Ashes into the Ocean

I flew to Boston for a visit. And to drive to Ogunquit (Maine) to add Rob’s ashes to the ocean as he requested. He was very specific about where, a special cove off Marginal Way, a path we had walked numerous times from Ogunquit Beach to Perkins Cove. Apparently the timing was right for me as I felt purposeful and calm. 

It was low tide and there were people at the water’s edge. I waded into the water and walked around some large rocks so I would not be in sight of the people. Opened the bag and poured the ashes into the ocean. They swirled around me in the water as the gentle waves came and went. And finally dispersed. Peaceful.

I then drove with my friend to the main beach, parked and walked the beach for a while. As Rob and I had done so many times. Ate lunch at one of “our” places and then drove over to Perkins Cove and wandered in and out of shops for a while before heading home. 

I remember thinking about doing this for a long time. Never before felt I could. Now I have. It will be 6 years this September. No tears. Maybe later but I don’t think so. Been saying Kaddish (the Jewish prayer for the dead) every Friday night at services, and thru the High Holidays last year. It changed things. I’ve changed things. I’ve changed. 

The next day I went into Boston to meet an old friend at the MFA. Drive in was a familiar one. And then I was rerouted due to construction through our first neighborhood. And found myself noting places as I drove by: the Theatre Rob studied at, the neighborhood restaurant we ate at (amazingly still there), the T, the colleges. 

On the way back to my friend's house (just around the corner from "our" house) traffic was intense so I exited and took local roads. And where did these roads lead me? Past The Hospital! Then onto the route we took oh so many times to and from said hospital. Again I noted all the associations and memories along the way. Places we liked, places we stopped at, places where the Great Blue Herons rousted. 

All these places no longer had emotional attachments. No overwhelming grief. I could be detached and go through a check list of memories. Like the ashes swirling around my feet in the ocean, observing beautiful patterns. 

Bringing stuff back into my life

When I set out on this journey, thinking that I was going to be traveling every six months I sorted my possessions into two piles. What I was going to be carrying around "on my back" back and forth; and stuff that would someday be reunited with me. This last category got put into a storage facility and has been there for more than two years.

I moved into a furnished apartment here in Florida. It has everything. And I brought all my office/work stuff with me so I was able to set up my businesses. Over the last two years as I've settled in, I found myself purchasing things that filled the need to have my own stuff.

Continually I thought of what I had stored back in Massachusetts. Of course I did, I was writing a check each and every month to the storage facility! As time has passed, even with feeling settled here, I also felt that I had possessions scattered at the ends of the East Coast. And finally decided it was time to bring everything home.

I worked hard to get the stuff here. And its been exhausting both physically and emotionally to once again go through it all and fit it into my living space. Some things like books and art and pottery and toys and baskets and decorative art items have a new home on book shelves, table tops and window sills. I've removed some furniture from the furnished apartment and replaced them with the few items I had kept. I stripped the kitchen of all that was here and eagerly put my kitchen back together.

However even with the joy of welcoming some objects, there are emotional surprises with others. I cried and sobbed as I sat and rocked in a golden oak rocking chair I lovingly placed in my bedroom. The memories of rocking in it while we talked were overwhelming.

Some of what I've unpacked belonged to Robert. Small objects that he treasured. I could not let go of them before and I look at them now and struggle to figure out what to do with them. They meant a lot to him. But not necessarily to me. But the fact that they did to him creates a quandary within me. I think I get caught up in an intellectual mind debate. A very effective way to avoid the emotional impact of each piece. So I've put them aside, away, out of sight to be dealt with at some later time.

Everything has its new place, either on display or put away. I feel a sense of accomplishment and completion—all my possessions are with me. And I also am engulfed in grief and tears.

Watching TV I am crying. Sitting at my computer I'm crying. Going out into the field to play with my horse I am crying. My universe has been disrupted. There is a tear in the space time continuum. The physical objects that were stored have a different energy from whom I am now. They still vibrate with Robert. They still vibrate with us.

My thoughts are filled with Rob and our life together. The memories are overwhelming at times. I struggle to hold on to the me that I have become. The one who packed up all that stuff and drove 1500 miles to a place I had only visited briefly.

Another Milestone Another Wedding Anniversary

Last week was another of those milestones. Wedding Anniversary. Can't figure out how to look at it. Do I still count how many years it would have been? Or do I just look at the date and say we had 42 years and the counting ends. Of course that approach reinforces the finality of death.

Why am I babbling about this? Comes back to what I have written before. Why are there these Anniversaries and what do I do with them? Are they emotional mind-fields? Or with the passage of time have they become non-events?

I watched the marked date loom on my calendar. Saw it get closer. Wondered if I needed to plan something to distract myself as I had done in the earlier years. This is the 4th Wedding Anniversary without Rob. No wait, I think my counting is off. Is it the 5th?!?! Is this a good thing that I can't remember or figure it out? Do I want/need to really definitely know?

I remember when numbers were all I had. And I held so tightly to them. They have floated away, something I did not think was possible. And here I find that I can't and don't want to nail down this number.

The Anniversary passed uneventfully. Not even a blimp...that day. The following weekend I went to an exhibit at a local art museum on the History of the Guitar—a fabulous exhibit of ancient and modern guitars. Acoustic and electric. They even showcased an "Air Guitar" (the curator has a sense of humor). I wandered thru the galleries thinking how much Robert would have enjoyed this exhibit.

Afterwards I attended a lecture and performance that complemented the exhibit. They were given by a professor who is also a classical guitarist. When he sat down and started to play his guitar tears flowed down my face. The music was indeed heavenly but it invoked my loss and yearning. I went to the lecture alone. I now do lots of things on my own. But I wanted to be sharing this moment with Robert. He played the guitar and I believe he would have loved hearing this music.

I realized as the tears were running down my face I could have stopped them. The emotions were not overpowering, they just were. I could have shifted my feelings and thoughts. But I remembered something I recently told a new widow—"Defend your grief. Embrace it." So I took my own advice to heart and let the tears flow.

Did I run away or run towards?

I sometimes wonder if my move to Florida was running away. Away for the every present memories. Away from what was familiar. Away from sights that we had experienced together for so many years.

Or was it a running to a place where I could start afresh. Make new memories. Own my decisions. Drive my  line so to speak.

And just when I really start to own my line, I find that I'm back on the knife's edge of a cliff. One little misstep and I'm tumbling down the side of the mountain.

My friend's horse is colicing. Going on the second day. Prognosis is not great. Looking more and more like an impaction, blocked intestines. The vet came out and put in a nasal gastric tube. An NG tube. Rob died of an intestinal blockage. He had an NG tube in for over a year. Seeing that NG tube in the horse and having my inner voice say "NG tube" was just too much. It all comes flooding back so quickly and completely. I miss him. I ache for him. And the tears are flowing.

4 Years and Counting....Happy New Year?

The 4th Anniversary of Rob's death has come and gone. And now it is New Year's Day 2018. A time to look back and remember the good times, the fun times. Focus on the times of joy and laughter and let go of the questionable ones. The sadness is dropping away. Not saying I do not still miss him, but much as I absolutely hate to admit it time has helped quell the intensity.

I sailed through the Anniversary, and thought I was home free. Ha! I was sick one night with a stomach bug. Up all night and railed against being alone, with no one to hold my hand, to talk to. Cried at the injustice of it. How could Robert have left me?

The Holidays also hit harder than I anticipated. Okay how can one anticipate grief? And it was not the holidays per se that caught me unawares. It is always the little things. Things I don't even give a second thought to. Wondering what? How about the taste of turkey? Someone handing me a glass of cheer? Pulling the Scotch tape to wrap a present? Hearing a piece of music? The weather turning cold?

I was recently contacted by a very very newly minted widow. I could acutely feel her pain and instantly remember what it was like. I also recognize how far I've come. That my life has indeed gone on and I am still standing. Not something I thought possible 4 years ago.

So since it is New Year's day and "we" are supposed to look back, as well as forward, I continue the wonder of finding myself in a new state—my body (as in now living in Florida) and my psyche. As far as looking forward, I will stay with one moment at a time.

Back to the Frozen North

I am on a trip to gather up the stuff I left behind when I believed I was returning as a Snowbird. Problem is I nixed the return migration.

I flew into Boston, rented a minivan and found the roads still have memories swirling around them. The overwhelming memories that catch me up and before I know what is happening tears are streaming down my face. What I've called Ground Fog. It has been over half a year since I have driven these roads—and I find the emotions are still as raw and alive as when Rob first died.

And then I drove to New Hampshire and momentarily marveled that I didn't feel him here in the White Mountains. A place he so loved. When I went to return the minivan I drove past a restaurant we had visited years and years ago...I guess I was primed. Tears started flowing again. And the memories of other times and other drives and other roads we traveled on in New Hampshire flooded me.

Florida is a fresh slate. We were never there together. I can think of Rob—and our life together—and feel joy as well as sadness in the memories.

Uncle Walt (Disney) was right

I am finding Florida to be a totally new state of mind. I was here less than two weeks and got a new client—the former Cavalia star and trainer who has a farm nearby and was in need of marketing. Through her I met a new friend who introduced to another friend who invited me to a barn opening party. This other new friend just finished building her dream barn and was throwing a party. Think big barn raising. And she was flying in a country band from Las Vegas she knew from her corporate travels.

Even though the party was over an hour away, in a place I had to trust Celeste, my GPS, to get me to, at night in the dark, I was up for it. Once at this new amazing Florida style barn as I was looking over the people there, I noticed a man dressed in black with black cowboy hat. Rolling my eyes I thought really? a Tim McGraw wannabe!

The band started playing and new friend of friend rushed through the crowd to announce that Tim McGraw was going to sing. Surprise guest! I mean where else does this happen?!?!?!

Yet another new friend invited a couple of us to his house to hear and hopefully see Barn Owls and Great Horned Owls that hangout in the trees around his house. Saw a pair of Great Horned Owls sitting in the tree. Then one flew on top of the other and mated. Really?

I have been working hard for my new client, and my existing ones. I have been making new friends and seeing new things. I took a riding lesson something I have not done in years. And have schedule weekly ones for the foreseeable future. I trailered my horse and a friend's horse to said riding lesson. And didn't hyperventilate when friend was late, or when my horse did not immediately load. I am beyond learning how to just be. I am. Who knew?

Color is seeping back into my life.

Years ago Rob shared with me a cartoon of a woman dressed in yellow jumping over a fire. The caption was about burning her black clothes. I chuckled at it but thought that would never be me. I loved my black-wear. I had/have black jeans, Ts, turtlenecks, sweaters, coats, scarfs, blouses, pants, jackets, purses, shoes, boots, gloves, hats. I mean with black you are always fashionable, chic, look slimmer, everything matches. Was I mourning and didn't know it? And the black-wear certainly got me through the real mourning, not that anyone noticed any difference in my wardrobe.

Maybe black-wear is a northern latitude clothing attitude. Because here in Florida I feel very different about my black-wear. Oh I still wear it—because it is what I have—but it doesn't feel right any longer. In my first act of jumping over that fire I purchased a RED purse. And I now am the proud owner of a pair of multicolored stripped ribbon shoes. The metamorphosis is certainly manifesting itself in very colorful surprising ways.

Third Anniversary of Robert's Death

Here I am. And to be honest at this moment I am wondering what all the fuss is about. I am. Fine. Right now. Who knows about later, but in this moment I am fine. I am thinking about my impending move to Florida for the winter. I am not caught up in waves of grief. I am caught up in my future.

Make that MY future. I do not know what it holds but I am clearly moving forward. Making plans and appointments and thinking about what to pack and how. A myriad of things that need to be done before I pack the last bag and close the doors and head out. Trailer needs to be checked out. Bobbie (the Z3) has to get serviced and prepped for his winter storage. Huey (SUV) has to go get an oil change. My cat to the vet, the vet to the horses. Me to the doctor and dentist. Find an accountant, vote, get my will finalized.

I am experiencing a renewed sense of oneness. Of being on my own and feeling comfortable here. Standing on my own two feet - and feeling the earth beneath them - grounded.

Rob's birthday was a month ago. And I got caught up in that and thinking about the coming Anniversary. I experienced a lot of what I will call "Ground Fog" - memories that would envelope me as I drove on familiar roads, past familiar places. Memories that would drift away as I drove through them. I am very pleased to report that the fog has lifted.

I am now looking forward to driving on new roads and making new memories of my own. I will be making these memories driving my own car, my own trailer, with my own horses. At this moment that does not feel scary. And I can laugh when I read that last sentence.

Holidays and Hospitals

The 4th of July Holiday Weekend passed. Before the weekend it hit me hard that this was the 5th year anniversary of Robert's initial surgery. The beginning of the journey that ended with his death 2+ years later. And the trend of "celebrating" Holidays in the Hospital was just then beginning.

After the 4th there was Labor Day and Thanksgiving where I had my turkey dinner with stuffing, mashed potatoes, string beans, and apple pie in the hospital cafeteria. Soon followed by Christmas in that first year. I vaguely remember we got to be home for New Year's, but soon thereafter were back in. There was always something that ended with an emergency room/department/pavilion visit on a holiday.

The next year really wasn't any better. Started with my birthday and moved on through the list of holidays a second time around. And I wonder why I don't relish the holidays. This year I was planning on lots and lots of horse time during the 4th of July Holiday Weekend. Maybe sitting poolside and working to even out my rider's tan. Quiet time spent not remembering.

Not to be. A good friend and old riding buddy told me she was going in for surgery the week before the 4th. The news from that surgery was not good. Cancer. Recovering from surgery she is now facing chemo. Of course I went to see her. During the 4th of July Holiday Weekend. Spent an afternoon in the ICU sitting and visiting.

Looking at all the wires and monitors and equipment and nurses. And bells and interruptions and poking and gathering of information and giving of injections. The memories of all our times in the hospital came flooding back. And of being his advocate against the medical establishment. Standing up for him when he could not.

It was frighteningly familiar. And strange. I felt detached. And found myself discussing with my friend all sorts of medical and patient things. Sigh. Of course it took a few days for this all to filter into my consciousness. In other words it took a few days to it to really hit me. Until one night I find myself sitting in bed with tears streaming down my face. Just when I think its safe to go outside I find it is not.

Move.....moving.....moved

Conjugating the verb to move. I am moved. Moved my stuff, moved in, moved on even. It is done, over, finished. Unpacked and everything put away. Not that I necessarily know where everything or maybe it is where anything is. Keep opening drawers to find out what is luring in them. And where did I put that? And where is such and such as I know I brought it and everything is unpacked but where is it?!!?!?

How is this all possible? The moving experience went smoothly. The path that is before me is open and I keep walking it. There have not been any disasters or events or crashes. Again I ask How is this possible? I all to well remember the last move and the move before that. I used to describe myself as a cat - hating change. Moving, even contemplating moving used to throw me into panic. Leaving behind what was familiar and safe and moving into the unknown was scary. But......

Now I seem to be embracing change. I was going to write How is that possible. But it just is. Clearly. More conjugating, to change. I am changed. I have changed. Life is changing. I keep moving forward. The How is that possible reverberates in my head. I did not ever think I would be able to move on, move forward, move beyond Rob's death.

I spent the last few months sorting through everything. Three distinct categories: what I was taking with me into a furnished living situation, what I wanted to hold onto and put into storage, and what I would/could let go of. I went through a lifetime of possessions, handling each one thinking about what it meant to me and deciding if I wanted to keep it close with me, keep it in my life or let it go. I have said it before—the realization that by letting go of an object does not mean letting go of or throwing away or dishonoring the memory. The memory lives on and I found I do not need many of the possessions I had been holding on to.

While driving back to my "old" house to clean up the after mess I realize I have indeed moved out, moved on, moved away. It is no longer "my" house. It is no longer a place I want or need to be. The memories are embedded deeply into my soul—forever. Seared into my soul is a more apt description.

I am different. All the aspects associated with the move are like holding up a mirror to myself that enables me to see—really see and understand—the myriad of changes within me. The move has shown me that I am embracing change. My path is about change and evolving and metamorphosis and transformation. How is that possible?

Step by Step

I am experiencing a surreal time, having taken the step to becoming house-less and unattached to a single location. Letting go. Snowbird. Wait, I hear the Beatles singing Blackbird.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free.

Blackbird fly Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird fly Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.

Doors are opening

The trip to Florida opened my eyes to how my living arrangements could be different. I mean I don't have to live in the same place forever. Really?!?! I can move. And that leads to the thought of moving on. Going the way of Snowbird - six months in New England and six months in Florida. Who knew such a thing was possible for me?!?!

I remember after Robert died I wondered if I would stay in the house. The idea of moving was just too overwhelming at that time and I put the thought aside. But the time is right—NOW. I am on a new journey. Walking through a new door. Taking the first step on a new path. Wow!

I started thinking about what this all would mean. And started to explore the logistics in my mind. Trailing Cici and Casey, bringing my cat Leon, moving out of the house, finding a place to live here, finding a place to live there, where would the horses live?

When I think of the house, the mind exercise goes into what do I keep? Where do I store things? What can I let go of? Letting go of stuff. Of physical objects that hold memories. Acknowledge that letting go of an object does not mean letting go of the memory. Or of letting go of Robert. He will be with me always. And I do not need to be surrounded by things to remember him.

With all these thoughts swirling around in my mind, inevitably words begin to leak out. I find myself talking about selling the house and becoming a Snowbird. I am not sure how this will manifest itself but it is so large that conversations ensue.

And one of my good friends says, "Come live with me. I would enjoy having company for six months." And that cements the deal. I now had a "temporary" living arrangement here in the North, next challenge will be to find something in the South. I am through the door.

Rediscovering myself after the death of my husband

I have been saying that I am "reinventing" myself. But that did not feel quite right. Thought about it a while and decided "rediscovering" myself was better. Now I think maybe it is really a matter of "discovering" myself. As my blog says, "Who am I this time?"

Who am I? How perceptive of me in titling this blog. I can truthfully say I do not know the answer yet, but the process of discovery is a wonderful wild ride.

A couple of months ago a friend mentioned she was going to be trailering three of her horses from New Hampshire to Florida. I listened to her debate about when she would leave—sooner or later. The reason really depended on whether she was traveling alone or had a traveling companion. I listened, said nothing, and then drove myself home.

Of course during my trip home I kept thinking why couldn't I go with her? What was holding me back? Why couldn't I just up and go? Another Ah Ha moment. Like the one where a friend invited me to dinner last minute. An Ah Ha moment of acknowledging that I am not tied down. That I can make my own plans at the drop of a hat.

So yes we set off for Florida the following week. Driving from New England to Florida I  encountered places, roads and town names that evoked memories of my life with Rob. My friend and I drove through parts of the country where Rob and I grew up, where we visited family, where we went to see our last client together, where we drove for vacations. As we continued South past these locations, I looked forward to starting to make new memories.

The trip took 4 days from New England to our destination in Florida, with three overnights at barns that had accommodations for horses, dogs and people. My friend made all the arrangements. I had no clue where we would be staying each night. And it did not matter. This is huge because the not knowing used to drive me crazy.

I find I can easily drop into a place where I do not have to be the one making the decisions. I do not have to know what is going to happen next. I can be open to the journey and not worry about the destination. It can take care of itself, and it (the destination) becomes part of the journey filled with new memories.

In the middle of time

I am in the middle of time—two weeks ago was Rob's Birthday and in two weeks is the Second Anniversary of his Death. Tears flow more frequently once again. I encounter memories wherever I turn. And I am seeing my gradual evolution.

Off to the feed and grain store (doesn't everyone?) and then go check out a different supermarket than the one on my usual route. Plug address into Celeste (my GPS) and I am off. Find myself marveling that I am on roads I do not believe I have ever driven on. I am on an adventure in my own backyard! In the past I would have gotten anxious about not knowing where I was, exactly. But now it does not seem to matter.

So I fly high and then hit turbulence. I am not familiar with this new supermarket and therefore don't know the isles and shelves to avoid. Ever think about what a mind (yes mind) field supermarkets become after your husband dies? Items you picked up just for him. Items he asked for. Items that were all he could eat. Numerous small explosions.

Plotting my own back roads route for my way home, I have the thought, "I can take the route home from the hospital." Home from the hospital offers up overwhelming images of that last trip almost exactly two years ago. Do all my back roads only lead from or to the hospital?

I understand that this is an emotionally charged time. And I am trying to keep an awareness of what is the same, what is different—what are memories. One change I want to acknowledge is that I have taken off my wedding band. I did not think I would ever do this. But I have a new ring to wear on my left hand now. A cigar band style ring with, of course, a horse on it. I am horse. Was going to say that I am becoming horse, but that is so passé . I am horse.

Maybe that is part of the ongoing transformation. Another difference is that I am slowly migrating back to using my maiden name. It feels right in the acknowledgement of all that has changed and the who am I this time. This middle of time space is turning into a place of experimentation. Trying different things on for size. Seeing what fits.

It is almost Rosh Hashanah. And that was when "we" went into the hospital for the last time. In 2013 Rosh Hashana fell on September 5th. I think of the first week as letting the reality sink in and the rush of visitors. Week Two was a transition week as the inevitability of the reality sank in. And Week Three was the end. We had 21 days.

One moment I am fearless flying to new heights and the next I am crashing and burning...ah welcome back Roller Coaster. But the ride is not as harrowing as in the past. It has leveled out and the drops do not last that long, and are no where as intense. The Roller Coaster is now just a reminder.

What do I do with a lecture on Grief?

I was recently invited to a lecture on Images of Grief and Healing, "the ways in which art making is an instrumental tool in helping mourners heal and recalibrate one's life." It felt like something I should attend.

And therein lies my dilemma—the "should". I felt myself resisting. I was pleased my friend invited me. I am open to new things. Like to go places. But—ah there it is, the but. So now I have resistance, a should, and a but. Not a good combination. Red flags waving at me. I acknowledge them. So what is going on?

I struggle internally. Is grief something that I will carry with me all my life? Of course. But do I have to keep examining it? Exposing myself to other people's interpretations? Delve deeper into other's meaning? Keep reading books on grief, go to lectures on grief, visit art exhibits on grief.

Have I not had my own personal exploration of grief going on for longer than I care to count? Do I need an immersion course? There it is—the question I have been searching for—do I need to continue to immerse myself in grief?

My answer is no. My grief is a part of me. I feel like the fog of the last year has lifted. I am striking out on my own path. There are guide posts that Rob has left for me, but I am making this new journey my own. It is indeed time to move forward without a focus on grief. It is okay to turn down the invitation.

The Fog of This Last Year is Lifting

Ah the holidays. Time to get together and celebrate. It is really a very hard time of year. I know I've said it before, and will probably say it again and again. I can't figure out what happened to last year. I drive around and see the holiday lights decorating houses and think, "Last year 'we' drove and looked at the lights together." Oh no, that is not right. It was two Christmas' ago that we did that. Last year? I was in a fog and while I know I did a lot of things and rode my roller coaster there are these gaping holes.

For instance the other day the FedEx guy came to the front door around 3:30 PM. It was getting dark. I thought about turning on the porch light but knew the bulb had blown. My hand automatically went to the switch and to my utter astonishment the light went on. When did I change the bulb? I have no memory of doing it. But apparently I did.

The fog has lifted. And everything is appearing in sharp relief. And the pain is more intense. Or maybe it is just intense. How can I qualify when I can't remember? What is the comparison?

With the fog lifting I find I am now existing on two planes (plains?). One is looking back and the other is looking forward. The backward glances are struggling to understand how I got here. And where Robert is. The forward action is making plans for the future. And right now I'm embracing what I once thought of as a fantasy. Then repositioned as a dream. And now slowly working its way into reality. A truck and horse trailer.

Great metaphor. Truck/SUV. Movement. Going places. Change. Travel. Speed. Moving on. Did you know they call a trailer a tag-along? I'm learning new words. I'm truck shopping on my own. I can say I want a Hemi and don't even flinch. A towing package is a must. Who knew? 5.7 liter engine. V8. Automatic. What is coming over me? A friend asked me what color. Color? That is not even on my list of considerations.

I continue to drive Rob's Z3. Okay it's mine. But it will always be his. The humungous thing will be mine. The Z3 will be his. The trailer will be mine. Maybe it will be Cici's. The Z3 shall always be Rob's. I'm just driving it. And crying. How is this all possible? We were supposed to grow old together.

The two planes keep converging. How can you look behind and walk forward at the same time?

The Transformational Qualities of Golden Light

I've kept the door to Robert's room closed all this time. I go in when I need something, but can not bear to have to door open. Can not bear to see his Large Dark Computer Monitor sitting on his desk. Dark, quiet, unused, off.

A few weeks ago, during my ongoing dark days I noticed a Golden Light coming from under the door to his room. This Light....coming from "under" the door....draws me in. I have to take a look.

The Light is so inviting, warm, enticing. I just have to open the door to see it. I really have no choice here. Have to see. And when I do I experience a glowing, loving Light that envelopes me. It is the Autumn Light pouring in from the window I rationalize. It is filling the room. It is an amazing light.

I stand in the doorway and look in at the light. And I turn and look into my room, which was right next to his. This glorious "Golden Light" was not in my room. I rationalize that it is "just Autumn Light." I rationalize that it is the angle of sun, the orientation of the room, the relationship of the trees and shrubs outside the windows that allows the light to flood his room, and not mine.

I decide right then and there that I want this Light in my life. I want this Light in the house. And I leave the door open!

And so begins the reclamation. Realize that I can move the monitor off the desk. I don't have to look at it anymore. Why did this not occur to me before? The next day as I am doing a photo setup in my office—which entails clearing off my work table and setting up lights and background and tripod—I think about how much I would really like to have a place to leave my photography equipment set up all the time. And it hits me! Rob's computer table would be perfect. And look it is now empty. But not for long!

As the transformation of the room takes place, the roller coaster continues its journey. I have exciting high times and then I come across a physical object or just walk into a memory and go into free fall.

I spend a focused afternoon sorting through what is remaining of his things in the room. The floor is finally cleared. I look over the bare room. It is a blank slate for me to make it into whatever I want. I put some plants for the window seat and I drag in an arm chair to create a quiet corner. From the basement I bring up an old spool chest that doubles as an end table to the chair. And look Rob had the perfect small lamp to goes on the table.

As I gaze around the room I notice the walls are all empty. This has me burrowing in the closets for artwork. I uncover an old portfolio of drawings, etchings and paintings. Of course as I go through the artwork memories flood in. When I did a drawing, when we bought that picture, that Rob loved that one. Memories of our life together. Another reminder of the loss and change.

I manage to dry my eyes and find myself gravitating to a series of four pencil drawings that I did years ago. The drawings were done over the course of about a week. They are of one fern palm slowly unfurling. Growing from curl into full glory. Blossoming so to speak.

Buy four frames, trim the drawing and hang the series up over my photo table setup. They are now the first things I see when I look into the room from the doorway. A welcoming vision of hope and growth. There is a metamorphosis taking place.

One wall of the room is changed. What do I want to do with the rest? What artwork do I want to hang on the wall. I acknowledge that this is going to be "MY" room. Not my office, not my work room. But my inspiration room. My creative outlet room.

I pick out another drawing I did in life class while in Art School and match it with a life drawing my Aunt did. The two nudes are facing each other on the wall now.

I want my sewing machine out of the closet. Out where I can see it. Where I can use it at the slightest whim. And that means bringing the oak library table that many years ago we transported in the "Air Car". An ancient VW beetle convertible that we stuck the table up out the back.

It used to be my work table but has been relinquished to the basement for years. Of course there is a ton of stuff piled on it. And then there is the fact that it is 6 feet long and extremely heavy. Clearing it off is the easy part, but no way can I manage moving it on my own. How will I get it up the stairs?

You know how when you change one thing it starts a cascade of change? Each decision necessitated another decision and another and another. I mean while I was changing "the room" I thought about other things I wanted to change, or put up, or put out. And each act of change entailed confronting cascading memories. Sigh.

I was rummaging through a box in the basement thinking it was filled with kitchen items. But when I unwrapped the bubble wrap I found a collection of handmade pots that I had given up hope finding. They have not seen the light of day for a long long time. I bring them upstairs into MY room where there is a white bookcase. I quickly clear the shelves and position each pot perfectly. Of course the pile of books and objects that came off the shelves is now on the floor needing to be placed elsewhere.

And so it goes. Move one item and have to deal with three or four other items. And handling each piece provokes memories. And tears.

But the room is complete. Filled with very specific objects that have very specific memories to me. Rob is there in the room. He filled it with that Golden Light entice me to open the door and begin the next stage of my journey.

Hitting the wall of grief both metaphorically and literally

I've said this before. Everything has changed. My world is turned upside down. I look at things differently. I think differently. I am more aware of how language and words shape my experience. I'm on my own. Living my life. And as my blog title says, "Who am I this time?"

Clearly horses are a dominate part of my life. They were when Robert was alive, and now even more so. I start wondering what it would be like to have a truck and horse trailer. To be able to take my horse to clinics or play dates easily. I start saying that I have a fantasy about driving around the country to visit my horse friends—with my horses.


Then I realize that a fantasy doesn't have much chance of becoming reality. So I change my language to I have a dream of owning a truck and horse trailer. My pragmatic side chimes in that I already own two cars. My Saab and Rob's Z3 2-seater convertible. I can not imagine selling either of them. I fill the Saab with lots and lots of stuff and I drop the top on the Z3 and drive around with the wind in my hair. And where would I even park a truck?


Seems the Universe decides to help me out. I was in an accident and totaled my Saab. Air bag deployed and my trusty Saab gave it's life so I can walk away unhurt. And yes all I can think of is how much I want to be able to call Rob and tell him what happened. To have him to come and pick me up, and wrap his arms around me and tell me everything will be okay.

I have driven Saabs my entire driving life. First one was a Red 1967 93 (in those days it was called a ninety three) two stroke engine Saab that had been my parent's car. Learned to drive this 4 speed manual transmission car. Failed my first driver's test in this car. Passed my driver's test in this car. Robert and I had many of our first driving adventures in this car. Even learned car repair—I'm talking about drum brakes, carburetors, engine rebuilding with this car.

I can go on and on with Saab stories. Saab models: 93s, 900s, back to 9-3 designation. Colors: Red, Silver, White, Champagne Beige, Silvery Green, Metallic Midnight Blue, Green, Silver. Now they no longer exist. And now I no longer own one. Yet another passing. Yet another loss.

But I have the Z3 and it is becoming mine. Really mine. Slowly it is filling with stuff. My stuff that I was hesitant to put in it before. And the acceptance of the car as mine hits hard. Really hard. I have to drive it. No choice of cars any longer. And every day I get into it I have to face it was his. And he is no longer.

So of course I call his service adviser and make an appointment for an oil change and safety inspection. Exactly as I did one year ago. Yet another reminder.

Recognize the accident was about 'hitting the wall'. Was I charging along thoughtlessly? Another hint from the Universe? I hear that old Paul Simon song in my head all the time now, "Slow down, you move too fast...."


The roller coaster roars downward, and I'm waiting for the g-force (read that as grief force) to ease up a bit.

Through the Portal of the First Year Anniversay of Robert's Death

I'm through the portal, past the first year anniversary of Robert's death. And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it looks the same from this side. To put it succinctly I'm still here and he is not.

The roller coaster roars on. I have accomplished some amazing things this year on my own. I have traveled to places and met people like never before. I've had to deal with car issues, home maintenance, getting sick, everything in "normal" everyday life on my own. And yes I am still standing. And yes I have had fun. But...there is still a gaping hole.

The distance of time doesn't change the facts. And in some way it is harder now because I believed everyone who said the big hurdle was the first year anniversary. The realization is it is even more real with this passage of time. I think during the year just putting one foot in front of the other required so much energy that that was all I could manage.

I have gotten past that. Only here on this side the total complete reality hits harder than ever. He is not coming back. He will never walk through that door, hold my hand, sleep with me, kiss me. The finality now that the fog has lifted hits me like a sledge hammer.

There was such emphasis on first anniversary. I heard that going through the first year with all of life's events, "the first after his death" would make a difference. Well I say "they" lied. Because I now get to experience the second Fall we are not together. And I think back to what I did last year, and get an "OH!" and try and think back to the year before that.

Sometimes I feel that year one was about just getting through it. One step, one day, one moment at a time. Now I recognize and am forced to embrace the truth that this is indeed it. No going back. No return to before. No Robert.

I have to go on alone. Driving home from the barn today, I was thinking, what was I going to do when I got home? And I am confronted with the truth that I have to make all the decisions. Self direction. It is all about me. After so many years of being with Robert, my life was we. It is now utterly and totally me. Looking back I found I wrote about this almost exactly a year ago "Two Minus One."