Always Say Yes To Adventure

"Every time I look at Lake Superior, he will be there.  Every time nature presents itself with something spectacular, he will be there.  Each time I question myself, he will be there, coaching and supporting me from wherever he is now.  I hope that each and every one of you can look upon life through Jim’s eyes...with passion, with love, and with supreme joy.  Get outside, take pictures, love your friends, tell your family that they are amazing, do random things for people, spread your love to anyone who will soak it up, and take Jim’s legacy to the fullest."

-Heather Mishefske, at Jim Mishefske's funeral, 4/10/14

The most beautiful moonrise I have ever seen...from the Mishefske family motorhome, in 2005, over Lake Superior.

On April 9th last year, I left work early and started driving to Chippewa Falls.  The Twins were playing the A's, I was listening to it on the radio.  Baseball on the radio is normally something I enjoy, it feels familiar to me, especially while traveling.  I was down that afternoon.  The Twins were down, too.  They were defeated in the 11th, but the extra two innings were welcome.  It was as if I had company in the car with me for just a bit longer.

My friend, Heather, had recently lost her brother, Jim.  When I found out, I felt like the wind had been knocked clear out of me.  Jim was my age--he was young, he was vibrant, he was an athlete.  He had only been married a few years, he had a baby girl.  He was Heather's best friend.  She always mentioned him, or had a funny story about him to share.  Heather and I got into Flat-Coated Retrievers about the same time; when we were together, usually we were doing "dog stuff," and my path didn't cross Jim's very often.  I didn't need to know him well to feel his loss--I knew him through Heather, which was enough.  I was driving to Chippewa Falls because my heart was broken for my friend, and I needed to hold her in my arms.

When I turned on Columbia Street, there were people lined up back to the stoplight waiting to enter the funeral home.  It was a nice day, the first nice day in an otherwise cold spring.  The line moved slowly down the street, up the front steps, and through the doors.  I wasn't really prepared for what was inside: photographs.  Hundreds of them.  Photographs on boards, playing as slideshows, in books.  Yes, all funerals have photographs, but these were an unfolding, visual testament to an incredible life.  The line of people snaked around, cleverly filling every possible space, and we were treated to all these wonderful memories.  Jim with a frosty beard from skiing the Birkie, backpacking, the whole family at his beautiful wedding to Julie.  Jim with his daughter, Jim on a tandem bike with his wife, the BWCA, snowshoeing with family, sharing a beer with friends, Whistlestop, cycling during a triathlon.  Jim in a canoe he built--his dog Boston riding along.  Heather had spotted Boston's picture on Petfinder, she told me she didn't even bother to read the description, she just said, "Jim, this is your dog!  Go get him."  After I had been inside for about an hour, Boston walked slowly through the foyer; you could almost hear hearts collectively breaking as people patted him, or put an arm over him.  Our society is inundated with images--advertising, Instagram, the onslaught of Internet news media, billboards cluttering every major highway--yet we stood mesmerized by those photographs.  When the pictures of Jim would pass on the projector, people couldn't help but smile and laugh.  I remember coming home and telling Jon, "Heather's brother lived more in 36 years than most people could in 100."

The funeral program, and several photos, bore the phrase, "Always say yes to adventure!"  Never can I remember having been so sad, yet so inspired, at the same time.  When I reached Heather, I knew she would carry this ache forever.  I could see it in her eyes, her pain the inevitable byproduct of love and loss.

How do we clearly delineate change in our lives, is it possible to do?  Did being there--the drive, the pictures, the moments I shared with Heather and her mom--did that change me?  Absolutely.  Maybe it is too simple to say there can be an instant when we decide to live differently.  It is probably more likely that there are moments where we begin to change, or where we are propelled faster along a current path of change.  This was one of those moments for me. It was the day "adventure" became a regular part of my vocabulary, it became an intention.  I doubt I was alone.

Heather at Arch Cape, Oregon, summer 2014

This was also when I came to fully realize both the value, and the limitation, of a photograph.  Those snapshots will never be Jim.  They can't capture the timbre of his words, the smell of his shirt, or his laughter.  The elements we most love about those closest to us cannot be preserved in a two dimensional image, and that image can never tell all the intricacies of the instant it was made.  What a photograph can do is act as a key, to unlock the most fragile of memories.  We are less afraid of forgetting if we hold that small key.  It is easy to become camera shy--we age, we change, and we don't always wish to embrace what the camera reveals.  Those changes are happening whether we record them or not.  Please, let someone take your photo.

The fold marks are from  being carried in my purse all year.  :)

You didn't need to know Jim to read this far.  We all know a Jim.  Someone who is driven, and passionate, and kind--someone who inspires not by telling others how to live, but by showing them.  When I asked Heather's permission to begin writing this blog entry almost a year ago, it started with one question: How can we find meaning in the loss of someone who brought such happiness to others?  The only answer I could accept is that when one very brilliant light leaves this world, the rest of us must strive to shine a little brighter.  We must give others the courage they need to be brighter, too.  Only together can we fill this dark space, and foster a legacy.

In pursuit of shining brighter this past year, I changed.  When I quieted my own thoughts and words, it became easier to listen.  I became more vulnerable with my husband, because he deserves it.  Most people I know have a segment of life they are living with urgency, so I began trying to discover what they hunger for, because that is where they need an encouraging word.  I stopped looking for remorse where there is none--in others, and in myself--since that desperate search seems to only end in negativity.  Instead of visiting someone's Facebook page, I visited them.  I said yes to adventure.  In so many ways, this was the best year of my life, because I chose to live it with a different perspective and a new intention.  

Thank you, Jim, for being Heather's brother.  And thank you, Heather, for being my friend.