Joy. Happiness. Feeling good. Contentment.
In periods of self-examination, we often ask ourselves what we want most in life. The most frequent answer is usually "to be happy". Who prefers sorrow over happiness? No one you would think, although all of us know people who do seem to prefer the former over the latter.
What makes one person happy is different from another, but in the end, I would venture that being with family, friends and loved ones trump all else. Yes, money, material possessions and the things of this world can enhance our lives, but think about it. If you could only keep one thing and one thing only - your family or your house, your loved one or your bank account, your career or your child, which would it be? Most of us know what our answer would be - our loved ones. Unfortunately, many of us are forced to deal with being separated from our loved ones at some point or another in their life - some sooner rather than later.
The big challenge after losing a loved one is, in my opinion, how to find joy in your life again. Presently, I can say, with certainty, that I cannot give you that magical answer - at least, not yet. But I am trying. And I am struggling.
Recently, I was reading an article in which the author was recounting her memories of when she was a child and learned to ride a bike. It got me to thinking about Ginny, naturally.
Ginny was an early learner when it came to things of the mind, but a late developer when it came to physical skills. We lived on Hope Valley Road until she was 8 years young. If you are familiar with Durham, you know Hope Valley Road is a very busy thoroughfare. Not being particularly interested in physical activities, and living on a busy street, did not offer the ideal opportunities for Ginny to learn to ride a bicycle.
The summer of 1995, our family moved from Hope Valley Road to our present home on Dodsworth Court. Dodsworth Court is a short, little cul-de-sac in a quiet and nice neighborhood, the perfect place for children to play outside without parents worrying about their safety, and the ideal location to learn to ride a bicycle free of dangerous traffic.
Shortly after moving in, Ginny decided she was ready to tackle the task of riding a bicycle. Like most young kids, the first few attempts were met with failure, accompanied by skinned knees and bruised elbows. Ginny was as determined to ride that bicycle as she would be determined to sing on stage later in life. Like most fathers, my job was to hold the bike upright and run along beside her as she endeavored to maintain her balance. We practiced and practiced until she started to get the hang of it. What I remember distinctly, and what the article I read in a magazine brought back to me, was Ginny's voice, shouting out to me as she pedaled faster than I could run, "Let go Daddy, let go!"
Let go Daddy, let go.
I still hear those words today. Except now it's not letting go of Ginny on the bicycle, it's letting go of Ginny here on earth.
I'm not letting go of the memory of Ginny. That will never fade. It's the realization and acceptance that she is gone from this place and is in a better place. It hurts when you are apart from someone you love. It hurts when you know you will be apart until some unknown future date. It hurts to not be able to hug them, touch them, kiss them, hold them, talk to them, be angry with them, rejoice with them, share with them or just be with them. It just hurts.
When Ginny was learning to ride her bicycle, she was the one who suffered the pains of bruised and bloody knees. Now it is me. Except it is not my knees, but my heart that is bruised. As I struggle daily to cope, I hear Ginny's voice calling to me, "Let go Daddy, let go."
