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.

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.

Ongoing Emotional Growth

My fantasy, then dream, then reality of having a truck and trailer to take my horse places hit a road block. I was planning on taking her and my cat to visit a friend in the White Mountains of New Hampshire for a couple of weeks. I got everything organized, pack up the truck including my cat. The truck is filled with kitty stuff, horse stuff, my stuff. Trailer hooked up. All that is left to do is load my mare.

She had other plans however. Not interested in traveling this day, and hence would not load. I am a follower of  Parelli Natural Horsemanship and don't believe in "making" my horse load, she has to want to get on the trailer herself. Spent 2-1/2 hours playing with "It's not about the trailer". And spent 2-1/2 hours letting go of any assumptions I had about traveling this day.

Her life was up. Mine was scattered. She was high headed. I was befuddled. I reached the limits of my horsemanship. I had the "book learning" but not the expertise. It felt like all my horsemanship efforts hit the wall.

And while I am fine with the outcome of not traveling that day, I am left feeling defeated. I know that this is a stepping stone to greater horsemanship. So why am I crying?

Because it is about emotional growth. Stepping over the edge. Facing a threshold. And realizing that for most of my life I have played it safe. Or so it seems to me. But since the death of my husband Robert, I seem to keep pushing and pushing and pushing my limits. And when I hit one of them I collapse inward.

I will get up and dust myself off and go on. But right now I just feel. And feeling hurts. And the only way that I express this latest growth spurt is through tears.