Two Years

Two years ago today, a Friday, I was likely at work in my office in Auburn. My calendar from January 6, 2023, says “Emma Home!” - she was midway through her sophomore year of college. Lara had been home; she’d left to return to New Mexico just before the end of December. I was looking forward to my upcoming sheep husbandry field day in mid January (it rained incredibly hard, but we still had a great turnout) and our driving trip to visit Lara in Las Cruces. As I sit in the kitchen of a new (to me) house on January 6, 2025, I can’t quite wrap my head around how much things have changed in just 24 months.

Several days ago, I tried to write down all of the significant events of the last two years. Sami’s illness and ultimate passing. My decision to sell most (and ultimately all) of our sheep - at least for now. My mom’s dementia diagnosis. Sami’s celebration of life. The decision to transfer to Calaveras County, where I’m doing the same job (UC Cooperative Extension Livestock and Natural Resources Advisor) in a different set of counties. Related to the change in jobs, the decision to sell our property in Auburn and buy a property in Mountain Ranch. The actual move (of all of our household goods and ranching equipment). Totaling my Toyota Tacoma on CA-20, and buying a new truck in late November and early December. Traveling to see our daughters in Idaho and New Mexico multiple times. Experiencing difficult first (and now second) anniversaries - of our wedding, of Sami’s birthday, of Sami’s passing.

I realized that the previous 24 months absolutely wore me out.

I write all of this not to seek sympathy, but to acknowledge what these last two years have been like. In January 2023, I was the extension livestock advisor for the county I’d lived in for 29 years. I was the county director, too, leading a staff of wonderful folks. I was a sheepman - Auburn’s own sheepherder, in lots of ways. And I was Sami’s husband (as I had been since August 4, 1990). Looking back from January 2025, I can’t quite fathom what life was like two years ago. I can’t really remember what I expected the rest of my life to be like.

Today, 24 months later, I’m none of these things. For the first time in 20 years, I will not have any lambing ewes this spring. I’m still an extension livestock advisor, but in a new set of counties. I’m nobody’s boss. I’m nobody’s life partner. 

I’m not sure where I belong. I’m not sure who I am. I’m not sure what (if anything) brings me joy at the moment. I’m lonely. I’m sad tonight. I wonder if moving (and leaving the community Sami and I were part of - part of building) was a mistake. I’m realizing that as I write this, my leg and back muscles are tense. I realize that anticipating something (like Christmas, or traveling to see my daughters) is much easier than the aftermath. Going on a trip to see them is far easier than coming home. Similarly, decorating my new place for Christmas was far easier than putting Christmas away.

I’m profoundly exhausted.

Some days, I can focus on the positive parts of my life. I’m the father of two incredibly strong young women, in whom I can see both Sami and myself. I have a wonderful sister and brother-in-law (and their adult kids) who have helped me navigate these last two years. I live in a beautiful place on a property that I own outright. I have a job I enjoy, and that I think I’m reasonably good at performing.

Over the last 24 months, I’ve done a fair bit of reading (and thinking - and writing!) about grief. Some describe grief as a stone that you carry in your pocket - and that as time goes on, and you get stronger, the stone feels lighter. But the stone is with you for the rest of your life. I’ve heard others describe grief as a box with a ball in it, and with a button that causes pain. When your grief is fresh, the ball is big, and so it rolls around and hits the pain button frequently. As time goes on, the box of your life gets bigger, and the ball of your grief shrinks - which means the pain button gets hit less frequently. But it still gets pressed.

Both of these descriptions feel reasonably close to my experience, so far. But I especially like Jimmy Buffet’s (yes, THAT Jimmy Buffet) take on grief. He writes:

”Grief is like the wake behind a boat. It starts out as a huge wave that follows close behind you and is big enough to swamp and drown you if you suddenly stop moving forward. But if you do keep moving, the big wake will eventually dissipate.”

Building on that imagery, grief (at least at this stage) feels like a day at the beach (hear me out)! When Sami first passed, the surf felt incredibly rough - like I would be sucked under the waves if I quit moving. As time went on, over the last two years, I began to feel like the surf had calmed. But the sneaker waves keep coming. Unexpected grief is difficult, and this weekend’s grief felt like I might be pulled away from the shore. Unsettling, to say the least. And probably why I’ve had difficult slowing down - I keep moving, which is both helpful and exhausting.

I’ve never been much for New Year’s Resolutions, but I do use the changing of one year’s calendar to the next to take stock. To think about things I’ve done and things I’d like to do. To think about what I’d like to do better. I guess this year is no different. I feel like I can be better about work-life balance. I hope that the change in jobs will help - but I’m still the guy who says “yes” far too often. I know that I’m the kind of person who seeks (and hopefully builds) community - I hope that I settle into my new one. I also know that working with my hands (whether with sheep, or with my new sawmill) brings me comfort and peace. And maybe - hopefully - joy.

Finally, a word of gratitude. I’ve been told that my vulnerability in writing about these last two years has been helpful. I hope that it has; even more, I am grateful to those of you who have reached out. Grief, as I’ve written before, requires community - even if that community is virtual. Thank you for being part of my community. And my grief.