Message in the Grass

Life gets messy. It hurts sometimes. Sometimes it’s the level of hurt you’ve only heard about, when your life seems untouchable by such horror. Suddenly, there you are. Hot tears, gasping for breath that won’t come, and a deep ache that permeates muscle and bone. Your “sink or swim” moment. One of many. Most days, you can find a ray of hope to cling to while you pull yourself from the deep, complicated, Indiana Jones-style jungle pit. But some days, the most brutal days, outside assistance is required. Sometimes, the Universe knows you need a lifeline. A message so clear, so obviously meant for you in that precise moment, that it stops you in your tracks in disbelief.

It was early May, and a global pandemic was well under way. I had spent the last couple months adhering to the stay-at-home orders given by the governor, doing my part to help “flatten the curve”. But there was one place the coronavirus would not prevent me from visiting, and luckily, it did not shut down like many other public spaces. Vestal Hills Memorial Park. A cemetery. My safe place. The steep, giant hillside dotted with headstones, home to many ground creatures as well as crows and hawks that always seem to greet me when I arrive. I feel safe under the watchful eyes of these caretakers. I have been visiting this place since I was young, as most of my family members that have passed are laid to rest here. But these days, while most people are vocalizing their annoyance at being home-bound with their partners, it’s where I go to be with my husband, who was added to the family plot roster in 2018 at 39 years old.

On this sunny, but still chilly, late afternoon in the second week of May, I was having a hard time. What would have been my husband’s 41st birthday was the week prior, and though that date was indeed a rough one to get through, this day brought my new reality barreling into me like the bulls in Spain. But there was no side-stepping it, no red cape to distract it from goring me. If you know grief, you know this well. Some days, it just wants to destroy you. So I did the only thing my body would allow. I sat on the ground, with my arms wrapped around my knees, hung my head and cried loudly into my lap. My howling disturbed the creatures, I’m sure. I sat in this spot, next to my husband’s headstone, gasping for breath and on the verge of hyperventilating. I felt lost, deserted, terrified, abandoned, and surrounded by black. The rage that followed the isolating fear jolted through my body, and I jumped up. Looking to the sky, I noticed the hawks flying above, heading toward the top of the hill. They circled a bit, as if waiting for me to take notice and follow. Now that I was energized by rage, my body took off after them, allowing them to lead me up a steep incline and eventually a flat section where I gave up the pursuit. The hawks veered off to the west where I could not follow, and continued their journey. But the climb up the hill while still crying had thankfully dissolved my rage and left me exhausted.

I wandered the lawn like an old-school Romero zombie, drying tears from my face and regaining control of my breath. My head hung, I headed back to my husband’s section, taking the less steep route this time. I lifted my head and noticed this small patch of dirt ahead that was out of place, in the middle of the otherwise green lawn. With no grave sites in this section of the lawn, it seemed weird. It wasn’t there during my visit a few days prior. As I got closer, I saw its shape. I stopped a few feet back from it, and smiled. A heart. I shook my head, and loudly said “no way”. I laughed. I immediately felt warm, and loved. The feeling you get during a long hug with the one you love. I stared at this message in the grass for nearly 20 minutes, thanking my husband and the Universe and any other being or force or deity that made it possible for me to see this during my distress. I even thanked the hawks.

Stumbling upon this message didn’t erase the fears I had, but it brought some light in to infiltrate that deep dark so I could realize hope again. I didn’t feel alone anymore. I felt a little more strength to fight the grief that set out to end me. I felt the strong, loving spirit of my husband holding my hand and whispering love in my ears. I never thought I would be grateful for loose dirt in the grass. But here we are.

I look at this picture often. Because life gets messy. It hurts sometimes. My advice? Look for the little things, they not only matter most, but can save your life if you let them.

(Photo above taken on May 13, 2020 by Nixx Lea. Taken without filters, on automatic setting, using Samsung phone camera. No adjustments made post-photo, original shot.)