Before and After

Photo by Daniel Lee Brown

The first two weeks of August will forever be a week of anniversaries. Sami and I were married on an extremely hot day in Sonora on August 4, 1990 - as I recall, the thermometer on the bank in Sonora read 108F when we drove past it on our way to our reception at the Mother Lode Fairgrounds. And Sami passed away early in the morning of August 13, 2023. August 2025, two years after Sami died from glioblastoma, has been difficult. Last week, I realized that my life has been divided. Into “before” and “after.”

This year, in August, I’ve experienced moments of profound sadness. Our anniversary was a rough day for me. August 13 was hard, too - but I was busy getting ready to go to a conference, so I avoided some of the grief. The challenges of this particular August have been intensified by my ongoing care-giving responsibilities - this time for my parents. As I approach the last week of my least favorite month, I feel like I’ve been scattered. Unable to concentrate. Unproductive. I’m looking forward to September.

Last month, I listened to an audio book by Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh, called No Death, No Fear.  He talks about how we all manifest ourselves in different ways, that we don’t really “leave” when we die - we just manifest differently. I’ve found this helpful. I’ve found that Sami still manifests herself in a variety of ways in my life. In the notes and recipes that are in my new kitchen. In the way that I look at problems. In the animals I care for. In my pride at the fact that I’ve made my bed, washed my clothes,... adulted… most days since she left me.

But I’m realizing that Sami also manifests herself in the physical world. I’ve written about the hawk that followed me on the walk I took on August 13, 2023, on the afternoon after Sami died. Red tailed hawks have always been significant for me, but the hawk that watched me walk on that saddest of days will make me forever associate red tailed hawks with Sami. As will my experiences since that day.

Since then, I’ve found several hawk feathers - don’t tell anyone, but I’ve collected them (which I suspect might be illegal). Both my daughters have had hawk feather tattoos - and I’ve had some ink applied too (a soaring hawk on my left shoulder, between my head and my heart). More significantly, red tail hawks have appeared at several important points in my life in the last 24 months.

In late June of last year, I was in escrow on a property in Mountain Ranch. I wasn’t terribly excited about it, but I was feeling pressure to find a place, since our home in Auburn was also in escrow. After giving a talk on vineyard grazing at Ironstone Vineyards, I met my realtor at a newly listed property between Mountain Ranch and Railroad Flat. I really liked it - the house was too big, but nice - and the property was perfect (a combination of grassland, conifers, and black oaks). But switching properties carried the risk of losing my deposit on the first property. I told my agent I needed to sleep on it.

That night, I dreamed about the second place - a place I’d only seen once. And I dreamed that I saw a red tailed hawk sitting on the gate post. I called my agent the next morning and told her I wanted to try to get out of the other escrow, and put an offer on the new place. The place where I’m living now. And I didn’t lose my deposit.

At some point in the last year, I had my last session with the grief therapist provided by hospice. I found these sessions helpful; this last session was difficult, because I finally felt like I needed to talk about some unresolved issues between Sami and I. I was sitting at the table in my new kitchen, looking out at the grassy hillside above my house. As I was struggling to talk about these difficulties, a red tailed hawk dropped out of the sky onto its next meal. I broke down.

Two weeks ago, I was talking to a new therapist, looking out the same window. We were talking about making time to reflect on what the impending anniversary of Sami’s death would be like - and about strategies for coping with my feelings about it. And another (maybe the same?) red tailed hawk dropped out of the sky.

My rational brain knows that I live in the midst of red tailed hawk habitat. That I’m likely to seek hawks where I live. But my emotional brain takes great comfort in seeing them. When I’m driving and I see a hawk perched on a power pole, I say, “Hi, Sami!” When I see a hawk catching an updraft, and soaring effortlessly, I think about what it must have felt like for Sami to leave her cancer-riddled body and fly. I find that these thoughts make me both happy and sad. Or maybe I’m trying to say, they make me think about before and after.