Dreaming to action. Letting go of pieces of the past.

I had a dream last night. Involved lots of people and activity and I only remember the end. I am handcuffed (watching too many cop shows perhaps) with another person. Actually our arms are wrapped around ourselves. Striking image. Stifling. Stuck. And the reason for the handcuffs and wrapping had to do with something we had done. Past tense. Not doing, but had done.

I wondered what it meant. Literally? I am handcuffed to the past. I am holding onto the past. Am wrapped up in the past. Thoughts and words continued to flood in. That the past is tying me down. Tying me up. Tying me to what was no longer.

But what do I do with this dream? And now these thoughts? What part of the past is dragging me down? What part of the past can I let go?

I let the thoughts go and proceed with my day. Early in the afternoon I decide to tackle "a box". Acknowledging my "one box in a day" rule. There are a stack of them in the closet and I have not been able to open the door of the closet since I put the boxes in there last Fall. But today I can, and take one out. It is filled with printed samples of our work. Robert and my marketing company's efforts. Brochures, direct mail (when the printed piece mattered), ads, letterheads, annual reports.

Look at them and realize this is the past. It is not what I do now. It is the foundation of what I do, but the pieces have no current value other than to acknowledge they represent what we did. For years. For clients and businesses that no longer exist.

Interestingly our town has just switched recycling methods and on Friday a huge wheeled container was left at the curb. "One stream" recycling. I threw the print samples from that "one box" into the new container. And I felt a bit lighter.

That was not too hard, so I wonder about doing another "box". More of the same. I ask myself if I am willing to keep going until what? I hit the wall, hit a trigger, hit a particular memory? And the answer is yes. Thought of the dream fragment and feel that this is a part of our past that I am finally ready to let go. And I work my way through nine boxes. Filling the new recycling container more than half way.

And I am still standing. And I have nine empty boxes.

Rebirthing after the death of my husband

A friend and fellow widow and blogger Whispers of Wisdom says, "I lost two people that day – my wonderful husband and friend, Roy, as well as the 'me' who I knew at that time..."

I have to agree. And find rebirthing to be excruciating. I am consciously participating in its unfolding. That is part of the pain. The awareness. The consciousness. The involvement. It is not going easily or quietly or calmly. It is agony. Filled with bottomless voids, and oh so many memories. Memories of the past and of what could have been. But will not be. And I struggle to make new memories.

This is my own very personal journey. It is about my being on my own. It is a matter of Who Will I Be This Time? And I have to say that this latest passage, or opportunity for personal growth, or acknowledgement of what the Universe has in store for me SUCKS.

I am in the birth canal, being squeezed, crushed, suffocated. It is dark. Unknown. Am I ever going to get out? How long will this take? First time around took 9 months. And from my current perspective no wonder babies come out of the womb screaming their lungs out. Again, how long will the pain continue? Will it ever end?

Will I wake up one day and exclaim, "Ah I am! I am!"? Or more likely will I stumble along in shock and denial, and slowly, every so slowly embrace the concept of what has happened? Concept of what has happened?!?!? Talk about using language to create distance. Slowly embrace the reality of death. Death of Robert. Death of my husband. Death of my soul mate. Death of my best friend. Death of....me. And with this accept that it is time for me to become one. Me. Alone.

I came into this world alone once before. Seems I am repeating myself. Maybe I did not get it right the first time?

The difficulty of simple household chores when your husband is dead and gone

I find it embarrassing to admit, but then again what is the purpose of this blog but to share intimate details of life after the death of my husband. I have been having a hard time "getting around" to changing the sheets on the bed. Okay Robert always did it. That is reason one. But really? Don't think that is the only reason. But....it seems like an insurmountable task.

I think about, I plan, I plot, I scheme. I wonder what the problem is. I dither away time. I say I will do it later, in a little while, tomorrow, tonight, in the afternoon, in the evening, after lunch, before dinner. And notice that now is not one of the time thoughts.

Even went so far as to take the fresh sheets and mattress pad out of the linen closet and put them on the bed. Thought went something along the lines of if I see the clean sheets maybe I'll do something about them.

But all this accomplished was to create a new sleeping place for the cats. They love new clean sheets. Do you think I could embrace their enthusiasm? Nope. So now the clean crisp sheets serve as their place to curl up on the bed. Not only have I not changed the sheets, but my cats have abandoned sleeping on me for sleeping on the folded clean sheets.

Along with changing the sheets I have been thinking it is time to change the comforter as well. Put away the Marimekko Comforter I bought and bring out one of the summer weight quilts we have. Is that the issue? Putting on the bed a quilt I slept under with Rob?

Sometimes I think I am expending way more energy avoiding changing the sheets than it would take for me to actually do the chore! What is the problem? Why am I unable to accomplish this simple weekly chore? I am even telling friends about my inability to deal with this. Is this to embarrass myself into action?

Cats to the rescue! They took matters into their own paws last night. They resolved my dilemma. Maybe they were tired of my dithering, my inability to accomplish a simple task.
Maybe they were tired of my telling people they were sleeping on the clean sheets and not me. Maybe they were just helping me move on.

One of them threw up in the bed (a very rare occasion), so at 1 AM I am stripping the bed and putting on the clean sheets. And reaching up to the top shelf in the closet for the summer quilt. And I found out that was indeed part of my reluctance. Rob bought this quilt.

Turned out to be more of an intellectual problem, than actual one. Especially since the new sheets smelled and felt wonderful, and the lighter quilt was greatly appreciated now that it is summer. Looking at the bed from the bedroom doorway it is a visual reminder that I am slowly accepting change.

Good things can happen

Yesterday there were torrential rains. This morning wake up to clean crisp air. So fresh. The birds are singing their hearts out. The sky is so blue. Temperature in the mid to upper 60s. White puffy clouds. If I didn't know better I'd swear it was a Fall Day. My kind of weather.

I have a dentist appointment at 1:00, and plan to do more client work this morning. Then take the afternoon off, as it is Friday, and go play with my horses. As I'm scrambling eggs for breakfast my riding buddy calls. Hmmm, wonder if she is ready to make weekend plans. "Are you doing anything? Want to go out for a trail ride?"

Of course I have plans. But I throw them out the window. I'm going to play Hooky!  Quickly finish my breakfast and am in the car driving away from the house in under 15 minutes! Oh what a morning! Oh what a friend! Oh what a perfect trail ride!




 "There is something about the outside of a horse that is good for the inside of a man." (lets make that this horse and this woman) .

Writing and Editing

I spent the day writing and editing copy. Clients' copy. Moving back and forth across genres, between clients. Totally engrossed in the jobs. After hours of work I looked up from my computer screen. Looked up from the words I was so carefully crafting. And it hit me. Hard. I was alone. Totally and utterly. And my heart.....

What I would usually do at this point would be to print out my edited copy and hand it to Robert for his creative input. We met editing copy 45 years ago, and until eight months ago we were still at it.

But no longer. I think of him as I'm writing and editing. Remember that he liked to edit on a printed page. Physical pen to paper. Remember he liked to work on one client a day. Remember his handwriting and notations. Remember discussing his edits and mine. Too much remembering right now. Too many tears.

I hear a crow clacking outside my window. And remember..."Nevermore."

Memorial Day and the 8th month anniversary.

Driving to the visit the horses this morning I pass banners and flags and chairs set up along the roadway. Oh right, I remember—Memorial Day. The official designation is to honor the men and women who have died while in the military service.

What about the "war" on cancer? Our personal "battle" ? What about how military language permeates the medical jargon—hell it permeates everyday language. We were "winning", then "losing", the "coast was clear", then "all hell broke loose."

We were "engaged" in "fights", "skirmishes", "winning", "losing", "assaults", and "infiltrations". Encountered "full mobilization" efforts, "targeted" approaches, "broad spectrum" treatments, and all sorts of "weapons" to "attack" the cancer cells. Did I mention "SNAFUs" ? Or "Cluster F**ks" ?

Today is also the 8th month anniversary. Before anyone asks of what I will put it out there, of Robert's death. Excuse the sarcasm, but who is counting? I am once again facing and dealing with time. Time is supposed to heal, time is supposed to make the longing go away, time is supposed to ease the pain. Am I supposed to forget as well?

For all who have lived through these long protracted battles, I dedicate Memorial Day to our spouses, our loved ones, who finally succumbed. But not without a fight. A national holiday to honor their true fighting spirit. And a way for us to always remember.

Would have been our 43rd wedding anniversary

Woke up this morning (Friday), the morning of what would have been our 43rd wedding anniversary, from a very strange and vivid dream.

In the dream I am at a fashion shoot. I am sitting in a lounge chair off to the side observing. Comfortable. Waiting. There are young models posing for different photographers. I watch one young girl/woman who uses the same technique for each photographer. I think she was going to hit the wall when all her shots are reviewed and the editor see the same poses again and again (too many America's Next Top Model episodes?)

The shoot starts in a studio, but as in dreams, it is then on a beach. There are white curtains, billowing in the wind.The models are in bathing suits and every one of them is wearing the same shoe. I see it with amazing detail—platform, sandals with lots of straps (gladiator style) in an sort of olive green. And in my dream I hear the word alligator. Okay alligator platform gladiator sandals. Do not understand the meaning of this. Just recording my dream.

My husband comes in. He is THE photographer. He bends down to kiss me. Just the barest brush of lips. I don't have words for the feelings that well up. I so yearn for a deep passionate kiss. I tell him how the touch of his skin, the touch of his arms makes me ache for him.

And then I am no longer on the beach with him. I only have that brief moment with him.  I am trying to get back. And I am running. It is a large city, and in one of those dream aerial views I see the beach and the white billowing curtains way off in the distance. And I am running. Running through crowds of people. Running on the street with cars. Running Running Running.

I'm dressed in a beautiful black horizontally pleated bathing suit (too many Project Runways episodes?) with flat straps and those alligator platform gladiator sandals are in my hand. Not good running shoes.

The city feels European. England? No France? Or Italy? Wide boulevards. Round-abouts. Narrow lanes. Crowded with people. Crowded with tourists. But all the roads lead straight to the beach. No, all the roads lead straight to my husband.

The traffic is intense and I decide to cut through the neighborhoods. Away from the crowds and traffic. Up a steep hill. A familiar dream sequence of mine is going up hills on all fours, using my hands to grab the cobblestones to pull me up. Move faster and faster. All this running is effortless. I can go on forever.

My shortcut is taking me off course. I am loosing time. My dream says this is Rio de Janeiro. And I continue to run. Through narrow streets. Passing children playing. Women hanging out laundry. Teenage boys malingering. Running Running Running.

I cut across the hill and head back down into the city. And find myself in an affluent shopping district with cobble stoned streets, ornate store fronts....and weathered bronze sculptures. Of soldiers and jeeps. World War II vintage. Apparently I am back in Europe. And bronze dog heads that commemorate the "unleashing of the dogs of war" by the Allies. The heads are suspended in mid air, they come out of the walls of the buildings, they are everywhere when you look up.

And my phone rings. It is my husband's assistant who tells me the shot is wrapping up and where I am? I try and explain that I have been trying to get back. That I've been running running  running. And she hangs up. And I am left alone.



Yearn, verb: have an intense feeling of longing for something or someone, typically one that has lost or been separated from.

A thought occurs to me that I am searching this world for Rob. Running and looking everywhere.  

And another thought, this one I'll hold on to tightly. He came back to give me a kiss on our anniversary.