TWO AARP Magazines?! Really?!

My current mood can be traced back three weeks ago, when I hosted my supervisor and my cooperative extension colleagues on a tour of one of my research sites high in the Sierra Nevada. My supervisor related how she had told one of my advisor colleagues that she should ask me about a car care question - that I had “good dad vibes.”

Make no mistake - among my many roles and identities, “Dad” is one of my favorites. And I also know that being a Dad means sharing - at times unsolicited (just ask my daughters!) - lessons learned from experience. But if I’m honest, her comment also made me feel old.

At the end of that week, I travelled to Idaho for work, and continued on to Colorado to see my youngest daughter, Emma. During my trip, I was especially struck by the respect with which I was treated by complete strangers (in airports, at restaurants, etc.). I don’t know that I’ve ever been called “sir” so frequently. Maybe I was simply more aware of the term.

Tonight, I’ve just returned home after two days of (at least for me) physically demanding field work. I’m exhausted. Along with a handful of colleagues, I am five years into a project examining the effects of targeted grazing with sheep and goats in a commercial mixed conifer landscape. Our work these last two days has involved crashing through stands of 10 foot high deer brush in the Mosquito Fire burn scar to estimate biomass. We’re working on 30 to 45 degree slopes in vegetation where we can’t see one another from 15 feet away.

Last night, we enjoyed an amazing barbecue dinner - I brought ground lamb, hamburger buns, and homemade pesto. My colleagues brought potatoes and corn for roasting, and lettuce and tomatoes for the lamb burgers. We had a great time!

But during the course of the conversation, I realized that I am 21 years older than my next oldest colleague on this project. I was doing a college internship for the California Cattlemen’s Association in the year that he was born! I was well into my career when the others were born. Maybe I am old! And so I also wondered about how my colleagues viewed me - did they take it easy on me as we were trudging up and down the brushy slopes at UC Berkeley’s Blodgett Experimental Forest?! I hope not! But I’m appreciative if they did….

Here’s the thing…. I still feel like I’m 25 between my ears. Younger, sometimes - when I think about asking someone on a “date” and still feel awkward. Some would say that my sense of humor stalled out at about 12 years old. Even when I look at myself in a mirror and see the gray in my mustache, I still see a younger version of me. I never think to ask for a senior discount - mostly because I don’t think of myself as a senior! On the other hand, though, I feel my age after a day like this - after the two-and-a-half hour drive home this afternoon, I was stiff and sore when I got out of the truck. And I don’t have much energy this evening. Tonight, I feel every bit of 59!

Some of my current mood, no doubt, is related to the anniversary of Sami’s passing. Stressful situations, I know, age a person. Whenever I see a photograph of me from before COVID, I’m struck by how dark my mustache was just 6 years ago! I’m certain the stress of being a Dad to a high school student and a college student through the pandemic, followed by Sami’s brief illness and passing, has been part of turning my facial hair silver!

But this evening, as I turned onto my road and stopped for my mail, I found two (that’s right, TWO!!) copies of the AARP magazine in my mailbox. Both addressed to Sami! She would have been so pissed! She hated being called ma’am - and she hated seeing gray in her hair!

Feeling old - and actually getting old, I guess - is a privilege. I hope I get older! And I hope that whatever lessons I’ve learned in 59 years (I’ll turn 60 eight months from tomorrow) are helpful!

But please - just one AARP magazine is enough….

Do They Remember?

Maybe 14 or 15 years ago, I gave away one of my favorite livestock guardian dogs, Boise. He was an Akbash-cross, and he was named by our youngest daughter, Emma. She wanted to name him Daisy, but I said, “Emma, he’s a boy dog.” She replied, “Okay, his name is Boise.” Since that time, every livestock guardian dog we’ve owned was named after a western town - we’ve had Reno, Vegas, Bodie, Dillon, and Elko. And I might be forgetting one or two!

Boise was a great dog - protective of his sheep, submissive in their presence. But his protectiveness led him to leave our electro-net paddocks. If there was something that needed to get away from the sheep, he made sure to let them know. In our operation, on leased pastures in the midst of small ranchettes, we couldn’t keep a dog who wouldn’t stay in his pasture. And so I gave him to McCormack Sheep and Grain in Rio Vista, where he would protect sheep on more than 3,000 acres. And where the neighbors (all farmers and ranchers) wouldn’t object to a big white dog chasing coyotes through their properties.

Several years later, for a short time, I went to work for McCormack Sheep and Grain. On my first day, I drove up to the lambing barn and Boise ran out to the road and gave me absolute hell. I rolled down the window and said, “Hey, Boise!” He paused, and then went into a whole body wag. He didn’t recognize the truck, but he recognized me! Or at least my voice, my appearance, and my scent.

I think of my experience with Boise periodically when I’m feeding the mules. Or working my small handful of sheep and goats with Mae, my border collie. Or when I decide to try to brush my last remaining livestock guardian dog, Bodie. Or on days like today, when I visit the sheep owned by my friend Nathan, who took my guardian dog Dillon when I sold most of my sheep after Sami’s passing. By the way, I’m pretty sure Dillon recognized me!.

I think of this because these animals - my mules, Frisbee and Boomer, and my dogs, Mae and Bodie, are the animals who “knew” Sami. And the animals who Sami knew. Do they recognize her absence? Do they remember?

I don’t want to anthropomorphize animals, but I do wonder about how animals recognize places, people, and things. I suspect sight and smell are a big part of this - and probably sound. Why did Boise recognize me when I rolled down my window and spoke to him?

Boomer, Sami’s mule, is an interesting case study. He was an extreme case of a “one person mule.” He preferred women, but he much preferred Sami to anyone else. When Sami was alive, he’d rarely - if ever - let me approach him, let alone put a halter on me. I’ve never ridden Boomer

Today, he’s still reluctant to let me touch him. But with a bribe of grain (or with the manipulation of ignoring him while spending time with his sister - and my mule - Frisbee), I can handle him. I wonder if I had a piece of clothing that smelled like Sami whether this would be easier.

What about the dogs that knew Sami. Bodie hates to be brushed, but he would tolerate it from Sami. Mae doesn’t like to work for anyone but me, but she’d grudgingly work for Sami. Do they remember her?

And I wonder about the nature of memory. Sensory perceptions - a song, a scent, or a particular sight that we enjoyed together can bring back memories of Sami. Today, I heard the song Road to Las Cruces (the Corb Lund version), which we happened to hear as we were approaching Las Cruces on our last trip together in 2023. And the song - the words, yes, but also the tune - brought back memories. And even though I’m in a new place, these hot, late July days bring back memories of Sami’s last seizure and our decision to enter hospice care.

I do think animals and humans get to know one another. My mules certainly see when the light comes on in the kitchen in the morning - and they give me about 45 minutes to myself before they expect to be fed. Bodie knows when the border collies yip with excitement in the mornings and evenings that I’m headed out to feed him. Is this nothing more than a Pavlovian response? Maybe. But I think it’s more than conditioning. I also think about the point in time when I will have animals who didn’t know Sami. And who Sami didn’t know. 

My Summer Check-in

My little abode - July 20, 2026

There must be something about July for me. I’ve realized over the last week or so that I seem to need to check in with myself about this time of year. Perhaps the heat of mid-summer and long daylight hours make me reflective. More likely, July leads up to some of the most difficult anniversaries for me - Sami and I would have been married 36 years on August 4. Nine days later, I’ll pass the third anniversary of her death. My last two July check-ins (Checking in with Myself in 2024,  Checking in Again in 2025) have been somewhat disorganized (at least looking back on them now); I suspect this entry will be an equally chaotic collection of the thoughts and emotions tumbling around in my head over these last several weeks. Perhaps organizing these words into a blog post will help me organize my thoughts a bit more coherently. We’ll see….

As I re-read my last to check-in entries, I realize that a common thread is exhaustion. Whether it’s the heat, the work, the emotional stress of the approaching anniversaries - or (mostly likely) a combination of all of these, I seem to feel drained during the last half of July.

Sometimes my exhaustion feels like simple laziness. I wonder if, at 59, my energy is permanently diminished (the answer is probably yes!). I think about the things that I should be doing around my place, or in my job, and wonder if I’m just lethargic. Other days, I look around at what I’ve accomplished in setting up my new home, at what I’ve done in my professional life in the last year, and I think, “I have every right to be tired - I’ve been really damn busy!” In some ways, I think I’m still adjusting to managing a household on my own. To caring for a piece of land that, while still very small, is twice the size of the property Sami and I managed together in Auburn. Some days, I can cut myself some slack. Some days I feel like a slacker.

While I am very grateful to have been able to move closer to family to help care for my parents, I’ve also realized over these last few weeks that there has been no let-up in the anxiety and stress that comes with being a caregiver. Although I’m much closer now than I was in Auburn, most of the work of caring for my parents has fallen to my sister. That said, the sense of “what crises will I need to manage today?” has been unrelenting since we learned of Sami’s cancer in January 2023. I have come to think of it as baseline stress - it’s always there.

I suspect anyone who loses a life partner naturally thinks about their own mortality. I think about missing important milestones in the lives of our daughters. About failing to accomplish the things I still hope to accomplish - or experience the things and places I still hope to experience. Since Sami’s illness, I’ve tried to take my own health more seriously. I walk (or jog - very slowly) most days. I take the stairs instead of the elevator. I try to do something outside every day. I’ve tried to be more conscious about my diet - my meals are very simple, but mostly made from scratch. And this year, I finally relented and took my doctor’s advice about taking cholesterol medication. I’m so grateful to have been able to celebrate Emma’s graduation from college and Lara’s marriage to Micah; I hope I get to celebrate many more milestones in their lives! And maybe a few milestones in my own life!

I have begun to appreciate that my life’s experience in animal agriculture has given me, perhaps, a rare perspective on the biological realities of life and death. As a friend told me several years ago, raising livestock - knowing that some of the animals in our care will die no matter what we do - prepares our hearts for harder things. This is not meant to trivialize death. Further, death is not the opposite of health. Having directly participated in both bringing new life into the world and in providing the release of death when it was humanely necessary, I feel like my life’s work in raising sheep prepared me for those final moments with Sami, holding her hand as she took her last breath. And I’ve been thinking about that a great deal in these last few weeks.

Life and death happen all around us. Every day. In the last 12 months, I’ve celebrated birth, and I’ve mourned loss (as each of us has). I’ve realized that I’m not frightened by death itself, but by the process of dying.

That’s enough introspection on my own mortality, I suppose…

As our wedding anniversary approaches, and after celebrating Lara and Micah’s beautiful wedding in May, I’ve also been pondering the nature of wedding vows. Of the meaning of the word “forever.” I was fortunate to be married to Sami for her entire adult life. I have realized this summer that I was her “forever.” My forever has yet to be defined. I’ve also realized that I am now the sole repository of memories of those years when our family was just Sami and me. I’ve been thinking about the things we did together - both before and after we were married - that only we knew about. Some of these memories will remain private; some are things that I have shared - or will share - with our girls. But I’ve realized that these memories will only reflect my perspective - how I wish I could ask Sami what she remembers about that picnic on Putah Creek, or the camping trip at Ice House Reservoir (or a hundred other things I remember).

Several months ago, I asked a new acquaintance what was good or enjoyable about being 59. She answered that she felt like she was at a point where she was free to decide what SHE wanted to do - without as much worry about obligations or expectations. Her answer made me think about my own perspective on reaching this age. I feel like I am finally beginning to understand that change takes time - that my own impatience doesn’t necessarily bring about change more quickly. Paradoxically, I suppose, I understand that time is a necessary catalyst for change, even though I have less time left. I find that I’m more comfortable letting change happen on its own timeline. I’ve also - finally - begun to trust my intuition. If something - or someone - seems off to me, it - or they - probably are. If I feel as though I can trust someone, or if I sense some degree of compatibility or friendship - I find that my instincts are usually right. For me, at least, this has not always been the case - for most of my life I have been a master at second guessing myself.

Finally, I read a piece of clickbait recently about why some Finnish men seem to have lower rates of dementia. The article, which turned out to be based on legitimate research, found that men who completed something with their hands most days - woodworking or cooking from scratch, for example - tended to have significantly lower rates of dementia. I immediately thought back to my experience in high school shop classes. While I pursued an academic-focused education and career, I carried the lessons from teachers like Mr. Sterni, Mr. Clyde, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Buetler into my adult life. I’m not much of a mechanic (sorry Mr. Smith!), but I get so much satisfaction from working with my hands. From transforming a board into something useful - or now, from transforming a tree into a board with my portable sawmill. And that sense of cyclical completion, I realize now, is what I have so loved about raising sheep - the tactile and creative relationship with the world around me.

These blog posts are largely letters to myself - but I can’t tell you how much it means to me that my friends read them, too. In that regard, they are letters to you, as well. I appreciate your feedback, your friendship, and your generosity. I don’t know if the quality of my writing is sufficient for a longer work, but I take great satisfaction from the act of creating - and from your responses. Thank you.

Grief, Memory, and Geography

Over the last week, my work has taken me to several places in the Sierra Nevada that Sami and I visited. Last week, I participated in a Forest Service meadow monitoring training in the Lakes Basin Recreation Area between Sierra City and Graeagle. I camped with my dogs next to Snag Lake, near Gold Lake Highway. This week, I’m collecting data for an ongoing targeted grazing research project at UC Berkeley’s Blodgett Research Forest east of Georgetown. After a warm day of crawling through deer brush, I took my dogs swimming up Wentworth Springs Road at Stumpy Meadows Reservoir.

These excursions remind me of earlier trips to these regions with Sami - in some cases, even before we were parents. I can remember driving Wentworth Springs Road headed for Ice House Reservoir one Memorial Day weekend when we were first married, in the early 1990s. As I recall, we learned that the campground at Ice House was full, and decided to head for the Sonora Pass area. I can also remember a trip past Stumpy Meadows with our friends John and Sandy Schwartzler - and their American Cream mules - in the early 2000s. We drove the mules on logging roads all afternoon. It was one of my first experiences driving a team!

Somewhere around 2000, we took our vacation at Elwell Lakes Lodge in the Lakes Basin country. We stayed in a cabin and spent our days hiking and fishing. I think Lara was nearly 3 years old - I can remember packing her on my back when she grew tired of walking. And I remember catching brook trout on a little lake on the west side of Long Lake. It was a great trip - and our first real vacation as parents.

But these trips happened more than 20 years ago now. These memories are both happy and hazy. And at this stage in my grieving process, I find myself wishing I could ask Sami what she remembers about them. Did we really stay at my parents’ house on that night we found no room at Ice House (and were my parents gone, as I seem to remember)? When we drove the mules, was Emma old enough to walk? Did Lara get to help drive them for a bit? Did our first trip to Lakes Basin lead to a second camping trip? And did we experience an earthquake while we were playing at a nearby lake? And what lake was it?

I wrote recently that I was struggling with not having big conversations about Sami’s wishes for me and the girls after she got sick. But I’ve realized that what I really miss, in many ways, is being able to reminisce about these happy experiences. I miss seeing these memories through Sami’s eyes. I miss laughing about how we both remembered different things about these happy times.

Much like music, the geography that Sami and I once enjoyed together can be bittersweet for me. Traveling routes alone that we once traveled together can make me both sad and happy. In my little corner of the planet - the Sierra Nevada and Sierra foothills between Quincy and Yosemite - I’ll often go around a bend in the road, or drive up the main street of a little town - and remember something that we experienced together in that place.

But I’ve also realized - just today - that I’m doing things (finally) by myself that Sami would not have enjoyed doing together (at least at the age we’d both be now). Several years before she got sick, Sami said she no longer enjoyed camping if it meant sleeping on the ground. I’ve always loved to camp - and still do. And this spring and early summer, I’ve camped both for fun and for work - 3 nights in the last month. I hope I continue to find new things (or rediscover old things) that I enjoy doing on my own. I suppose this is part of the grieving process as well.

Memory is an interesting phenomenon. I’ve always thought the smell of fresh cut grass in the spring meant baseball; in the fall, it meant football. Music has always transported me back to the place - and the emotions - where I first heard a particular song. And the geography I return to, I’m learning, reminds me of experiencing it for the first time with Sami. At least this evening, these memories don’t bring the intense sadness they did when I first traveled after Sami’s passing. At least this evening, they bring a mix of melancholy and happiness. Maybe that’s moving forward with my grief….

Cellular Memory

Now that I’m on my own, Father’s Days are bittersweet. This evening, as I was doing the dishes, I had a flashback to Father’s Day 2023. We were in San Francisco at the end of a three week stretch at UCSF and St. Francis Memorial. Sami had been treated for ongoing subclinical seizures at UCSF. And St. Francis prepared us for living with Sami’s inability to care for herself. On that particular Father’s Day, I hiked from Ocean Beach to the Golden Gate. And had a burger and beer for lunch while I wrote in my journal. As I recall, I missed our former lives. Little did I know.

We didn’t realize it at the time, but we were at the front end of what turned out to be the beginning of the end of her life. As I look back at my blog posts and journal entries from that time period, I am reminded of how anxious we all were. Of how the trauma of seeing my wife unable to articulate how she was feeling through the brain fog she was experiencing affected me physically, mentally, and emotionally. Of how seeing the woman who’d run a half marathon eight months before confined to a wheel chair broke my heart. Of how the dysfunction of the medical-insurance-industrial complex frustrated and angered me. Of my inability to articulate my fear, fatigue, and exhaustion to Sami.

Since Sami died, anniversaries have been difficult. Our wedding anniversary (August 4) and the anniversary of her birthday (November 10) are obviously hard; so is the anniversary of her passing (August 13). Knowing our daughters are without their mother is especially difficult every Mother’s Day. Celebrating Father’s Day without Sami makes the absence of our daughters all the more difficult, even though I know they are where they need to be! But these little anniversaries of the turning points in Sami’s six-plus months of living with (and dying from) glioblastoma are also extremely hard. They are reminders of the trauma and anxiety we felt in 2023.

I have found these past few weeks that I’m especially sad and tired. Part of this, I’m sure, is the melancholy I always feel when I return home after spending time with our daughters (Lara’s wedding was an incredible celebration!). But my sadness and exhaustion seem more visceral. I feel as though the cells of my body remember the stress of those June days three years ago. The physical effects of trauma and anxiety seem slow (very slow!) to leave my body.

Over the last several weeks, I’ve struggled (again) with being alone but not wanting to be in the company of others. I’ve felt dull and listless. I struggle to know what will make me happy at the moment; I feel like I’m in a holding pattern of some kind.

In my last blog post, I wrote that Sami had expressed her wishes for our daughters (not directly to me, but at least to a friend). And I wrote that Emma, and now Lara, have fulfilled Sami’s wishes for them. But as I was feeding my animals this morning, I realized that since I don’t know what Sami wished for me, I feel as though I’m in an in-between place. And as I write these words, I’m struck by the fact that I can’t ever know what she wished for me. Hard words, but maybe ultimately freeing?

Conversations We Never Had

Nine days ago, I returned home from an eleven day trip through the Southwest. Our oldest daughter, Lara, married her partner of five years, Micah Funk, in Las Cruces, New Mexico. On the trip down, I caravaned with my sister and brother-in-law - Lara wanted home-raised lamb as part of their wedding meal (along with the chickens she and Micah raised and processed). Emma, our youngest, was Lara’s maid of honor. She and her boyfriend Karson drove through the night on the Tuesday before the wedding to help with preparations. Both Lara and Emma sewed their own dresses. Lara and Micah grew dried flowers for the wedding, which were displayed in bud vases Lara made. We spent the days before the wedding helping Lara and Micah get ready. And the wedding itself was incredibly beautiful - and unique in the way both of my daughters are unique. I can’t quite describe it beyond that.

The wedding was on Friday; on Sunday, I left for the second half of my trip (a meandering route through the Southwest, culminating in two days at the Grand Canyon). As has always been the case since I’ve been alone, leaving my daughters was incredibly hard. As happy as I was during the week of the wedding, I was equally sad on the drive to Albuquerque - I think I cried during a good part of the three-hour trip.

My route through northern New Mexico, southern Colorado, the Four Corners, the Navajo Nation, and (finally) the Grand Canyon, was beyond description. I’ve read fiction and nonfiction works about the landscape I drove through; even the best writers couldn’t prepare me for the beauty of the landscape. And while I realize this is a trite expression, the Grand Canyon took my breath away. Like everyone with a cell phone, I took lots of photos - but I found that I didn’t want any photos with me in the foreground. The immensity of the Grand Canyon made me feel appropriately insignificant.

But the drive home was difficult, despite the beauty. Lara and Micah had graciously invited me to make a toast after dinner at the wedding. As I considered what I wanted to say, I thought about those who were not able to be in Las Cruces to celebrate the wedding. My Mom and Dad, whose health prevented them from traveling. Lara’s maternal grandparents, Sami and Barbara, and her uncle Sherif, who passed away some years ago. And Sami. Especially Sami.

Shortly after she was diagnosed with glioblastoma, Sami told me, “I always assumed I’d outlive you.” During the course of our marriage, we talked generally about our wishes about our own mortality. We both hoped - even more after Sami’s parents died - that we’d be able to be at home until the end of our lives. Towards the end of Sami’s extended stay at UCSF and St. Francis Hospital (when we had begun to realize that she wouldn’t recover), we had a very emotional discussion about whether she wanted to go back to a hospital once we returned home. She did not - and I did not want her to. And, as it turned out, she was home until the end. She passed in the bedroom we’d shared in our home in Auburn.

But we didn’t talk about our wishes for one another. We didn’t acknowledge, as Jason Isbell writes, that it was “likely one of us will have to spend some days alone.” We joked about it - the old joke about the husband who asks his wife if she’d remarry if he died:

“Would you let him live in our house?” he asked.

“Yes - I love this neighborhood, and it’s nearly paid for.”

“Would you let your new husband sleep in our bed?”

“Probably,” she answered, “It’s a nice bed.”

“Would you let him use my golf clubs?!” he asked, worried now.

“No,” she said, “He’s left-handed.”

Since neither one of us golfed, we usually changed the punchline to:

“Would you let him ride in my saddle?!”

“No,” she said, “He rides English.”

After she got sick, Sami told her friend and colleague Michele that she hoped Emma would graduate from college (Emma studied from home during the spring semester of her sophomore year at the University of Idaho, and graduated on time - and with honors - in May 2025). And she hoped that Lara and Micah would get married. On May 15, 2026, both of the hopes that Sami articulated for her daughters came to pass.

But what were her hopes for me? For that matter, what would have been my hopes for Sami, had I preceded her in death? We never talked about it. I can’t speak for her, but I know the possibility that one of us would be left alone never really occurred to me until the spring of 2023. Would she have wanted me to seek another relationship? Would I have wanted her to do so? I think I would have, but I never had to consider the question. I don’t know that Sami ever thought about it, either.

Looking back, I know that part of why I never asked Sami any of these questions was because they made me feel as though I was giving up any hope for Sami's recovery. I felt like I needed to stay hopeful - to focus on a future with Sami rather than the (as it turned out) inevitable future without her.

I find myself now in a place where I would like companionship. I think I’m ready for a relationship - maybe. But I also know that the grief I carry with me can be a barrier. At least for me, and likely for any potential companion. If I’m honest, I also worry about what other people will think - my family, my friends. Sami.

All of which brings me back to the idea of marriage. I was so incredibly fortunate to be married to Sami for 33 years. Our marriage was not - by any measure - perfect. We disagreed. We argued. We hurt one another at times. But we persisted. We molded our personal lives to each other - driving through the arid Southwest, I kept coming back to the idea that our relationship was like that between a river and its banks. We shaped each other - and now that Sami is gone, I’m unsure of my own course going forward.

 

Two Things at the Same Time

This will probably not surprise anyone who knows me, but the photo album on my phone is dominated by photos of sheep. Me with sheep. Dogs with sheep. Goats with sheep. Sheep with sheep. For the last 20 years, raising sheep has been a huge part of my life. Being a shepherd is at the core of my self-identity. I am nearly always happy when I’m in the presence of sheep.

 

As I’ve written before, another part of my self-identity for more than 30 years was being Sami’s husband and partner. Of being the “Mr.” in “Dr. and Mr. Macon.” Sami and I both had our own lives (our own friends, our own careers, our own interests), but for the 35 years we were together (33 as husband and wife) we were also Dan and Sami. Sami and Dan.

 

I have realized, approaching three years since Sami’s passing, that both identities have changed. I now raise sheep as a hobby – I guess I’m still a shepherd, but it doesn’t feel the same to me. And I’m Sami’s widower. These changes are related, to some degree. I gave up raising sheep as a business to care for Sami and then to accommodate the transition to living solo. Learning to manage a household all on my own seemed overwhelming at first – like I couldn’t care for a flock of sheep while also caring for myself. And so I’ve also realized that I grieve for both losses.

 

Earlier this week, I posted a photo of myself leading my little hobby flock of sheep and goats into a new paddock. It was a beautiful evening in the Sierra foothills – one of those spring evenings where the clouds are rolling in but the sun is still shining. And I was laughing because the sheep and goats were following me with the enthusiasm of grazing animals who know they’re being led to fresh grass. Looking at the photo today, I definitely look happy. I WAS happy!

 

This morning, someone remarked about my smiling photo, saying, “It looks like you’re BACK!” The comment caught me off guard, which I found curious. What does “you’re back” mean? Back from grief? Back from mourning? Back to my old self?

 

I suppose that I can see that from another’s perspective – maybe I haven’t looked or seemed very happy (or at least happy very often) over these last three years. But being “back” doesn’t describe how I feel. I don’t think anyone gets “back” to who they were before they experienced such a profound loss. I don’t think anyone gets “over” grieving – and I’m not sure that I want to “move on.” I do want to move forward. To carry what being Sami’s partner (and what being a shepherd) was like into whoever I will become, for however long I have left. I want to be open to new relationships – friendship and companionship – but I also want to acknowledge that the three decades I spent as Sami’s partner have shaped who I am now. And who I will always be. Just like two decades of raising sheep commercially mean I’ll always think of myself as a shepherd.

 

And so back to my smile in the photo I took yesterday. I was genuinely happy. And I was also missing Sami. I missed telling her that the sheep and goats followed me like dogs. That the sky was beautiful. That it was a lovely springtime evening. I was both happy and sad, as I often am. More and more, I find that I can enjoy the happiness while embracing the sadness. I feel two things in the same moment. Maybe that’s what I mean by moving forward?