When Is a Sign a Sign?
Healing and Moving on after Loss
More than a day and less than a year after splitting with my first wife, I started to feel better and once again considered dating.
I was working with a therapist during and after the divorce. I shared in session one day that I might be ready to move on romantically. But I was unsure if I should let it happen naturally, so to speak, such as bumping into a beautiful stranger in the produce aisle of the supermarket, and striking a conversation that leads to a first date based on a shared passion for sweet potatoes.
Or should I take a more proactive approach to meet like-minded singles, i.e. creating an online dating profile, joining clubs, taking part in organized group activities not requiring bungee cords, zip lines, a parachute or a hang glider (I’m afraid of heights). My therapist, alert to my “one-or-the-other” dichotomous views on making decisions, suggested I adopt both methods: wait and see what comes my way AND go out of my way to make things come my way.
We also talked that session about Castaway, a film released the year prior. How the Tom Hanks character, stranded on a remote island for years and despondent, tries to take his life, only to find new resolve after failing in the bid. Near the end of the movie, after rescue, he speaks to a friend about this transformation.
And that’s when this feeling came over me like a warm blanket. I knew, somehow, that I had to stay alive. Somehow. I had to keep breathing. Even though there was no reason to hope. And all my logic said that I would never see this place again. So that’s what I did. I stayed alive. I kept breathing. And one day logic was proven all wrong because the tide came in, and gave me a sail.
I found comfort in those words and a model to follow as I took a next step to heal my heart and find new love: Be patient. Be steady. Be ready. And lucky for me, as in the movie, the tide came in and gave me a sail. I am now remarried, happily so, for more than 15 years.
Now, I am waiting again. My father passed in August of this year at the age of 88. It was a painless and peaceful crossing, as these things go. As much as one can do in this time of Covid, we had a funeral and said a proper goodbye. Not long after, a college friend who lost his father as well, wrote me a note of condolence and said to be on the lookout for “signs” from my father.
And so I have.
But how to know when a sign is a sign? It’s not an easy thing to define. Of course, there are varied dictionary definitions depending on the word’s usage. In this case, as a noun, there are two I feel fit what my friend suggested:
(1) something indicating the presence or existence of something else; and
(2) a gesture or action used to convey information or instructions.
Basically, I’m looking for my father to let me know he’s out there, and what I should do next.
While I bide my time, at least before the winter weather has set in, I’ve been fishing, something my father loved. One day, at the ocean, rod in hand, a school of dolphins glided past, sticking to a line so graceful and so organized it reminded me of Matisse’s The Dance. Later, behind the dunes, I came upon a group of deer foraging among bayberries, sea lavender and beach plums. Another time, off-shore, a huge swell gently lifted the boat I was in, and as it passed, in the crest of the rolling wave, I saw a school of striped bass going for the ride, their stripes glinting in the afternoon soon. And while night fishing, ever further out at sea, alone at the boat’s bow, I watched light from the full-moon overhead move with the grace and artistry of a ballet dancer across the black surface.
Maybe my father played a part in these experiences, maybe not. I can’t be sure. I can only stay on the lookout — be patient, be steady, be ready — for a message.
I am confident the tide will come in. It always does. And with luck, I’ll get my sail…I mean, sign.
Originally published at https://goodmenproject.com on December 23, 2020.
