I thought getting divorced was hard. Drawn out and complicated and bitter, with plenty of legal documents and court appearances that stretch for months or years. Instead, six short months since this began, it was over with a few scribbled signatures and a 15-minute phone call.

“Do you acknowledge that this is what you want?” The judge asks, her voice coming through the phone with a hint of static and echo.

I hesitate, the silence suspended in air. I can feel the boxing match going on between my heart, brain, and body.

How did this end so fast? Who am I? Who is that voice on the other end quietly answering, “Yes, ma’am” or “No, ma’am?” Where the hell do I go from here?

***

Blood drips from the tip of my nose, turns clean snow crimson. I partly run and mostly fall down the hill, sliding to a stop beside the fallen buck where my blood mixes with the deer’s. I am 1,000 feet above sea level in fading light with a deer at my feet and a deep gash on the bridge of my nose.

The technical term is “scoping yourself.” You hold the sight too close to your eye, and on the recoil, it slams into your face. I’m a repeat offender and judging by the throbbing pain in my forehead and steady, ‘drip, drip,’ this is a bad one. I dig into my bag and pull out my med kit, slapping gauze and tape onto the awkward area as best I can. I chug some water, mow down trail mix, and try to control my shaking hands.

My klutziness cannot take away from the exhilaration of the moment. As my world descended into chaos, I sought sanctuary in the woods. It wasn’t the fresh air and exercise that kept me sprinting back to the forest every chance I got. No, it was the reminder that even when life is turned upside down, the trees are still growing. Deer still forage. Ravens still chatter. The tide will rise and fall. Consistently, reliably, always there. If we permit it.

For years southeast Alaska has been my playground as well as home. The national forest and park that surround Gustavus brought adventure. But as I pull out my knife and prepare the deer for the drag to sea level, it’s now so much more. These places are keeping me sane, in control, alive.

***

“Mr. Cannamore, did you hear the question?”

I look around Dad’s office for a solution squeezed between framed photos of Alaska Airlines 737s and World War II aircraft. Where does all that love go when it no longer has an outlet? It seeks every corner, every alternative, desperately searching for a way home. There’s no home to go to.

“Truthfully, no.” I cannot bring myself to tacitly agree. “This isn’t what I want… but I have agreed to it.”

Good enough. A few more questions. A smattering of “yes’s” and “no’s.”

“Mr. Cannamore, you may hang up.”

I stare at the phone’s black screen and shock fills my body. Did I just hear her voice for the last time? It seems impossible.

Close my eyes, deep breath. Let go, just let go.

I am hovering above the water, retracing a paddle route down Chatham Strait. Every rock and point is vivid. Waves ricochet off cliffs. Humpbacks rise and fall in long summer light. Bear tracks in the sand. Loons greet the rising sun.

Camping in Chatham Strait

What’s the difference between distracting and coping? Running and rebuilding?

***

I lean against the shopping cart and ponder my cheese future. How much dairy does one human need for three months? I grab two large bags of mozzarella, hesitate, and drop a block of cheddar on top. Better safe than sorry.

I have agreed to go full Obi-Wan Kenobi and caretake the Hobbit Hole until March. The thought of long days exploring from the seat of my kayak and discovering more of the island’s secrets sounded like the perfect tonic. Lonely, yes, but necessary. But I’m not willing to risk running out of cheese.

I need a place to grieve, mourn, accept, rebuild, rewire, heal. Most importantly, learn to love myself. To be ok on my own and affirm that I don’t need another human to feel validated. What better way to face that than a little self-imposed exile? Sink or swim. Adapt or die.

The Hobbit Hole

How fortunate to have a place like the Hobbit Hole to retreat to. Through all of this, I have tried not to lose sight of the positives. The friends, family, and neighbors that have held me, fed me, and handed me beer. Solitude doesn’t mean I’m alone; the internet and phone means community will still be a click away. But the time has come to prove I can rely on myself.

For months I have worked to accept things outside my control and harness my energy into things I can.

Hanging up that phone meant the return of control over my life. I can sit and stew on the hard luck. I can rail that this is unfair, that life has done me dirty. That I don’t deserve this. Or I can acknowledge that this sucks and that I’m not ok. But I will be.

I may not have control over what has happened, but I control what comes next. And isn’t that one hell of a gift? Many on this planet go their entire lives without that sovereignty. But I get to look in the mirror and say whatever comes next is up to me.

I’ll take my cheese and venison and cat and retreat to the land that has always been there for me. Hike the mountains or search for orcas on the flooding tide. Commune with sea birds and argue with sea lions. Write, sleep, laugh, and indulge in the gift that is time set aside for me.

I speak of trauma and pain with no authority. All I can do is convey what it has felt and done to me, my situation, and how I’ve chosen to approach it. Hiding it, burying it, never felt like an option. It’s okay to struggle, to ask for help. I’m under no illusion that I can outrun this. The pain and hard days will find me in Gustavus, the Hobbit Hole, or Tijuana. It’s been a hard six months; more hard months await. That. Is. Ok. This is hard. It should be hard.

“If you were fine,” my friend Amy reassured, “it probably means you’re a sociopath.”

South Inian Pass at sunset

We don’t forget. I expect I’ll carry some sadness and melancholy the rest of my life. But I hope that my memories return. That these hard months do not outweigh 12 beautiful years that overflowed with joy and love. May these hard times not define me but become part of my story.

***

Smoke rises from my cabin chimney. The fire cracks, afternoon coffee in the French press. Minerva coils her body up against me and buries her face in my arm. Home. A deep love, a sense of place. The acceptance that my future is blurry and distorted. How intimidating, foreboding, and… exciting?

“To look forward, sometimes we must look back.” Has been one piece of advice. “Who was David before all of this?”

Before I left my parent’s house, I flipped through old photo albums and stared at that grinning goofball looking up at me. 13-year-old me seemed to think that giving someone “bunny ears” was about the funniest thing one could do during a photo.

But there’s something else. In nearly every photo, my arms are around someone. Squeezing my brother, best friend, girlfriend, parents. The desire to love and hold those dear to me close has been there for a long time. And as I feel that now-familiar ache in my heart, I know it still is.

I hope someday it finds another outlet. But for now, the time has come to turn it inward. To build what it can and put everything away in its proper mental file cabinet.

I take another deep breath and rub the wooden deer call I wear whether I’m hunting or not. Snow is falling in the field that still holds moose and snipes. I hear wolves when I step on my porch and see northern lights when the clouds break. I have changed, but this place perseveres. I will too.

Sometimes love means letting go. Sometimes love means holding tight. Sometimes it means doing both at the same time.