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Lobby Crying in Pismo Beach, CA


I'd left home March 15th and it was now April 2nd. I was car camping my way across America, seeing national and state parks and visiting friends and family along the way. Things were mostly going as planned - but then again, when it came to my time in California, I hadn't planned too much. I had ideas of things I wanted to do, places and people that I wanted to see, but I was intentionally not following a strict itinerary.



My sister Susan lived in California for 20 years, and though she is now in the midwest, many of her close friends still live there. My own exposure to them has been brief, but always lovely. They are supportive, talented, brilliant folks who love my sister, and for that reason alone I love each one of them.


Susan had notified her California mates that I might be coming, but due to my coddiwomple ways, she couldn't give them much warning. She only told them that her sister was car camping in California and might need a shower or a bed or a local recommendation.


To a person they all found a way to positively impact my trip. One hosted a dinner party, and then gave me beautiful accommodations in her "she shed". One recommended the state park where I first ran through redwoods. One played tour guide for three days and made it so pleasant I didn't want to leave. This is the story of the one made me cry...but in a good way.


On April 2nd I met up with a friend of my sister's who lives north of L.A. We are both widows, and though it was our first time meeting in person, we dove deep and talked for hours. She went straight for my grief, in the most kind, positive and understanding way. Most people avoid talking about Mike, or avoid asking me if my trip is a result of my grief. She launched right in with insightful questions, leaving space for me to flounder and cry through my answers. As I drove away I pondered how it could be that our conversation could leave me feeling both hollowed out and full.


She later texted me this quote:



Many parts of this quote ring true. I'm not sure that I have any "deep natural wisdom", but it's certainly true that I often have no layer of protection. The slightest thing can make me think of Mike, and then I blink back tears. Or weep. Or wail and have trouble breathing. Facebook Memories or Google Photos notifications are minefields I've learned to avoid. Yesterday for example...this...


July 19, 1997. 26 years!

But more often than not there isn't any trigger outside of my own brain. An example I once shared with a friend: I was walking in my neighborhood and for no reason thought of the way that Mike wrote the number 5. That was it. I cried for the rest of the walk home.


All of his penmanship was special - why the number 5?

After my visit, I drove up the coast and pulled in to stay the night at Pismo State Beach - North Beach Campground. I went for a run, and ate, and then grabbed my book and went to the beach. You could just tell that a beautiful sunset was brewing, and I I didn't want to miss it. I sat high atop a sand dune and read my book and watched the sun dip down until it kissed the ocean, widened, and sunk.



In the morning I was feeling a little aimless, and my portable power station was low on charge . I drove around looking for a public outlet, without any luck. I didn't know what to do next, so I decided to practice a philosophy that was new to me: Follow your instincts and let the universe guide.


Reading felt pretty good. I finished my book on a park bench at Dino Beach. Then I thought having a new book would be good. So I plugged in "Little Free Library" into Google Maps - there was one just a mile away.


The location of the little free library was in front of a fancy beachfront hotel. I knew the universe had guided me well when the small box held books by two favorite authors - one of Mike's and one of mine. I parked and went inside.


It was a small lobby, with a desk and computer for a business center, a white leather loveseat and coffee table, a gift shop, a registration desk and some pretty good music playing softly from hidden speakers. Opting for the straightforward approach, I asked the front desk clerk it would be OK if I plugged in my fridge and portable power station - even though I wasn't a guest of the hotel. They smiled and told me "yes" immediately. With two trips to the car I had brought in both, along with my journal, which was in need of an update.


Nothing but the fanciest journals for me.

From my journal on the morning of 4/3/23: "Pismo Beach. I woke up fairly unhappy today. Hard to figure why and where it's coming from - but I'm going to write for exactly an hour and try to figure it out."


The next two pages I wrote about where I had been. My stops to see friends in L.A., the campground, the running paths, the hikes, how I slept. Then I started to write about where I was going and my plans for the immediate future. Then "Why am I avoiding writing about my feelings?"


Then these words, scribbled fast, with tear stains...

"Sign of the Times comes on ''Stop your crying baby it's a sign of the times. We got to get away.' OMG - now Falling comes on. And I'm crying."


"What am I now?

What am I now?

What if I'm someone I don't want around?

I'm falling again

I'm falling again

I'm falling

What if I'm down?

What if I'm out?

What if I'm someone you won't talk about?

I'm falling again

I'm falling again

I'm falling


And then this:

"A part of me knows this trip is about running away from the sadness that lives at my house."

That was it. That was the end of journaling about nonsense. A conversation, a sunset, and those lyrics from Harry Styles led to a single true sentence. And suddenly I'm lobby crying in Pismo Beach like there's no tomorrow. I hid my face and went out to the car for tissues. I remember sheepishly walking back in, red-eyed and puffy-faced, and I remember the kind, kind smile from that front desk clerk.


The music changed and I wrote my way out of my funk. My Bluetti charged up within an hour. As I packed up to leave, the front desk clerk offered me fresh baked, warm chocolate chip cookies that they were putting out for guests. Of course I said yes. "Take two." (God, I love them!) I took my fridge to the car and returned with money. From among the various tchotchkes in the lobby store I selected a Pismo Beach bumper sticker. As I turned to leave, I held up the sticker and said "To remember the kindness that I found here."



Others may grieve differently. For me the most accurate description of grief is tidal waves of sadness that come and go without warning. And doubting that I'll ever fully recover. And the inevitability of the waves coming and coming and coming forever. It was a great love, therefore it is a great hurt. And I would not diminish the love by wishing away the grief. I welcome it to honor Mike and to honor what we had. Have.


And the story above is a sample - for what it's worth - of what it looks like for me some days: being in a beautiful place but feeling out of sorts, then being undone by a pop song. And then a stranger giving me a cookie. And recovery from the latest wave of grief starts again.


And always when I think of waves I think of Mike on our honeymoon in Hawaii. It was his first time playing in big, real ocean waves. And as I watched from shore I saw him get tossed by a huge wave - smashed and plowed and sent rolling and tumbling. He stood up shakily in the water and turned to me - and I swear he had sand in his teeth as he grinned at me in pure joy and discovery.


We stand up on shaky fawn's legs and we walk unsteadily in the shifting sand and we smile toward our loved ones. Wherever they are now. We smile at them. What a gritty thing, to love.



Mike at sunset at Polihale Beach, western edge of Kauai, Hawaii
Mike at Polihale Beach, western edge of Kauai, Hawaii. 1997.

2 Comments


Guest
Jul 21, 2023

What a touching experience you shared. Thank you for your beautiful description of your grief.

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Guest
Jul 20, 2023

Beautiful, Jenny! Thank you for sharing your deepest emotions and feelings.

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