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.
Showing posts with label mourning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mourning. Show all posts
Monday, August 27, 2018
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
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.
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.
Monday, January 1, 2018
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.
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.
Saturday, January 7, 2017
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.
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.
Monday, November 28, 2016
I am here in Florida - how is that possible?
I am now in Florida. Can't help but laugh and think "How did that happen?" I drove over a thousand miles in Huey (SUV) with my horse trailer filled with all my possessions. My cat in the back seat, a new BFF sharing the driving,. Took three days with two overnights to complete the journey. I shipped the horses—knowing my limitations.
I am happy. I am having fun. I sleep through the night. My life is unlike anything I imagined. Okay I'll admit that it was a fantasy of mine to live on a farm with my horses. But the fantasy didn't look like this—this is way better. I don't know who I am and refuse to look too closely as I am feeling very present—in the moment—here. The new normal is no matter where here is I am home. A startling and poignant concept.
As we
crossed into Florida my friend asked me if I had butterflies. And I realized no. And
no for the entire journey. This totally continues to confound—that I have metamorphosized
into one for whom home is me. Don't seem to need a physical location any longer.
Saturday, August 6, 2016
Thin line between life and death
I recently saw a man die. Right in front of me. One moment he was alive and talking and the next....Mark was a highly respected horseman. I went to audit his clinic. I went to be inspired and bring my horse and study with him the next time he was in the area.
It was a weekend clinic and originally I had intended to go on Saturday and watch a good friend with her horse participate. But she had to cancel. And then my enthusiasm waned. On Saturday I allowed other things to occupy me, and found myself dithering about even bothering to attend on Sunday. But Sunday morning I awoke bright and early and decided why not just get in the car and go. I was interested in what he had to say and here he was less than an hour away. Why miss this opportunity?
Arrived at the farm while the first participant was just saddling her horse. Mark came out of the barn and immediately engaged me. What an amazing presence he had. There were no other auditors and seemingly no other riders about just then. He sat down beside me and we chatted and connected while his first rider was getting ready. Then during that first lesson it felt like he was talking to me—explaining what he was doing and what he was feeling from the horse. He made me feel like I was the only person there.
Then on to the next horse and rider. Only she wasn't riding and wanted Mark to ride this horse. Apparently she had been studying with him for some time and he knew her horse. Everything appeared to be so normal. I am describing all this as what came next turned out not to be anything but normal.
He saddled the horse and walked it over to the mounting block. He put his left foot in the stirrup and just barely began to swing his right leg over the horse's back when the horse exploded. Exploded is the only word for the what happened as it was all over.
The body that landed on the ground looked child sized—there was no being, no soul, no energy left. I had a hard time equating what was lying there with the man I had just met and been talking with. Alive he was truly larger than life. And now he was gone.
The speed with which this happened, the unexpectedness of it, and to be confronted by death shook my soul. That this happened around horses—and that horses are—my life, my release, my place of being, my refuge, my solace, my love, my passion. How could I take in what happened and internalize it in such a way that it would not foreshadow my enjoyment of them?
There was no place for me to turn as I was at a facility I did not know, with people I did not know, in a town I did not know. I was alone. Here we are again at that word. Alone. I recognize that at crisis times I want to reach out. To just talk to Robert and share and be held. This is what we did throughout our lives together—shared with each other.
I recognized a need to share what I had witnessed with others. And so I kept telling and retelling the event as I experienced it. Trying to come to terms with what I saw and make sense of it—if such a thing was possible.
My thoughts turned to his wife, who had no idea what had happened. She would be getting a phone call that would say what?!?!? She was a widow and she did not know it yet. I remembered of my time with Rob, and that in the end I sat and watched and waited for a few weeks. Knowing the end was coming just not when. Not sure it makes much of a difference expecting death or having it come out of nowhere. Death is not something you can ever prepare yourself for. Oh you think that knowing it is coming makes it easier. I am not so sure having lived with it hanging over us. In the end death is sudden when it happens, no matter how it happens.
It was a weekend clinic and originally I had intended to go on Saturday and watch a good friend with her horse participate. But she had to cancel. And then my enthusiasm waned. On Saturday I allowed other things to occupy me, and found myself dithering about even bothering to attend on Sunday. But Sunday morning I awoke bright and early and decided why not just get in the car and go. I was interested in what he had to say and here he was less than an hour away. Why miss this opportunity?
Arrived at the farm while the first participant was just saddling her horse. Mark came out of the barn and immediately engaged me. What an amazing presence he had. There were no other auditors and seemingly no other riders about just then. He sat down beside me and we chatted and connected while his first rider was getting ready. Then during that first lesson it felt like he was talking to me—explaining what he was doing and what he was feeling from the horse. He made me feel like I was the only person there.
Then on to the next horse and rider. Only she wasn't riding and wanted Mark to ride this horse. Apparently she had been studying with him for some time and he knew her horse. Everything appeared to be so normal. I am describing all this as what came next turned out not to be anything but normal.
He saddled the horse and walked it over to the mounting block. He put his left foot in the stirrup and just barely began to swing his right leg over the horse's back when the horse exploded. Exploded is the only word for the what happened as it was all over.
The body that landed on the ground looked child sized—there was no being, no soul, no energy left. I had a hard time equating what was lying there with the man I had just met and been talking with. Alive he was truly larger than life. And now he was gone.
The speed with which this happened, the unexpectedness of it, and to be confronted by death shook my soul. That this happened around horses—and that horses are—my life, my release, my place of being, my refuge, my solace, my love, my passion. How could I take in what happened and internalize it in such a way that it would not foreshadow my enjoyment of them?
There was no place for me to turn as I was at a facility I did not know, with people I did not know, in a town I did not know. I was alone. Here we are again at that word. Alone. I recognize that at crisis times I want to reach out. To just talk to Robert and share and be held. This is what we did throughout our lives together—shared with each other.
I recognized a need to share what I had witnessed with others. And so I kept telling and retelling the event as I experienced it. Trying to come to terms with what I saw and make sense of it—if such a thing was possible.
My thoughts turned to his wife, who had no idea what had happened. She would be getting a phone call that would say what?!?!? She was a widow and she did not know it yet. I remembered of my time with Rob, and that in the end I sat and watched and waited for a few weeks. Knowing the end was coming just not when. Not sure it makes much of a difference expecting death or having it come out of nowhere. Death is not something you can ever prepare yourself for. Oh you think that knowing it is coming makes it easier. I am not so sure having lived with it hanging over us. In the end death is sudden when it happens, no matter how it happens.
Monday, July 4, 2016
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.
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.
Monday, February 29, 2016
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.
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.
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.
Into the light of the dark black night.
Blackbird fly Blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night.
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
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.
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
Monday, February 22, 2016
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.
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.
Friday, February 5, 2016
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.
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.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
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.
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.
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Life After Death
I never thought I would be saying this, but there is indeed life after death....life for me after the death of my husband. What better metaphor than my truck and now new horse trailer. I am going places I have never been. I am doing things I have never done. I am experiencing life as I have never before.
I am comfortable with "being only one". I do not have to check with anyone. I make my own decisions. A friend calls at 5:30 to ask if I want to go to dinner. When? and where? Another friend invites me to go camping with her. I have not camped in I can't remember how many years. But why not? There is nothing holding me back from saying yes. And yes I do go camping.
This does not mean I don't miss Rob. Or that I don't cry. It does not mean that I don't have times when everything seems totally overwhelming. It simply means that I am embracing the new path I am on. I am well aware that my journey to find "Who am I this time" is very much a work in progress. And I am open to exploring and searching and seeing what comes my way.
I am experiencing a huge paradigm shift. It is evolving and revealing itself bit by bit. Focusing moment by moment is all I can do.
I am comfortable with "being only one". I do not have to check with anyone. I make my own decisions. A friend calls at 5:30 to ask if I want to go to dinner. When? and where? Another friend invites me to go camping with her. I have not camped in I can't remember how many years. But why not? There is nothing holding me back from saying yes. And yes I do go camping.
This does not mean I don't miss Rob. Or that I don't cry. It does not mean that I don't have times when everything seems totally overwhelming. It simply means that I am embracing the new path I am on. I am well aware that my journey to find "Who am I this time" is very much a work in progress. And I am open to exploring and searching and seeing what comes my way.
I am experiencing a huge paradigm shift. It is evolving and revealing itself bit by bit. Focusing moment by moment is all I can do.
Saturday, March 7, 2015
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.
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.
Friday, February 13, 2015
I am on my own on my birthday
I awoke this morning, sniffed the air and had the unpleasant thought that the temperature in the house was colder than normal. Got out of bed and ran to the thermostat which read 54 degrees. It was 5 degrees outside, so 50 degrees higher was a good thing. But not a normal thing. Furnace was off. It had shut down two nights ago and there in lies this story.
Today is my birthday. Notice the small b. Not Birthday, just birthday. Don't feel like I have to do anything about it except acknowledge it to myself. There will be no cards on the dining room table when I have breakfast. No birthday kiss. No one here to say Happy Birthday out loud.
But strangely that feels okay. I'm getting used to this being on my own thing. It is not alone, and it is not loneliness. It is being on my own. And what better day to embrace it than on my birthday.
Two nights ago the circuit breaker for the furnace had flipped. After checking the thermostat this morning, I went out to the garage and checked the circuit breaker. Yup it had blown, I reset it. And then called the oil company. The service man showed up quickly and explained to me all the things that could be wrong. I left him to figure it out while I went about my usual morning activities.
During the day I got thinking about what present I could get myself. And realized I had gotten a terrific present last weekend. Huey—my new to me 2005 Dodge Durango truck/SUV. The truck part of my truck and horse trailer dream. Manifested the truck part. Trailer next. Oh and Huey stands for humongous vehicle ; -)
On my own I researched, decided what was important, searched, winnowed down, talked to used car salespeople, selected what I thought was the perfect vehicle and went for a test drive in a town 1-1/2 hours away. I took the truck to a Dodge dealer for a safety inspection, negotiated with the selling salesperson and drove said truck home.
I brought it in for its inspection sticker locally and the dealer found a gas leak. I had to deal with that, call the guy I bought the truck from, re-negotiate with him to cover the cost and then get back to dealer to approve its repair.
Through all of these events not once did I think, I wish I could run this by Robert. And to add to my challenges, my neighbor who had been snow blowing my driveway had his wife suggest to me that I pay someone to plow it. In the middle of one of our ongoing snow storms. We've had over 60" of snow in 3 weeks. After talking with some of my other neighbors I realized I could no longer depend on the kindness of others. And embracing my "inner independent cowgirl" I tackled our snow blower.
Rob had showed me numerous times how to start and operate it. I had always resisted. There was no avoiding it any longer. Went out and bought a new gas "can". Filled it up with gas. I found I've been saying to people, "I've never done this before" quite a lot. And yet I keep going.
While I was worried about operating the snow blower, the new gas can turned out to be the challenge. There were all sorts of absurd safety features. No longer a can with top and spout. I struggled with the gas contraption, eventually figuring out how to get the little cap off, and what the spring thing on the spout was all about. Of course this involved spilling gasoline all over my hands and the floor of the garage and the snow blower. But I did manage to get some gas into the tank. Remembered Robert using the green extension cord to plug into the snow blower to start it without pulling the crank. Thank you Robert!
I cleared the driveway all on my own. Took several hours, and another storm is scheduled to start tomorrow. I have gas, I have snow blower, I have Huey. I think I am all set. Well hopefully I am. It is all exhausting being on my own, but I am slowly making my way. On my own.
Today is my birthday. Notice the small b. Not Birthday, just birthday. Don't feel like I have to do anything about it except acknowledge it to myself. There will be no cards on the dining room table when I have breakfast. No birthday kiss. No one here to say Happy Birthday out loud.
But strangely that feels okay. I'm getting used to this being on my own thing. It is not alone, and it is not loneliness. It is being on my own. And what better day to embrace it than on my birthday.
Two nights ago the circuit breaker for the furnace had flipped. After checking the thermostat this morning, I went out to the garage and checked the circuit breaker. Yup it had blown, I reset it. And then called the oil company. The service man showed up quickly and explained to me all the things that could be wrong. I left him to figure it out while I went about my usual morning activities.
During the day I got thinking about what present I could get myself. And realized I had gotten a terrific present last weekend. Huey—my new to me 2005 Dodge Durango truck/SUV. The truck part of my truck and horse trailer dream. Manifested the truck part. Trailer next. Oh and Huey stands for humongous vehicle ; -)
On my own I researched, decided what was important, searched, winnowed down, talked to used car salespeople, selected what I thought was the perfect vehicle and went for a test drive in a town 1-1/2 hours away. I took the truck to a Dodge dealer for a safety inspection, negotiated with the selling salesperson and drove said truck home.
I brought it in for its inspection sticker locally and the dealer found a gas leak. I had to deal with that, call the guy I bought the truck from, re-negotiate with him to cover the cost and then get back to dealer to approve its repair.
Through all of these events not once did I think, I wish I could run this by Robert. And to add to my challenges, my neighbor who had been snow blowing my driveway had his wife suggest to me that I pay someone to plow it. In the middle of one of our ongoing snow storms. We've had over 60" of snow in 3 weeks. After talking with some of my other neighbors I realized I could no longer depend on the kindness of others. And embracing my "inner independent cowgirl" I tackled our snow blower.
Rob had showed me numerous times how to start and operate it. I had always resisted. There was no avoiding it any longer. Went out and bought a new gas "can". Filled it up with gas. I found I've been saying to people, "I've never done this before" quite a lot. And yet I keep going.
While I was worried about operating the snow blower, the new gas can turned out to be the challenge. There were all sorts of absurd safety features. No longer a can with top and spout. I struggled with the gas contraption, eventually figuring out how to get the little cap off, and what the spring thing on the spout was all about. Of course this involved spilling gasoline all over my hands and the floor of the garage and the snow blower. But I did manage to get some gas into the tank. Remembered Robert using the green extension cord to plug into the snow blower to start it without pulling the crank. Thank you Robert!
I cleared the driveway all on my own. Took several hours, and another storm is scheduled to start tomorrow. I have gas, I have snow blower, I have Huey. I think I am all set. Well hopefully I am. It is all exhausting being on my own, but I am slowly making my way. On my own.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
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?
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?
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
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."
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."
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Coming Up on the One Year Anniversary of the Death of My Husband.
Feels like I'm closing in on the finish line. Huffing and puffing with sore feet and a dry throat. Never have I so completely marked off one year. Time has flown by, time has stood still, time has inched along agonizingly. I can not ever remember paying such close attention to the passage of time. I can not ever remember having a date loom so....so....so. I planned my last adventure to New Mexico and Colorado in June so that I could look forward to the month of September. And not view of the approach of September with dread.
This year has been a time of pain and grief and discovery. As Rob had said to me, "It will be an opportunity for Personal Growth." Yeah right. I came back from my Southwest Adventure all full of myself. Convinced I was managing fine on my own. A few days back my cat took sick. And I found myself dealing with what was going on with him by myself. I so yearned to have Rob to share my worry. I so totally didn't want to deal with this by myself. What, another medical issue in the month of September. Would all Septembers be like this? Was this a month that I would want to remove from the calendar?
My cat's illness caused me again look inside myself. God this "Personal Growth" thing just keeps going on and on and on. Was he expressing through his illness what I was not able to? He had a cough. His throat was sore and closed. Like when you are caught in overwhelming grief and can't make a sound. Was I blocking my grief? Was I fooling myself that I was fine with the coming anniversary?
My latest rant has been why do I, we, people, society, you "celebrate" the death of one we love? Why mark the date of their demise? Their passing? Their death? Isn't the fact of their being gone enough? Why mark it with such meaning? Widows are "one year out" "two years out" "six years out". Why not focus on happier dates? Like birthdays or wedding anniversaries or first date dates or...or....or. It makes no sense to me. Help me out here.
An interlude. A few days ago I received an email about discounted tickets to an Emmylou Harris concert that was taking place in a nearby city. I could not pass this up and started to try and think of which friend might be interested in going with me. But I didn't want to wait to order the tickets, and I didn't want to buy two and then try and find someone. It felt a bit defiant to just go ahead and buy one ticket—but that is exactly what I did.
Tonight was the concert. And as I was getting ready to go I started to feel a bit anxious. I had never been to this venue, I was going alone. But on the plus side I had Celeste (my GPS) to guide me and she and I had managed much greater travels together recently. And guide me she did, through some of the grittiest, seediest parts of the City. I'm going to have to have a talk with that girl!
I was the first person to sit in my row at the theater. Soon, two women came and sat down beside me. Marie and Theresa immediately became my two new best friends! How do these things happen?!?! We compared Emmylou Harris concerts we had been to, we talked about the venue, we exchanged a host of personal information. How do these things happen?!?!?
I told them about a previous concert I had gone to this City where I had been amazed that they allowed large plastic cups of beer in the hall. And how the audience throughout the concert was in constant motion. In with beer, out to pee, back in with more beer and out to pee all night long.
The lights go down and we watch the row in front of us as four people come stumbling in with cups of beer held high. And Marie starts to laugh. And Theresa starts to laugh. And I start to laugh. We are just feeding off of each other. The four finally manage to find their seats and then one has to go out again. Apparently I am laughing with great abandon and the person on my other side asks, "What are you on? I want some of that." How do these things happen?!?!?
The concert? I love Emmylou Harris. Robert loved Emmylou Harris. I believe we had/have every one of her albums. And I found the concert to be a time travel experience. Each song she sang stood for a time in our lives. A place we lived, a car we were driving, a room we listened to that song, a vista...images cascaded through my mind's eye. I laughed, I danced, I cried.
That is what this anniversary is about. It is not about celebrating Robert's death. It is about celebrating our life together.
This year has been a time of pain and grief and discovery. As Rob had said to me, "It will be an opportunity for Personal Growth." Yeah right. I came back from my Southwest Adventure all full of myself. Convinced I was managing fine on my own. A few days back my cat took sick. And I found myself dealing with what was going on with him by myself. I so yearned to have Rob to share my worry. I so totally didn't want to deal with this by myself. What, another medical issue in the month of September. Would all Septembers be like this? Was this a month that I would want to remove from the calendar?
My cat's illness caused me again look inside myself. God this "Personal Growth" thing just keeps going on and on and on. Was he expressing through his illness what I was not able to? He had a cough. His throat was sore and closed. Like when you are caught in overwhelming grief and can't make a sound. Was I blocking my grief? Was I fooling myself that I was fine with the coming anniversary?
My latest rant has been why do I, we, people, society, you "celebrate" the death of one we love? Why mark the date of their demise? Their passing? Their death? Isn't the fact of their being gone enough? Why mark it with such meaning? Widows are "one year out" "two years out" "six years out". Why not focus on happier dates? Like birthdays or wedding anniversaries or first date dates or...or....or. It makes no sense to me. Help me out here.
An interlude. A few days ago I received an email about discounted tickets to an Emmylou Harris concert that was taking place in a nearby city. I could not pass this up and started to try and think of which friend might be interested in going with me. But I didn't want to wait to order the tickets, and I didn't want to buy two and then try and find someone. It felt a bit defiant to just go ahead and buy one ticket—but that is exactly what I did.
Tonight was the concert. And as I was getting ready to go I started to feel a bit anxious. I had never been to this venue, I was going alone. But on the plus side I had Celeste (my GPS) to guide me and she and I had managed much greater travels together recently. And guide me she did, through some of the grittiest, seediest parts of the City. I'm going to have to have a talk with that girl!
I was the first person to sit in my row at the theater. Soon, two women came and sat down beside me. Marie and Theresa immediately became my two new best friends! How do these things happen?!?! We compared Emmylou Harris concerts we had been to, we talked about the venue, we exchanged a host of personal information. How do these things happen?!?!?
I told them about a previous concert I had gone to this City where I had been amazed that they allowed large plastic cups of beer in the hall. And how the audience throughout the concert was in constant motion. In with beer, out to pee, back in with more beer and out to pee all night long.
The lights go down and we watch the row in front of us as four people come stumbling in with cups of beer held high. And Marie starts to laugh. And Theresa starts to laugh. And I start to laugh. We are just feeding off of each other. The four finally manage to find their seats and then one has to go out again. Apparently I am laughing with great abandon and the person on my other side asks, "What are you on? I want some of that." How do these things happen?!?!?
The concert? I love Emmylou Harris. Robert loved Emmylou Harris. I believe we had/have every one of her albums. And I found the concert to be a time travel experience. Each song she sang stood for a time in our lives. A place we lived, a car we were driving, a room we listened to that song, a vista...images cascaded through my mind's eye. I laughed, I danced, I cried.
That is what this anniversary is about. It is not about celebrating Robert's death. It is about celebrating our life together.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Dreamtime once again with a visit from Rob
The night before my flight back home from Albuquerque......
In my dream Robert is
going to take me to the airport in Albuquerque. But first he wants to stop back
at the museum we had visited earlier to show me a picture of a horse, artwork, in one of the books we
had looked at. I am upset, feeling anxious about getting to airport in time, and
just wanting to go. But Rob is driving and assures me that there is plenty of
time.
So we go back
into the museum and I tell the ticket taker we had been there earlier today
with a docent and could we just run in and look at one thing. No charge? She
agrees, and notices my tag and asks about my selling jewelry. I promise to
return with a business card.
We go to the
books and pull down all the horse ones. Leafing through them Rob finds the image. But by now more time
has passed and I just want to go. I am not interested in looking at the image.
Then (as in
classic dream sequences) we are further away from the car and museum. And I
just want to get back. I leave and start walking. But the going is tough. It is like I am walking
through mud sucking ground. When I look down I realize there is snow on
the ground and that is pulling at each step. I wonder why it is so difficult to
walk. My feet are being grabbed and held. I push on, struggling with each step,
determined. Step by step back to the museum. Leaving Rob behind.
I get to the
elevator that goes down to the garage, and just as I get in and the glass doors
close there is Robert. Standing looking at me. He has on his black Kanga hat.
And we are standing facing each other with glass separating us. The
elevator starts to descend with me in it. Leaving him standing there looking at
me.
While this is
a defining moment—this standing face to face separated by a glass partition—the dream doesn’t exactly end there. I realize he has the
car keys!!!! And know I will meet him at the car in the garage.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
My soul has been seared by pain and grief and I do not recognize myself
I'm on another trip. Flew out to Alburquerque, stopping in Houston for lunch. Rented a car, well two as the first one had to be returned because I'm not really sure why, and drove over an hour to my cousin's house where I have never been. And then from there I drove three and a half hours north to Colorado. Faithfully following the directions of the disembodied voice whom I call Celeste.
I keep asking myself how is this possible? How can I do these things? On my own? I don't know who I am any longer. The change is so dramatic to me. All the pain and grief I went through during Robert's illness and death has seared my soul to a degree that it has changed completely.
As I drive through the high desert and open landscape I marvel at the colors and vegetation. Marvel at the cliffs near and far. See shapes and images cut by the wind in the rock. People, heads, animals, and in the distance on the horizon castles and fortifications.
I am alone. And I am at peace with myself. Try the radio and find it interfered with my seeing and observing and thinking. Ah the thinking. Of course it leads to the why's and if only's but they do not last long. It is welcoming to be alone. Driving alone. In an alien landscape. I see a car or truck every 30 minutes or hour or so. No one is out there. Nothing is out here.
It is like the landscapes of Westerns from old movies. Sage and mesquite. Endless shades of gray and red rock. I think about what it would be like to ride my horse across this land. I think about what the pioneers and early settlers must have thought about such an undertaking. There are telephone poles with wires. I think of them as the telegraph wires, keeping the old Western illusion going. Untouched landscape.
I am alone. And I am at peace with myself. Slowly the terrain begins to change and pines appear and flowers grow along the road side. And I drive through meadows where there is water. See a few horses. Some cattle. Weather beaten structures. No people.
Start out on huge 4 lane road for first 56 miles, then a 2 lane road for 48 miles, then progressively smaller and narrower roads culminating with gravel and dirt roads not much more than one car wide. I am trusting Celeste, my GPS. Trusting she knows where she is taking me. Trusting I will come out on a paved road. There are occasional houses along the dirt road. But never once do I hesitate with the thought of stopping. I am alone. And I am at peace with myself.
And then I come upon a spectacular view of the Rocky Mountains in front of me! And realize I am in the Rockies. And I'm on a Rocky Mountain High!
I keep asking myself how is this possible? How can I do these things? On my own? I don't know who I am any longer. The change is so dramatic to me. All the pain and grief I went through during Robert's illness and death has seared my soul to a degree that it has changed completely.
As I drive through the high desert and open landscape I marvel at the colors and vegetation. Marvel at the cliffs near and far. See shapes and images cut by the wind in the rock. People, heads, animals, and in the distance on the horizon castles and fortifications.
I am alone. And I am at peace with myself. Try the radio and find it interfered with my seeing and observing and thinking. Ah the thinking. Of course it leads to the why's and if only's but they do not last long. It is welcoming to be alone. Driving alone. In an alien landscape. I see a car or truck every 30 minutes or hour or so. No one is out there. Nothing is out here.
It is like the landscapes of Westerns from old movies. Sage and mesquite. Endless shades of gray and red rock. I think about what it would be like to ride my horse across this land. I think about what the pioneers and early settlers must have thought about such an undertaking. There are telephone poles with wires. I think of them as the telegraph wires, keeping the old Western illusion going. Untouched landscape.
I am alone. And I am at peace with myself. Slowly the terrain begins to change and pines appear and flowers grow along the road side. And I drive through meadows where there is water. See a few horses. Some cattle. Weather beaten structures. No people.
Start out on huge 4 lane road for first 56 miles, then a 2 lane road for 48 miles, then progressively smaller and narrower roads culminating with gravel and dirt roads not much more than one car wide. I am trusting Celeste, my GPS. Trusting she knows where she is taking me. Trusting I will come out on a paved road. There are occasional houses along the dirt road. But never once do I hesitate with the thought of stopping. I am alone. And I am at peace with myself.
And then I come upon a spectacular view of the Rocky Mountains in front of me! And realize I am in the Rockies. And I'm on a Rocky Mountain High!
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