How many people does it take to fill the hole in my heart?

I have taken the warnings about the holidays being a difficult time to heart. Too many notable events that are firsts. Too many thoughts that start, "Last year at this time we were....."  As a consequence I make plans and accept invitations. Anyone who calls with a, "Would you like to...." is greeted with an emphatic Yes!

In the last week and a half alone, I have gone out to dinner and seen a play, met with the Rabbi, attended an awards presentation for a very special person I met at the hospital, and was supposed to go out to dinner with another, but started having chills and thought it better to cancel. Darn!

 Christmas week started with dinner with two friends on Monday night, then Christmas Brunch with a friend's family including a 3-year-old. After 2-1/2 hours with the 3-year-old I was ready to go home for some peace and quiet and a nap. Rounding out the week was dinner in town with another friend and her family.

Sunday I went to visit someone I haven't seen for a while. And that brings me up to New Year's. I don't want to think about New Year's. Because if I do it will lead me down the rabbit hole of thinking about beginning a "new" year. And that "new" year is the first one of many to come without Rob by my side. Tears. Heartache.

See it is much better, easier right now to stay busy. Running around. Constantly on the move. It is the sitting and thinking that leads to feeling. And the grief can get so overwhelming. So quickly. I logically can tell myself it has not been all that long. But why does it still hurt so much?

Looking back over what I have been doing and with whom, I am staggered to realize it has taken 17 people to keep me on an even keel for a week and a half. And that does not include the friends I talked with on the phone. Or the ones I saw at the barn. Or the ones who emailed me. Boy when they say it takes a village, they (whomever they are) are not kidding.

All this is to help me try and fill the empty space in my life—left by one person. Robert.

Moving forward while still looking in the rear view mirror

I am moving forward, trying to figure out my life, looking to the future. How is this possible? I am on a path that I do not have much control over. And going forward seems to be the direction I'm heading. It feels like a juggling act to think of the future and have the past an active part of the present. I think of Linda Blair in The Exorcist when her head swivels is around and around.

Robert is such an integral part of the fabric of my life. He is everywhere with me. This morning I was preparing the cat's breakfast. I used to just open the can and mush it with a fork. Robert instructed me to add a can of warm water and then mush it to a smooth consistency. Now I do this every morning without a thought.

He bought me the computer I sit and write at. The iPhone—my lifeline was another of his gifts. Can't imagine managing without it now. My GPS unit was beginning to become undependable and when I got the Cavalia gig he uploaded the TomTom app to my iPhone and signed me up for traffic updates. Can't imagine navigating any other way now. Technology was his domain, and he brought me along kicking and screaming and resisting in every way. I now wonder why.

Everywhere I look I feel his presence. Where he sat on the couch. The table we bought together. The lights he put up. The door to his room. His books. His, now my car in the garage. A pine cone we picked up in Maine. I even wear some of his clothes. Or think of what he would say about some of mine ; -)

These are the objects and thoughts that are of the past and very much in the present. Physical items that are filled with memories. And the memories feel like walking through water. Initial resistance and then you get used to the feel of the water and keep going.

Forward movement is planning to go out to dinner with friends. Flying to Philadelphia in January for a trade show. Making arrangements to meet virtual friends at a horse event in February.

I am walking along a very steep narrow mountain ridge. Any misstep and I tumble off to one side or the other. But I keep walking, one step at a time, knowing that even when I do fall, I will clamber back up and keep moving on. How can this be? How do I keep putting one foot in front of the other?

Is this faith? Spirituality? Belief in something that I don't even know what to call?

The Way

I decided I needed to connect with some of the fun and life affirming activities Robert and I enjoyed through the years. With the Holiday Season in full swing I choose the Christmas Revels and called a friend to join me.

Only after the tickets were bought did I notice that this year the Revels' story was taking place in Spain. And not just anywhere in Spain, but along el Camino de Santigao de Compostela.

Synchronicity once again. I suppose I can find meaning and connections to just about anything these days. Both Rob and I loved Paulo Coelho's El Camino de Santiago. We had even talked of one day going to Spain to walk along part of el Camino de Santiago. And then the movie "The Way" came out with Martin Sheen and Emilo Estevez. Death, life, choices, friendship, love. A powerful and profound movie. And one we watched numerous times together.

I was faced with choices. Was this going to be too evocative for me? Should I cancel going? Plan on bringing lots of kleenex? Maybe embrace the synchronicity?

At times I am able to experience the world as a strange and wondrous place. I made the choice to enjoy myself. To encounter any memory that came up—and there were a lot—with joy, love and compassion. To bring Robert on this adventure into town with me, and watch the play unfold with him in my heart.

The Holidays

I seem to be in a cycle of crying at least once, twice, or more a day. I used to be able to skip a day here and there. Now are so many memories leaping in front of me. Like deer who jump out in front of your car and then get caught in your headlights.

Holiday season and lights are going up on houses. Robert and I always took one night and drove around admiring the bright colorful cheerful lights. One of our recent favorite streets to patrol was the one I travel on to and from the barn. When I saw the lights begin to appear I seriously considered changing my route.

Rob made a tape (shows you how long we've been doing this) and then a CD with selected Cowboy songs, to play as we drove along. Songs we grew up on like Roy Rogers' Happy Trails to You (particularly poignant as the next line is "Until we meet again). The theme song from Rawhide. Tex Ritter, Rex Allen, Gene Autry. I found the CD, but am not ready to listen to it yet.

Then there is the Fatima shrine just down the road from home where they have—oh I don't know—maybe 5-7 acres of paths all lit up with wonderful lights and decorations. Hanging in the trees, across the paths, a fabulous Nativity scene with a camel and donkey set in a field. Lighted stations of the cross. What else could good Jews do but enjoy the lights and wonderful holiday and religious music blaring from speakers.

We used to invite our Christian friends! But we always had our own special night to walk through this wonderland together. Another place I drive by frequently, and you can see the lights from the street. Last year when Rob could not go out in the cold I parked at the very edge so he could soak in the colors. Did not even think that that would be his last time.

And what would the holidays be without snow. A storm is coming and I got thinking how Robert made sure my car was prepped. He always filled my washer fluid. Reminded me to fill my gas tank. Who is going to do that now? You mean I have to take care of all this myself?

I am crying as I type. It is all the little things piling up. How will I ever be able to move on. At times like these it just feels so overwhelming. And like the future is going to be a cold empty place. See winter is here. And the snow is starting to fall. And where I usually am all happy about snow, right now I'm in despair.

The forecast hysteria from weather reporters are driving me to distraction. Remember last year when we had a big storm Rob was very anxious because our neighbor hadn't dug us out immediately. He was feeling trapped. I was having a blast with the snow. Time to put some music on and move my energy from stuck in the past to at least maybe this moment.

Oh, almost forgot, went to get a flu shot. Another thing Rob was diligent about. And friends have been telling me I don't want to be sick at home alone. Okay how could that set me off? Well lets see - watching the nurse open the drawer to all the lavender colored gloves (I had my own boxes of lavender gloves while dealing with all the medical issues at home), the needles (I had my own supply while dealing with the medical issues at home), the wipes, the hand cleaner, the syringes. The procedure. Yet another mine field. Actually wrote mind field. And that is what it is. A mind field.

Breathing

I just noticed I don't think I have been breathing. Really breathing. I am just rushing around, and don't take the time for a breath, 'cause breathing can lead to thinking. And we where know where thinking leads us.

With my retail websites in full swing for the  Holiday Season I'm in super crush mode. As the orders come in I am immediately caught up in processing them. I feel frantic and anxious and panicky. And for the first time I stop and ask myself why?

I mean I want the orders—income. I want the orders—keep me busy. I want the orders—define who I am. And then it hits me. Another of these slamming into the wall insights.

Last year I was doing the exact same things. Working with the same people. Filling out the same shipping labels. Wrapping up items. Putting them in Priority Mail boxes. But it was always against the clock while I was at home. Because when I was done I would leap into my car and rush back to the hospital where Rob was waiting.

How do I adjust to the fact that I don't have to be anywhere? How do I break my mind set of pressure? And its my pressure, no external drivers. I feel my heart pounding in my chest just from writing this. Deja vu—all over again, the Time post. Deja vu—all over again, its all about me.

I do try to stop and catch my breath. Thought—breathing—tai chi. Rob and I learned tai chi together, practiced together and even taught together. We did our forms on the top of Mount Washington in New Hampshire, on the beaches in Maine, Massachusetts, California and many places in between. Maybe just maybe I can slow down enough to learn to breathe again.

I go to see my horses. Notice my energy is completely different, and I am breathing. The barn and my horses have always been a sanctuary for me. And now I find it is a place where I can and do indeed breathe.

I'm reading Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart and Michael A. Singer's The Untethered Soul and trying to put into practice what they write. To acknowledge thoughts and feelings, to separate from them and to let them go. To be more aware of what I'm feeling. I have to breathe to do this.

So when I get off the phone with a client and walk into the living room, as I was wont to do to discuss the call with Robert, I notice all the swirling energy that I bring with me. I notice my breath is up around my ears and I am positively vibrating. And this is from an enjoyable phone call! And I also acknowledge that I wander the house still expecting him to be in his usual places.

Rob used to tell me not bring this disruptive energy to him.To take a breath before I was going to talk about work. And I honestly didn't have a clue what he meant.

He wanted me to join him on a spiritual journey and to meditate more. Why could I not do this then? Now I look through his books on spirituality and meditation and take them off the bookshelf to read. To be closer to him? Searching for unanswerable answers?

I want to believe he knows I am on that journey now. I want to believe he is guiding me. I want to share his breath.

They used to wear black

I know the world does not stop when someone dies. It didn't stop when Robert died. Though it certainly should have. Life goes on as usual for everyone else. I am in the world with them and try and understand how they could not feel the pain, my pain.

I find the supermarket deadly, I can't go back to the discount warehouse, and the drug store is a mine field. All around me are people doing normal things. Maybe they too have this hole, this emptiness but it is not allowed to show. They certainly don't see mine.

You used to wear black when in mourning. Announcing to the world your fragile state. But black has lost its meaning, and become just another fashion color. It is such a fashion staple that colors are described as "the new black."

I want to walk around with a big sign that says I am in mourning, handle with care. I lost my husband, my best friend, my soul mate—all rolled into one.

With friends who know and understand its a bit easier. But recently I've been in social situations with people who do not know. And inevitably dinner conversations drift to someone they know who is sick. Been in the hospital. Has cancer. Is receiving treatment and then the details.

Or talk tends toward death. The other night it was about pets who died. And how painful it was. I was thinking I could relate—I too have had a recent loss. Your pet of 13 years. My husband of 42.

I hear the expression, "I just can't imagine what you are going through." Okay I can get that. I couldn't imagine it either. Even when I knew it was coming. I'm now wondering if by saying this it then gives the person permission to not go any further. Can't imagine, so not going to try.

I am raw. Every time I think the passage of time will help, I'm reminded of how long it been since I last saw him. Touched him. Heard his voice. And that won't change. Ever.