I will admit it, I was wallowing.  I was sitting at the counter crying.  I had just come in from being outside for the longest amount of time yet this season.  Trudy and I had done all our Sunday chores and we had been out with the chickens enjoying the sun.  Sitting in the adirondack chair on the porch, I had remembered a conversation James and I had last spring, when we first found out he was terminal.  “What if this is the last spring we have together?” we wondered that day side by side on the porch. It was so hard to even conceive then, but it feels just as hard even now in the reality of it. 

I was wallowing.  My tears were flowing and I was angry and frustrated and heartbroken that this was our “someday”.  This.  This beautiful home that he and I poured our dreams into; this amazing farm and all the creatures that live here with us; this Eden made together, perfectly suited to our way of life. But with a vacant seat next to me, it no longer feels like the dream we had been creating, it feels like a nightmare. This wasn’t a singular dream, but a shared one.  And none of it feels even remotely the same without him.

I was crying because there was no boiler in the turn-around, no taps in maple trees, no hoses filling buckets.  There had been no need for me to put all the sticks from the yard near the fire, no need for me to pull up a lawn chair and smell the sweet smoke as James made maple syrup. There were no boots on the porch column, propped up in relaxation.  No suggestion about whether we’d be snacking on chips and homemade salsa or bread with “dippy stuff.”  

And so I wallowed.  I felt sorry for myself.  I felt angry at the world on my own behalf.  I cursed cancer and the unfairness of life for taking him away from me, from here, from our dreams.  And I spoke with him as I sobbed, begging him to return, begging him to come back and live the rest of this dream with me.

And then I pulled myself together.  I dried my face and blew my nose and I sat back down.  I reminded myself that this is just a new chapter in my dream and I have had many new chapters before this – none nearly so hard, but still new chapters.  I thought back to the first time I had to reenvision my future – a time when I was divorcing my first husband.  The first time, perhaps that a dream didn’t go the way I thought it would.  I remember even as I tried then to create a new path forward, even as I studied and applied and got accepted to graduate school to pursue a Masters in Creative Writing, even that new dream never came to fruition due to a disagreement over custody.  “I have redefined and abandoned dreams before,” I reminded myself with soggy tissues in my fist.

I thought about the way my dreams were reshaped when I moved to Michigan. A risky move in the best of light, I uprooted my about-to-be middle school son and moved four states away from his father with no job and very little in savings.  It was a move that led me back to teaching though, it led me to a home with arched doorways and beautiful flower beds; it led Jacob to a debt-free college career and it eventually led me to James.  “I’ve done hard things before,” I told myself.  “And I did all of those alone, too.”

As I continued to sit, my breathing steadier now, my eyes dried and my focus narrowed, I thought more intently on all the ways my path has turned and detoured over the years and I heard the question rise in my gut, “What if…” What if my dreams had gone the way I had imagined them from the start?  What if my first marriage had lasted?  It might have been a life full of blessings, or sorrow, or indifference, we will never know, but I would never have had my years with James.  I would never have had this farm, this property, any property probably. “What if…” my mind continued.  What if I had gone to Bucknell for graduate school?  What if I had pursued my writing over twenty years ago?  I never would have been in the classroom.  I never would have had all these years with my students.  “What if…” continued to push my thinking, push my heart into crevices I hadn’t wanted to look at before.  What if James was sitting right here?  What if he was with me, on the bar stools at the counter.  What if he could talk to me right now, what would he say to me? He might say, “It’s circus money,” a phrase we picked up from the movie, “We Bought a Zoo.” What if the money he left isn’t just there to pad my retirement, or to help me manage the farm?  What if some of the money is for my next dream? 

The truth is, I don’t know what the future holds and if my time at the counter wallowing and questioning today is worth anything, it’s a good reminder that my plans don’t often go the way I intend them to. 

But, I was reminded today that my story does not yet have an ending, I am simply turning a page to a new chapter.  And if I know anything from these past experiences, it’s that I can trust the next chapter.  I can trust that it will turn out okay, and not only that it will turn out okay, but that it will be full of joy and blessings.  I can trust from my experiences that it will continue to make me feel more like myself every step of the way.  I can trust whatever direction I pursue it’s a path that will use my talents and passions and it will push me forward into new adventures.  

I can trust the next chapter and everything that comes with it because I am the author.