—Friedrich Nietzsche
While living with Miles afforded me a stability I never could have imagined, I was still prone to my share of rough patches, still trying to reconnect with that guy I’d always been, that guy who felt happy, curious, and enthusiastic about life.
One of the most challenging aspects of this time in my life was my chosen career as a lawyer. Over the years, Amy and I had talked so often about my finding a bit more meaning, even joy, in my professional life. I knew that trying to emulate Amy’s level of utter joy and commitment to her work, though she never considered what she did for a living as “work” in the technical sense, was impossible. At the same time, I was forced to think about the ultimate pivot. Unfortunately, it sometimes takes a profound event like the one I was faced with to really deeply consider what purpose work has in this life. That certainly was the case for me.
I’d been self-employed ever since the kids were little, which provided me the freedom to be the family man I wanted to be and was. However, this moment in time caused me to really reflect on the day-to-day insignificance of what I had been doing. Did I want to haggle with insurance adjusters? Hell, no. Was financial comfort all that was left of being a solo practitioner? Administrative obligations overwhelmed the actual practice of law. This was not a path that I wanted to continue on for long. My entire life’s focus had changed, and my law career compounded my lack of clarity instead of bringing things into focus.
My presence at my law office diminished quickly. As I began to take better care of myself, I did not beat myself up if I went to yoga in the morning instead of rushing to work. If I was in the throes of a good book, I might keep reading for a bit before feeling that draw, that need to be in the office at a certain time, that plagued me most of my adult life. Even to this day, I am unable to completely shut my doors at the firm, still dealing with the idea of closing off a part of my identity. But as the days go on and I continue to focus on what is meaningful in my life, the practice of law, such as it is, has moved to the bottom rung of the ladder. Mindfulness, meditation, yoga, music, family, and friends have guided me to think about new ways to contribute in this life. It is a work in progress.
And in many ways, having Miles around reinforced the need to start doing new things even more. Because his presence was such a welcome change, it helped me think about what could happen if I began to make other changes. I could see clearly now, for the first time in months, that I was in serious need of a place where I could figure out how to be myself again.
Not surprisingly, my thoughts drifted back to places Amy and I had traveled, in particular on our honeymoon. California and Colorado. Big Sur, and the mountains. We’d loved it there. Majestic, exhilarating, brand-new air with every breath, life everywhere. The more I thought about it, the more it felt like the perfect place to rejuvenate. Though to some it might seem difficult to revisit a place so integral to my life with Amy, I wasn’t worried about going there by myself and feeling her presence all around me. That was already happening no matter where I was, so I might as well let it happen in a couple of the most beautiful places I’d ever seen.
I ran the idea past Miles, who thought it was a great idea. Then he casually added, “Why don’t you do something you would never have done with Mom?”
His words stopped me in my tracks: what a simple, powerful idea. I would never have thought of it. This boy always was wise beyond his years.
For starters, I did some research that night and found out that one of my favorite bands, Tedeschi Trucks Band, was scheduled for an upcoming gig at the Red Rocks Amphitheater, ten miles west of Denver, famous for being, among other things, the world’s only naturally occurring acoustically perfect amphitheater. Yes, please.
Then, under the heading “Something you would never have done with Mom,” I tossed out an invitation to my crew of friends to meet me in Colorado for the Red Rocks show. I hadn’t done a “boys’ trip” during my twenty-six years of marriage, preferring to be with Amy if we had any time to travel together. Why not now?
Much to my delight, five of the guys said yes, and we were off.
From the first hour we were together, I knew this decision was just what I needed. The concert itself was spectacular—an amazing show in an amphitheater you have to see to believe. It’s built into a rock structure, with a large disc-shaped rock forming a backdrop for the stage and huge rocks framing the stage, so that the almost ten thousand people in the audience feel as if they’re cradled in the most unparalleled beauty nature has to offer.
More powerful than the setting, though, was the fact that every one of those friends stepped up to encourage me to just relax and have fun, without a moment of guilt or judgment if I had an extra tequila, or let go with a long, cathartic laugh, or stood up and danced. It was the first time in a while that I didn’t feel as much like a widower as I just felt like Jason, hanging out with some old pals who knew me and wanted nothing but the best for me. I hadn’t realized how much I needed it until I was in the middle of it, felt myself taking long breaths of fresh air, and heard myself really laughing without wondering if it was too soon for it to be appropriate.
Of course, my thoughts would always drift back to Amy, but instead of getting swept up in them, I was able to acknowledge them without losing myself. The day of the concert, we were wandering around the quaint, tiny town of Morrison, Colorado, home of the Red Rocks Amphitheater, and happened to stroll into a tchotchke shop to browse around. I did a double take when I glanced at a display and saw this tile:
Was it serendipity? A sign? An affirmation from Amy somehow that this was all okay? Even if it was none of the above and I was reading something into pure coincidence, you can bet I bought that tile and brought it home.
I found out later that my friend Michael called the trip “the Heal Jason Tour,” and in a lot of ways, he was exactly right. I still had a long way to go—there’s definitely no timetable for grief and all of its complexities. But it was a huge step in the right direction. Time out with great friends, a major change of scenery, and a thrilling infusion of live music were enough to reignite my pilot light.
As my plane touched down in Chicago, I instantly recognized the impact that the trip had had on me. Not only was I proud of myself for having initiated it in the first place, I remembered all at once just how transformative leaving home can be. I promised myself I’d say yes to every possible new opportunity and let travel and music help give me the emotional nourishment I’d been missing for a long time.
After the Heal Jason Tour, the floodgates opened, and I soaked it all in. I went on a ski trip with a college buddy, where I hung out with a bunch of great guys I had never met before. Justin, Miles, and I accepted an invitation from a dear friend to his secluded home in Montana. I had been to this idyllic spot before and was aware of its healing power. I also knew that these friends made things so easy and exerted no pressure on me. There was something about that place in nature that provided serenity of mind and body. Merely sitting and watching a stream roll by, hearing the beautiful sound of flowing water, made me grateful to be there in that time and place, to appreciate what was in front of me—literally, and in the sense of how essential it was to appreciate this life and the short time we all have in it, as well as to follow Amy’s edict that I must go on.