Learning to Give Away Light In Your Darkest Moments

A Walking With Others Submission by Kristi Keller

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Kristi Keller

I watched two women on paddle boards the same day my son passed away, except I hadn’t known at the time that these two events would happen on the same date.

I was peacefully hiking a 5-kilometre trail around the perimeter of a lake that afternoon, wildly snapping photos of nature’s finest gifts enveloping me. I’ve never seen a place quite like Emerald Lake in the Canadian Rockies.

Not even halfway around the perimeter, I’d already chalked this day up to one of the most visually gratifying days of my life. I drank it in slowly as though it were a Gautier Cognac, savoring every drop.

Crouching to capture the lowest angle possible, two paddle boards glided into my frame. I kept shooting, thinking if I were one of those women I’d want these photos of myself out on the water.

If only there was a way to transport images over water.

That’s when I raised my voice to tell the women I’d captured a few shots of them. Somehow, our voices projected as clear as day over the glassy surface and one of the women responded with her email address.

That was it, nothing more was said as they slipped away across the lake.

I made a note of her email address in my cell phone and then kept hiking.

My world broke after that day.

It was early the next morning when I found out I’d lost my son forever. He had drifted off into the stars the night before. How could a world so beautiful to me be such a cruel world to him?

We behave strangely when we’re not thinking rationally. After four days of lying lifeless in my bed, I began scrolling through recent photos on my phone. I longed to feel a single shred of joy.

Each time I swiped I felt intense guilt for having savored my most beautiful day on my son’s most grim. Nothing was beautiful to me anymore and I could no longer appreciate the photos for what they had given me.

Then I landed on the photos of the women on the water, which I’d since forgotten about.

I remembered I had jotted an email address into my note app.

What if they were anticipating receiving an email from me? They couldn’t know my world had shattered since then, it wasn’t their fault. So I sent a chipper-sounding email as if nothing had ever happened in my world.

“Hi there! I’m the person who took photos of you on your paddle boards from the shoreline! I was just scrolling through my photos and realized I forgot to send these.”

Within hours I received a response.

“Thank you so much, I really appreciate it! Those are beautiful shots of me and my daughter!”

My heart imploded under the weight of her reply. She still had the gift of her child. They got to dance across the lake together that day.

But at the same time, my heart exploded with gratitude because I was able to catch and release that endearing moment between the two of them. If one day, her gift was also taken away, she’d still have that moment to look back on with love.

For a brief moment, I felt like telling the woman I had lost my son that day but again, it wasn’t her fault. Why let my darkness infiltrate her light when I could simply enjoy knowing two strangers shared one beautiful moment in time?

I became saturated with the confusion of feeling anguish and joy in the same breath. It was my duty to feel it all, breathe it in, and exhale it.

It’s difficult to find artistry and brilliance around you when your life has niched itself down to pure darkness. At times it seems as though no light can penetrate.

The world can indeed be a dumpster fire, as quoted in a beautiful piece written by author, Ryan Frawley.

After reading his narrative about truly feeling the world around us, my memory of the two women skimming across a perfect mirror image of water came flooding to mind.

Ryan wrote one of the most exquisite lines I’ve ever read and somehow, I found a glimmer of inspiration in his words:

“Everything you taste and touch and feel is a love letter written in a language you can’t read.”

‘Feeling’ was something I hadn’t done much of after that day. But, while I was busy feeling nothing I was also feeling everything because I had to. That’s the way love works. You can’t love without feeling something.

It wasn’t until Ryan Frawley penned that line that I realized this was a perfect example of a love letter written in a language I will never understand, yet I felt every hand-written word of it in my soul.

I believe the world has loved us all along, we just need to allow ourselves to feel it, even if it bites deeply and leaves a scar.

You can read more of Kristi's work here: Wildhood Wanted

Shared with the permission of the author.

The stories and content shared in this series are authored by individuals who have generously chosen to share their lived experiences with grief. All writings and narratives published in this series are the sole expressions and perspectives of the respective authors.

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