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?
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
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, November 16, 2014
Hitting the wall of grief both metaphorically and literally
I've said this before. Everything has changed. My world is turned
upside down. I look at things differently. I think differently. I am
more aware of how language and words shape my experience. I'm on my own.
Living my life. And as my blog title says, "Who am I this time?"
Clearly horses are a dominate part of my life. They were when Robert was alive, and now even more so. I start wondering what it would be like to have a truck and horse trailer. To be able to take my horse to clinics or play dates easily. I start saying that I have a fantasy about driving around the country to visit my horse friends—with my horses.
Then I realize that a fantasy doesn't have much chance of becoming reality. So I change my language to I have a dream of owning a truck and horse trailer. My pragmatic side chimes in that I already own two cars. My Saab and Rob's Z3 2-seater convertible. I can not imagine selling either of them. I fill the Saab with lots and lots of stuff and I drop the top on the Z3 and drive around with the wind in my hair. And where would I even park a truck?
Seems the Universe decides to help me out. I was in an accident and totaled my Saab. Air bag deployed and my trusty Saab gave it's life so I can walk away unhurt. And yes all I can think of is how much I want to be able to call Rob and tell him what happened. To have him to come and pick me up, and wrap his arms around me and tell me everything will be okay.
I have driven Saabs my entire driving life. First one was a Red 1967 93 (in those days it was called a ninety three) two stroke engine Saab that had been my parent's car. Learned to drive this 4 speed manual transmission car. Failed my first driver's test in this car. Passed my driver's test in this car. Robert and I had many of our first driving adventures in this car. Even learned car repair—I'm talking about drum brakes, carburetors, engine rebuilding with this car.
I can go on and on with Saab stories. Saab models: 93s, 900s, back to 9-3 designation. Colors: Red, Silver, White, Champagne Beige, Silvery Green, Metallic Midnight Blue, Green, Silver. Now they no longer exist. And now I no longer own one. Yet another passing. Yet another loss.
But I have the Z3 and it is becoming mine. Really mine. Slowly it is filling with stuff. My stuff that I was hesitant to put in it before. And the acceptance of the car as mine hits hard. Really hard. I have to drive it. No choice of cars any longer. And every day I get into it I have to face it was his. And he is no longer.
So of course I call his service adviser and make an appointment for an oil change and safety inspection. Exactly as I did one year ago. Yet another reminder.
Recognize the accident was about 'hitting the wall'. Was I charging along thoughtlessly? Another hint from the Universe? I hear that old Paul Simon song in my head all the time now, "Slow down, you move too fast...."
The roller coaster roars downward, and I'm waiting for the g-force (read that as grief force) to ease up a bit.
Clearly horses are a dominate part of my life. They were when Robert was alive, and now even more so. I start wondering what it would be like to have a truck and horse trailer. To be able to take my horse to clinics or play dates easily. I start saying that I have a fantasy about driving around the country to visit my horse friends—with my horses.
Then I realize that a fantasy doesn't have much chance of becoming reality. So I change my language to I have a dream of owning a truck and horse trailer. My pragmatic side chimes in that I already own two cars. My Saab and Rob's Z3 2-seater convertible. I can not imagine selling either of them. I fill the Saab with lots and lots of stuff and I drop the top on the Z3 and drive around with the wind in my hair. And where would I even park a truck?
Seems the Universe decides to help me out. I was in an accident and totaled my Saab. Air bag deployed and my trusty Saab gave it's life so I can walk away unhurt. And yes all I can think of is how much I want to be able to call Rob and tell him what happened. To have him to come and pick me up, and wrap his arms around me and tell me everything will be okay.
I have driven Saabs my entire driving life. First one was a Red 1967 93 (in those days it was called a ninety three) two stroke engine Saab that had been my parent's car. Learned to drive this 4 speed manual transmission car. Failed my first driver's test in this car. Passed my driver's test in this car. Robert and I had many of our first driving adventures in this car. Even learned car repair—I'm talking about drum brakes, carburetors, engine rebuilding with this car.
I can go on and on with Saab stories. Saab models: 93s, 900s, back to 9-3 designation. Colors: Red, Silver, White, Champagne Beige, Silvery Green, Metallic Midnight Blue, Green, Silver. Now they no longer exist. And now I no longer own one. Yet another passing. Yet another loss.
But I have the Z3 and it is becoming mine. Really mine. Slowly it is filling with stuff. My stuff that I was hesitant to put in it before. And the acceptance of the car as mine hits hard. Really hard. I have to drive it. No choice of cars any longer. And every day I get into it I have to face it was his. And he is no longer.
So of course I call his service adviser and make an appointment for an oil change and safety inspection. Exactly as I did one year ago. Yet another reminder.
Recognize the accident was about 'hitting the wall'. Was I charging along thoughtlessly? Another hint from the Universe? I hear that old Paul Simon song in my head all the time now, "Slow down, you move too fast...."
The roller coaster roars downward, and I'm waiting for the g-force (read that as grief force) to ease up a bit.
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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