What Did You Come Here For? (I already know she is gone)

It will be helpful to orient yourself with the following map. Locate Highway 285 and Interstate 70; both glide you west into the majestic mountains of Colorado. Take a moment to find Grant, a small, serene, historic spot that resides in contrast to any bustling mountain-vacation spot. It consists mostly of a handful of local houses, a post office, and a couple of local businesses. Pinpoint Georgetown, a beautifully preserved Victorian-era boomtown. Georgetown showcases heritage tourism, local shops, and a striking mountain backdrop. Please deeply note Guanella Pass, the scenic & breathtaking bypass that connects the two. And one more thing: please respect that mountain driving is real. I have logged many reps and still enter with the upmost caution and focus. One moment changes everything.

What did you come here for? This is a question I often ask my yoga students, not because I expect them to be able to answer, but rather to bring awareness to the fact that sometimes we know, sometimes we don't and, on some occasions, the reasons are 22-miles long.

I recently traveled from Iowa to Colorado and my reasons were not lacking: be in silence, breathe in the aspens, sit under the harvest moon, process the death of my mom, and write. Alma, Colorado was my destination. Alma is located directly south of Breckenridge, separated by the continental divide at Hoosier Pass. It rests quaintly on the south side of the mountains, Breckenridge vibrantly to the north. If you've never lifted and drifted your soul up and over the summit of Hoosier Pass, I highly recommend you find a way; you'll believe in miracles again if you have since forgotten, convinced that clouds can be touched and skies can be neighborhoods.

An 11 1/2 hour drive from from the midwest flatlands to this western mountain magic felt welcome. Life has paused the processing of my mom's death many times in the past six months; I felt eager for the time and space to let my thoughts fall and float ~

Maybe I am hard-hearted, but I don't spend lots of time being sad about the fact that my mom won't be at Thanksgiving or Christmas this year and that she won't be calling me on my 50th birthday in February. I already know she is gone. I free myself of that pain knowing that no amount wishing or hoping will ever bring her physical body back in presence with my own. I struggle in ways far less spoken or shared about in every day "how are you holding up?" conversations. I can't wrap my head around why, when I roll to my right side and am pulling gently out of a deep sleep, I can feel the warmth of her hands on my back and a wrap of pink, blue and yellow hues around me. I hear every word she ever said to me and see every moment we ever shared; a lightning speed audio-recording and movie of our mom-daughter experience. I know she is gone, I just don't know where she went; the amount of times I have whispered "where are you?" into the wind is as frequent as my coffee routine these days.

I was starting to make some healing-traction as I looped I-25 around downtown Denver, the city I chose after college to try out my first ride of adulthood. I know its streets, stories and navigations well~

When you are headed up the mountain from Denver, you are forced to make a decision: Highway 285 or Interstate 70. You first weigh in the time of day and your final destination. Then, you review the venn diagram:

Both will suck. Both will have heavy traffic. Both will have delays. Both will have accidents. Both will be frustrating and both will be beautiful in their own right. I-70 will have 4-6 lanes and clip at higher speed. Plus, the Eisenhower Tunnel is a rush. 285, rather, will be 2-lanes the majority of the way and require multiple shifts of speed. But, the scenery and small highway-lined towns are guaranteed to steal your heart.

At 1pm MST on Friday, September 25, I chose 285.

Every time is the same. I dial my focus in for the steep inclines and deep downgrades I will face. I equally prepare my breath to be taken away by glorious canyons, rocks and peaks.

I smiled passing Conifer, the first town I lived in when I moved west and giggled as my wheels spun past Pine Junction, memories of beer pints I once drank recollecting in the back of my throat. A common-sight motorcyclist passed me at one of the few interchanges and, like the Rockies are known to do in fall, a gentle and steady rain began. It was all the scenery I expected to find. It was home.

At approximately 2:44pm, just shy of 2 hours on the 2-lane highway and 38 short miles from my AirBnb, my phone spoke "slow traffic, accident ahead". A glance down at my map app, the sooner-rather-than-later red tail lights ahead of me and quick-draw towards a full stop on the highway let me know that I was likely only a small handful of cars behind the alert.

While the venn diagram prepares you for this scenario, it never prepares you for what mountain-dwellers call worst. Your stomach begins to sink when your car doesn't move an inch after 30 minutes, 45 minutes, 1 hour. It drops further once you witness response vehicles speed past you. Your nauseousness and worry take over when you realize the only reason you get to move forward is because the previous cars have made the decision to turn around and go back down the mountain. Drivers roll down their windows, stretch their arms out to point or circle their fingers and let the drivers behind them know; it's a form of mountain communication etiquette. The gestures now speak the alert, "The wait will be long. It's not good. Turn around. Go back. Be safe".

We already know someone is gone.

I was less than a 1/4 mile of cars behind the accident that occurred at 2:44pm on Highway 285 near Guanella Pass, Colorado on Friday, September 25. I am still shaken.

Find Grant on the map; orient yourself once again. See it? The accident occurred approximately 100-200 feet past the turn onto Guanella Pass.

After a long wait, cars were invited to inch forward. An older gentlemen, who I would later learn was a neighborhood resident, stood mid-highway greeting each car as it rolled up to the scene. Eventually, it was my turn ~

I roll down my window. He sets his fingers across my window ridge. There is only silence and a compassionate locking of eyes to begin.

"As you can see, Miss, there has been an unfortunate accident. The wait will be 2-3 hours before anyone can get through. I see you have Iowa plates. Where are you headed?"

"Alma."

"Oh, I am quite sorry. Unfortunately, you have a long drive ahead of you. This is certainly an inconvenience. But, you know, well, um, well...the motorcyclist won't have any inconveniences anymore." His eyes fill with water. I drop my fingers on top of his.

"No complaints from me. I am so very sorry. Thank you for being here."

He notices my dog propped on his front legs in the backseat. "Your dog is so cute. I love a good dog underbite. Does he have one blue eye?"

"Yes, one blue eye. He is my steady companion."

"Okay, Miss, put your hazards on and move very slow. Just beyond that hay truck, you'll see the turn onto Guanella Pass. Turn right. You'll lose all signal on your phone as you go up and over the pass. Drive all the way to Georgetown, reset your phone and get on I-70 west. You'll need to go through Breckenridge and then up and over Hoosier Pass to get to Alma."

I thank him and we share a breath in and out.

I did exactly as he asked: turned my hazards on and moved slowly. The gentlemen doesn't know that I have traveled Guanella Pass many times before, He doesn't know I have made this turn off 285 many times before. I know I will lose my phone signal. I know Georgetown will greet me on the other side. And I, sure as shit, know how goddamn beautiful the 22-mile drive up and over the summit will be, the current aspen and harvest moon a poignant cherry-on-top.

I turned the steering wheel right, linked wheels onto the pass and simultaneously leaned my gaze left. In that moment, just feet beyond, I watched as responders and the coroner covered the remains of the female motorcyclist. I recognized the hints of jacket fabric that passed me earlier. Out of dignity and respect, I will refrain from any fuller description here, but I will never forget this particular turn onto Guanella Pass. It will be with me forever; the gift that death gave me.

I find myself increasingly grateful for my yoga practice as both a teacher and student. The physical body has much to say and it continues to help me process this deeply complex time on earth. The teachings of yoga invite us to explore the left side of the body as representations of the past, the right side of the body as sensations for the future. This one-sentence explanation wildly simplifies the depths of wisdom that exist within the practice and this concept; if you want to know more, I suggest making a long-term commitment to a yoga mat. For now, if it serves, here is my meaning-making ~

My gaze to the left saw death, my turn towards the right sensed summit. The present moment was the intersection; the breath of full knowing & awareness of what a magical existence we all hold: one to be held with gratitude, love and patience.

Sometimes we know, sometimes we don't and sometimes the insights are 22 miles long ~

I still don't know where my mom went or where I will eventually go, but I know she and everyone that came before me is part of me. I trust that when I roll to my right side and feel the warmth of her hands on my back, she is inviting me to travel forward: to lean my gaze to the left only to recollect, to learn, to disturb the past, and to rewrite history. She wants me to go on the long, up & down, loss-of-signal journey to witness this awe-striking world and my unique life from every angle and elevation. She is happy I am still here.

If I believe my mom is anywhere, she is at the star-filled epicenter of my fullest & most present moments ~ at what I can now name as the intersection of Highway 285 and Guanella Pass.