offer in Page, or take a month off and go visit my family, ending the cross country road trip in New York for another memorial for Ian.

Then of course, there’s always that desire to run away completely. Into the woods to sleep in the dirt. Day dreams of backpacking the summer away without cell phone service. Immersed in the trees to climb mountains and swim in backcountry streams. Drift back into the natural world and away from the human world. Yes, that’s always on the list of possibilities.

Oh, summer choices have never felt so hard to make. Even when I commit to a plan I don’t feel committed. So I sign up for another therapy session, and look at my notes from the last one:

It’s okay to not know. Lean into the unknown. My desire to plan is not working for me right now with no clear sense of what to do. My soul identifies with being a planner. I’m on my way to a new way. It’s okay to drift.

Aye aye aye, at war with my internal dialogue.

What’s been helpful during this time of indecision is taking refuge in the crimson canyons and apricot cliffs near Page. Writing about Glen Canyon has been a wonderful way to get out of my head and back into the world.

Feeling the hot sun dry the water droplets on my skin within minutes. Smelling the heat in the air, noticing the smell of humidity move in with afternoon storms. Touching the brittle sandstone underwater, breaking off in my fingers. Hearing the call of raven and canyon wren echo off the steep walls. Watching the water lap against the shore, crashing into red rock stained white.

Tracking observations about the changing lake levels, paddling into quiet coves to watch the fish swim underneath the canoe, snorkeling over submerged plants, sleeping out on bare rock. Waking up earlier to walk and staying out later to run.

My journals have been full of the spring changes that abound in canyon country. The animal world around me has woken up with a vengeance to explore before the summer heat sends them back into their holes. Lizards scatter in every direction when Mallow and I take a step on rock. Herons soar overhead the bighorn sheep babies who follow their parents up and down the cliff faces. Fish leap out of the water sporadically and little kangaroo rats dart across the road. Rabbits and foxes dash from bush to bush, while coyotes yip and howl to lure Mallow into their pack, but she always comes back after a chase.

When I’m outside, moving my body and observing the world, the burden of grief feels more bearable. The dull, distracting ache can completely disappear when I’m walking through ankle deep water, flowing through a canyon that keeps changing rock layers: from red to orange to white to brown. Canyon walls moving from smooth to pocketed with holes and caves to crumbling to warped and titled and back to smooth.

Walking in the desert fills me with hope. My eyes have been trained to see a barren landscape dotted with life. My heart is trained to detect abundance in scarcity. My feet are trained to wander in the wash and follow my nose to find water. My mind is trained to believe in the unseen.

Spending time in nature doesn’t ever feel like checking out, but checking in to something deep. Checking in to an interconnected ecosystem that is bigger than me and related to all past, present and future.

After all, Ian is entrenched in these waters, both in memory, spirit, and body. Together, we wandered the many side canyons of Glen Canyon and swam in the lake every day last summer. His body died in a Colorado tributary and his ashes were spread in three more tributaries that all eventually end up in Lake Powell. His spirit watches over these waters, that I am sure.

I have learned to feel connected to Ian in ways that go beyond speech and physical form. He visits us in the herons, wrens, and ravens, that I am sure.

What to do with my time on earth, with the people left behind, where to go and for how long…now that I am still unsure of.

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