The Journey Continues

Playing in Dirt

July 26, 2025

At home on the Upper West Side of Manhattan

In those difficult final years of John’s life, as each day drew to a close, I would whisper, “Sweet dreams, Sweetheart,” before turning on the television to quiet my mind. It became our ritual—an escape for thirty minutes of make-believe. My favorite refuge was Corner Gas, a sitcom set in the small town of Dog River, Saskatchewan. As the screen lit up, John would smile and ask, “Are you going to Saskatchewan?” I’d reply, “Yes, but not for long.”

It’s been eighteen months since John passed. The days are less difficult now, but the nights remain unbearably hard. Maybe it’s because when I climb into bed, I can’t help but think of the person who lay beside me for decades. The one I loved and who loved me back. I know people who go to sleep next to someone they don’t even like. That might be worse. But for me, my grief rises when the sun sets.

Last night, I didn’t do myself any favors. Years ago, one of my favorite books was The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. I had seen the movie when it first came out, but when Netflix suggested it again, I couldn’t resist. The story takes place during the Nazi occupation of Guernsey, and it’s about love and resilience. With my journey through Europe approaching, it felt like the right time to watch the film again. I had forgotten how much heartbreak it holds. Love wins in the end, and as the credits rolled, tears streamed down my cheeks. I don’t have my happy ending, but maybe I needed to cry. For years, I was a warrior—first in battles for John, then for myself. And warriors don’t cry. Now I do.

Despite the tears, I woke up this morning with clarity and purpose. Thirty-two packets need to be assembled for my summer driving trip with the Murrays and the Hubers. The letters are already written and addressed to education leaders across Ireland, England, Wales, Scotland, and all sixteen German states, including the federal minister of education.

When I glanced up from my table of materials and looked outside, I saw a beautiful day. I grabbed my backpack, took the elevator down, and stepped out onto the street. After a few blocks, I was in Central Park. The sun was bright and the trees were more colors of green than a crayon box could hold. I wandered about a mile, thinking how lucky I was to be there. Everywhere I looked, there was happiness: people walking cute dogs, parents with their babies in strollers, and groups gathered under the trees with coolers and music. But then I rounded the corner toward the Great Lawn, and my heart sank.

At the edge of a field, a group of adults had gathered under a large flag waving above the trees. A dozen children were playing soccer—they were running, laughing, and shouting to one another. And then at the very edge of the lawn, by the fencing, I saw a little girl sitting in dirt. She was about seven or eight with floppy brown curls and looked like me when I was her age. This little girl’s head was down. Her knees were streaked, brown and I could tell she had been crying.

At first, I wasn’t sure of what I was seeing, so I kept walking. But a few steps later, I turned and walked back. I thought about friends from the world journey who later told me they remembered seeing me sitting alone and sad at the beginning of the voyage. They regretted not coming up to me. I told myself, “No regrets.” So, I turned back. I approached the little girl and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she said softly, without looking up.

I stood there for a second, unsure of what to do next. “Want to think about going out to play with the others?” I paused, “Or maybe talk to someone?”

She didn’t answer. She just leaned against the fence, sitting in dirt. So small. So sad. And then I spoke words I wanted to take back the minute I heard myself say them: “It’ll get better.” And then, “I promise.”

I knew these were hollow words, but I wanted to give her something hopeful, so she’d get up and walk away from that fence. But things don’t magically get better on their own. I learned that through my horrible middle school years, sitting in the library alone, crying. This little girl needs to learn how to ask for help. She needs to learn how to speak up and advocate for herself.

I stood a moment longer, watching her turn dirt over with her hand. The flag waved above. The other kids played as if she weren’t even there. I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned and walked back home to my packets.

If I could make one wish right now, it would be that educators in Ireland, the United Kingdom, Germany, and this little girl’s school here in New York City teach all their students life skills. No more tears in libraries. And please, Lord, no more tears on playing fields.