When I was young, my mother taught me that bad experiences, even losing people, can be good for us.

With the end of a job, a relationship, or even a life, space is made for a new beginning,

like the first sprouts after a wildfire. In the aftermath, you see only destruction all around you but if you look closer

You'll sometimes find a little blossoms in the ruin

I tried to keep this wisdom in mind when I lost my wife.

Vicky and I had been together six years, married for three.

A life was simple. We ran a small business and spent our free time hiking the

woods behind our home. She loved spaghetti and painting and back rubs. I loved making a laugh. Then she got sick. We saw every doctor, tried

every option. I even started praying again, but nothing could save her. I couldn't

save her. And I'd damn near kill myself trying. Toward the end, we'd take little walks on her lawn.

She liked the birds that nested there in the tree,

and then she was gone.

Losing Vicky destroyed me.

I lay in bed awake each night,

haunted by the silence in her home.

I wasn't afraid of all asleep. I was afraid to wake up and not feel her there beside me.

In accordance to Viggy's wishes, I committed her remains to a little plot in the forest.

She was big in environmentalism and taught me about green burial.

The idea is to have as little impact on the planet as you can when you pass.

Coffins of plastic and paint and varnish all over them.

That crap gets into the soil and the groundwater. Cremitation puts a lot of carbon into the air,

but by itself a dead body is basically plant food.

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