I don’t want to talk about it
The sun felt too bright. I had left that early morning in the dark to hand my legal guardian son off to the care of busy flight attendants with far too much to do. I watched them walk him on the tarmac onto the plane. His eyes had filled with tears when he looked at me as I whispered it was time to say goodbye. ‘No mom’ he cried. Frantic confusion burrowing into his brow. ‘No mom. I thought I had more time. I thought I had more time.’
Hugs, kisses, calls of I love you. I watched the plane push away from the gate as the son I had raised from 9 months to 9 years of age left my mother’s wings of safety to fall from the nest much too soon to actually fly.
Flash forward to an hour later and I am on some desert hike on the Nambe Badlands in New Mexico with my daughter and husband. And it’s so bright. I watch my daughter's long legged frame trudging along in front of me. She is quiet in the way the sky turns heavy right before the storm opens up. An ominous warning I refused to acknowledge.
‘You ok?’ I am trying to gauge what each step she was taking was signaling what was going on inside of her. Was the weight showing remorse? The length of the stance shows a need to be held? I could not decipher it. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ She mumbles to the air barely above a whisper. She refuses to slow her walk near me despite my requests. Unwilling to look me in the eyes. ‘Come on Honey’; I in my own desperation try to encourage her. ‘Come on Honey, tell me what’s going through your mind right now.’
The anger. The yelling. The screaming. The hot flashes of tears. We were alone on the too bright sandy trail. She ran to collapse near cacti and sagebrush. Declaring declarations of ‘leave me alone’ and ‘you will never understand what it feels like to lose another family.’ All of her words were true, all of her words were honest, all of them so very painful to absorb.
Our family is complicated. My daughter was adopted through foster care at age two. After her came and left 34 other children. She was the strong beacon of safety; softly welcoming lost little feathers to her small, yet mighty wings. If they were weary of my husband and I; each little heart clung to my daughter’s ever growing spirit.
With every arrival of a new face we would instantly map out some outdoor adventures. Would we go chase a waterfall to bring glitter to Ella’s large golden eyes? Or could we trek up to a mountain top to make Aaron feel as though he was on top of the world? Austin could cry his tears freely among pine oaks with no fear of retribution. And shy, timid Walter could dig his head into my chest as I trudged him in a carrier up a beach view cliff under the warm Southern California sun.
The outdoors, the empty public lands full of wildlife - quickly became the retreat we ran to. Because my children, born of my heart, came into our home from living in shelters, sharing uncomfortable cots and bare walls with their family. They dwelled in beat up cars, shivering under blankets squished in the backseat. Often they came from sharing cramped section 8 apartments or rehabilitation facilities with bars on the windows. All urbanscapes where the outside was off limits. When we took them outdoors, escaping to miles of forest lands, it was a gift only those who lived without truly appreciated.
Our family started out as once a month outdoor enthusiasts; quickly morphing to weekend warriors. Then from weekend warriors to after work, school frequent trekkers. We found ourselves trying to sneak in as many long weekends, PTO vacations, school breaks as possible with our ever changing family makeup. Some days it was just the three of us. Other times my husband and I were outnumbered with four little ones under five loud and rambunctious with the fervor energy released into the wild. The outdoors was safe. The outdoors could handle all the hurt. The outdoors became our home.
I fiddled with my sunglasses. It was too bright for such a dark day. The emotions had started to downswing as sadness seeped breathlessly in. ‘Come here.’ I whispered as I pulled my grieving daughter into my bare arms. ‘It’s safe here.’ ‘You can feel it here.’ The sun felt too bright. The pain felt too angry. The loss felt too great. But here, alone on the Nambe Badlands. We knew we were home. Broken yet home to heal.
Kaitlin Musser is a former bun-head ballerina turned dirtbag van-lifer who travels the country full time with her family in their little home on wheels. You can find them mountain bagging, rock clamoring, ski shedding, or yogi dancing in all the wild places. When she’s not getting completely filthy she rambles about mental health, foster care, and all the messy parts of life that remind you of the beautiful miracles on her Instagram and personal blog. IG: @runawaymusbus. Website: http://runawaymusbus.com/
