I was okay with my birthday being difficult. Through the compassion of friends who have lost loved ones, I knew that my first birthday without Peter was going to be difficult. And it was. Fine.

But the day after? Please. My expectation was let’s get back to normal. Sure. That’s reasonable. Right? Ha. Okay. So how about the next day? April Fools! Fine. The next?

It’s been a slog fest of a week. Putting one foot in front of the other and waiting for the moment when Grief would step back into the hydrangea bushes and lift away the moist wool and let me breathe. And this morning, she sat in the back seat of my car while my oldest and I drove to Lowes to buy flowers except that Lowes is closed today so we walked through the sixth circle of Hell known as Wal Mart and bought a litter box for their cat. Yes. We purchase kitty litter poop boxes from Hell. Where else would we go?

By now, Grief was starting to slow down. She was interested in the puzzles, enchanted by the Lego flowers. She wanted to peruse the arts and crafts section but I wanted to look at the candy which I didn’t buy but still just wanted to see the bright colors. And with our Hellish kitty litter box purchased (and a Lego Harry Potter set…shhhh….), my oldest and I tucked Grief into the back of the car with the litter box and other sundry purchases and drove home.

The rain started as we hit the backroads. Slow. Steady droplets that freckled the windshield. The mountains were obscured by the low-lying clouds and Mumford and Sons songs came through my speakers. We were silent and watched the road, the landscape unfurl before us. And then, as we crested a hill, I came up with an idea for my upcoming dual enrollment class syllabus. So I called my daughter and the three of us talked about essays and writing and scaffolding. And Grief just looked out at the raindrops and thought they were pretty.

Coming home meant chores. Coming home meant taking apart a camping cot, rearranging built Lego Harry Potter sets, and grading five essays. Coming home meant helping with paperwork and making tea to keep away the chill. Coming home meant going outside to sit on the front porch and listen to the rain while I played stupid phone games.

And Grief? She sat next to me for a bit. She likes the rain. She likes its soft pipping when it strikes the leaves. She enjoys the scent of turned earth and the way the world’s scent seems to rise to meet the rain and they mingle together until the rain sifts into the soil. And I took a moment and checked out my favorite pair of bald eagles in California and learned that both of the eggs had successfully hatched.

At that moment, Grief looked over my shoulder. She chuckled at the eaglets’ noodles necks and how they were still curled in tidy balls, as though still tucked within the eggs. And then she gave my shoulder a warm squeeze and drifted over to the hydrangea bush and noticed the conical, pointed stalks of the growing lilies of the valley. She has settled back into her quiet place. Her nest of ruach and peace. We’ll take a walk later. Maybe in two days. Maybe a time distant from that. But we’ll walk again.

But for now, I am sitting in a chair and listening to the hum of traffic and dreaming about white fluffy eaglets joining the world. I am remembering all those giddy moments from last year when I prayed my way through Sunny and Gizmo’s incredibly fast growth and development. That pulse in the throat moment for each when they spread their wings, hopped into the air, and flapped. And soared away.

Over the last nine months, I have greedily read the posts from the nature observers. I revel every time I read about juvenille eagles visiting the nest and pretend that it’s Sunny and Gizmo.

A new pulse in the throat awaits. The precarious hope for these new eaglets is frail and tenuous at best. I want them to survive. To grow into rather ugly adolescents that will eventually shed their childish dun brown feathers for the gleaming white head and tail feathers. I yearn for this moment of survival as I shift into my spring break. As I await my summer break.

This week was my own pip week. Grief held me in a closed space, held me close and breathed through my tears. She was with me and was part of me as we sat Shiva for Peter atop a mountain. And when I walked through halls without seeing the streams of people around me, she guided me through clusters of students. She helped me through my lesson plans and gave me the ability to breathe all while teaching valid and important information. And then she went back to the hydrangea bushes that are shooting out their new leaves.

A new year is blooming. A new year has been born. I hold the tendrils of last year. Pocket the frayed strings or open my hand and let the ruach drift them away so robins can fetch them up and use them to build this year’s nests.