Both Feet In

This past week, a friend of mine shared a story with me about a woman she recently met while out shopping for boots at a western store. As they looked through the sale rack, the woman told her how she got through the death of her husband by promising herself a new pair of cowboy boots every time she had to do something hard in relation to her grief… like going to the mortuary, or collecting his will. Eventually, she had a whole shelf of them and she wore them everywhere she went. "Even to church" she said. "I medicated myself with old western movies and cowboy boots". My friend, who is actually a grief counselor, fully endorsed her grief medication. 

This woman's story made me smile instantly, and reminded me of my own boot story. About a month after my fiancé's sudden death, in June of 2012, on a horrible, grief-laden, sunny afternoon in Dallas, I walked my shell-shocked self into a local western store with one specific goal. To buy a pair of boots. Not just any boots, but THE boots. Golden tan with beautiful blue inlaid wings and red hearts. Meticulous stitching and hard soles for dancing, and walking a hard road. They were boots I had swooned over for the entire length of my relationship with Drew. The ones that were "too expensive and unpractical" to ever actually buy. The boots that were too bold and showy for me. 

At least... for the old me. 

The widowed me though, didn't give a shit about any of that. She didnt care about being too showy nor did she care about how expensive they were. So she walked into that western store, dropped $300 down, and walked out with the goddamn boots because she wanted them and she damn well deserved them. It felt SO GOOD. I knew right then and there, that these were the boots that were going to carry me through this mess. It was a glimmer of hope. When I walked this hard road, I would do so with wings on my feet. I would do so boldly, and proudly, and without apology to anyone. Those wings would always remind me of the pilot I love and of his zest and passion for life. They would remind me to keep on living, and that I can still be whoever I want to be.

I wore them to every art opening I showed my artwork in, I wore them to work, hell I wore them grocery shopping. Every time I put them on, it felt like wearing the essence of our love for all to see. Because we were bold. We lived and loved boldly and fearlessly together. We left no room for regrets and always walked a bit more confidently out into the world when we had each other. 

The boots provided some piece of that back, some reclaiming of my own power despite everything falling apart. They gave me a way that I could say to the world (and to myself) - I am still here and dammit, I am going to choose to live. I'm not going to lie down and let this destroy me. It may take months and years to get back to living life more fully again - but until then, these boots will remind me of the promise to myself - and to him - to keep on living life. 

Sure, you can see this sort of thing as silly. Or frivolous. Or a waste of money. And before he died, I did a good job of that. But when you're down in the pit, things look very different. It's dark down there. And pretty damned hopeless. And maybe, just maybe, a simple thing like a pair of fine-ass boots isn't so frivolous. It reminded me that no matter how broken I felt, I could still create my own hope by the choices I made, even the seemingly small ones. 

As it turns out, those boots became a symbol not just to live boldly. They became a reminder that I had the power to decide what would carry my feet through the day… and that was the first step towards knowing I had the power to choose how I would carry myself through this entire experience of living with his death. They reminded me to choose each day to try and live what's left of this life boldly, and with both feet in. 

Brave Love

I knew when I decided to love you

fully, with all of my cells

that I was risking everything.

I knew you were human

and that you might die

younger than either of us wanted.

Despite this,

I still chose to love all of you

with all of me.

Because you deserved that

and because I did too.

And though you did die -

younger than either of us wanted -

to stand in the pain of your death

and continue to love you fully,

fiercely,

with unwavering dedication,

has transformed me.

For I know now,

that to have given every breath of myself

to love the all of you

is the most beautifully brave thing

I have ever done in my lifetime.

It is the single greatest achievement

of my life.

I have learned

that this is what true love is -

to choose the possibility of pain

for the privilege to be love.

It is to risk everything

- everything -

inside ourselves.

It is to meet our greatest fears

and decide that it's still worth it,

so that we may come to realize

that we are capable of giving

the kind of love

that changes lives

and moves mountains.

In this way,

true, deep, complete love is not easy.

It is simple, but not an easy choice.

Which is why

whenever I see such love in the world

It leaves me in awe.

Never a more beautiful thing

have I seen

than the immense bravery

of any single human being

that chooses to LOVE.

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Scary

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Everything is so damn scary for me these days. Just speaking up and saying what I think feels like too much of a risk. It's as though my confidence died with Dave.

I know I'm courageous only because I can see now that I acted many times since Dave died despite nearly crippling fear. But I don't feel courageous. I feel so scared that I want to curl up in a ball and hide from the world.

It's the acting even when you're scared out of your gourd that means you're courageous. This is something that took a long time to sink in for me. It's still sinking in. In fact, it doesn't register until someone else tells me. It's as though my own brain can't do the math (Fear + Acting anyway = Courageous) unless I'm reminded by an outside source. And even then my brain goes right back to telling me all about my fear.

My therapist said that I'm holding the fear right up in front of my face so I can't see around me. Good stuff might be out there, but I don't see it because all I can see is the fear. I try to picture myself setting the fear down in my lap long enough to look around. It is NOT EASY.

In an attempt to help this sink in for me and really examine how I've been gutsy and brave lately, I'm going to start thinking and talking about my achievements more. I downplay. Always downplaying. And then I forget those accomplishments as my brain goes straight for the fears and the doubts instead.

I'll start here, knowing that you lovely people won't think of it as bragging but as a way to survive and triumph over negative thinking and paralyzing fear. Also, I'd love to hear about your accomplishments in the comments. Don't leave me hangin'!

1. Recently, while at a nearby cafe, I told the owner I could make her blackboard menu for her. I've now become a blackboard artist. A 4' x 8' blackboard is in my house while I work on it. I love working on it. I'm good at it. I was worried I wouldn't be able to do it.

2. I'm scared at a primal level to love anyone again and yet I continue to confront this fear daily by reaching out to people, including the man I'm dating, to be vulnerable. I can't do it without mouth-drying, hand-shaking, stomach-churning fear, but I'm doing it anyway because what's the point of living if you're not opening your heart, right? Sheesh.

3. I just made an appointment to talk to a career advisor at Portland State University so I can decide what I want to do when I go back to school. Which I'm going to do. I've deliberated over it for so long. Time to stop deliberating and just do it. Here we go.

I suppose the hard part about really seeing my courage is that before Dave died, I don't think these 3 accomplishments would have come with so much fear. Some part of me thought that brave equals no fear. So my brain thinks I used to be brave and now I'm not. Where did I get that? When did my brain decide that brave means no fear? I guess it's our society, isn't it?

It's cool to be confident and brazen and fearless and it's a little shameful to be terrified and shaky and blundering. But then again, how brave is it to do something you're not afraid to do? Not really brave at all.

Okay. In that case, I'm brave. And so are all of you.

Courage

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I've misunderstood courage my whole life until now. I thought courage meant lack of fear. Or at least less fear. I thought that my fears made me weak and that I'd be courageous the day I conquered fear.

I had an image in my mind of an incredibly confident superhero when I thought of courage. Something like Super Woman and Oprah all mixed up into one badass poster woman for "BRAVE" - hands on hips and clear eyes full of confidence and determination. I didn't realize that courage is being terrified and acting anyway.

In fact, courage looks like someone who's sweating, shaking, and gasping through the hardest things life throws her way.
It looks like someone who gets up every morning and makes breakfast for his kid even though he's now alone in raising her and even though he's exhausted.
It looks like someone who's heart has been shattered but opens once again anyway to let someone new inside even though it feels like leaping into the unpredictable currents of the air, hoping to be carried and not dropped.
It's staring someone in the eyes and saying "I love you" even though you might not hear it back and feeling your heart stutter in anticipated terror.

It doesn't feel brave. It feels exhausting, reckless, terrifying and unpredictable. And it's undeniably courage. There's so much everyday courage happening all around us. So many people surviving the death of their spouse, their child, their future. Rebuilding, picking up the pieces, on their knees begging for the next right step. Begging for their pain to ease, to see their loved one in their dreams.

That's courage. 
And if that's courage, then I'm courageous, even though I never feel brave at all. What's also missing from the equation is what I thought went along with courage - exhilaration. I don't feel exhilarated, I feel scared and exhausted. I want to feel the exhilaration of knowing that I've been brave enough to let someone new into my heart. I want to feel the thrill of surviving and finding happiness on the other side of the deep dark valley I was in.
But I'm not quite there yet. I'm still so scared all the time. Guarded and vigilant for more heartbreak coming my way.

I know that that mindset can kill my chances of happiness now and that future tripping* does me no good, but this is what my brain does. I can fight it and I do. But sometimes I just wish I didn't have to fight it so much. I wish I could relax into faith and imagine only great things happening. Or at the very least just stop projecting into the future at all. I wish I could stop scanning for signs that heartbreak is coming my way again.

I wish I could fully believe, as my therapist does, that more good stuff is headed my way because I've suffered enough already.

And then I realize that this is me. This is how my brain works, and rightly so. I have suffered greatly. But, I'm doing my best to not let it guide me. I can have these thoughts but not act on them. I can do what scares me. I can love again. I can have compassion for myself even though I struggle with this fear and this mind-habit of preparing for disaster. I can allow for the idea that I'm worthy and loveable even though this is how my brain works. I can entertain the idea that it's not that I'm inherently leave-able, it's just that the life I've been given has included lots of abandonment by death and that doesn't mean that everyone else I love will leave me.

I can admit that I am courageous, resilient, and worthy.
I can admit that I do deserve good stuff.
I can understand that while the universe takes away, it gives too. It can be incredibly generous.

Maybe it's my turn for some of that generosity.


*What my old therapist used to call worrying about the bad things that might happen.

The Choice

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I was telling my therapist all about the process I went through to decide to sell our house, quit my job and move to Portland after Dave died.

I told her about the epic snowstorm that buried me in 2 feet of snow on Dave's birthday and left me without power for two days and without contact with another human for four days.

I told her about putting the house on the market and getting an offer and selling it in less than a month. I told her about the day I woke up and had the thought "I'm going to move to Portland!"

Then I told her about finding my current home. I told her that the realtor didn't have my condo on her radar at all. We happened to drive by and I saw a for sale sign. I bought it days later.

I am in unit 1. My next door neighbor in unit 2 was widowed in her 50s. The professor who lives in unit 3 was widowed in September after his wife's battle with cancer. Three widowed people in a row.

When I told her this part, her eyes filled with tears. She said she was suddenly struck by what I'd been through and overcome. She said it gave her hope for herself and all her patients. I've never thought of it that way. That makes it sound heroic. It hasn't felt heroic. It's felt desperate.

All this time, I've felt desperate. I've made decisions I had to make to do the best I could for myself even though my compass was gone. I've leaped into the unknown with what I can see now was nothing but hope.

It was hard to see it as hope then because I was terrorized by fear and doubt. Other than having one clear moment when I formulated my plan to move to Portland, I didn't once feel absolutely certain or at peace about any of these decisions. They were all terrifying for me. I had doubts that kept me up at night, and turned my stomach. I deliberated and tortured myself over ever single decision I've had to make since my partner in life died.

I had to finally get a little more comfortable with the idea that the world wouldn't end if I screwed up. The worst had already happened so from that point on, I could get through selling our house, moving and starting a new life. Even if it all turned out to be a mistake, it wouldn't have been as bad as hearing the doctors tell me that they'd done all they could but hadn't been able to save my soul mate.

And yet...It's probably a product of my combined losses, not just Dave's, but I still expect more to go wrong, even as I grow more comfortable with change and making decisions on my own. I still expect what I have left (my cats, my home, my friends) to be simply gone if I don't keep my eye on them. I halfway expect a fire to take it all away from me if I'm not looking, or tragedy of another sort I haven't even thought of yet to come my way.

Logically I understand that nothing could be as bad as Dave's death, but my heart feels precariously patched together right now. I could survive more loss, yes, but would I want to? Would all hope be lost at that point? Would I have anything left in me with which to soldier on?

I have had hope all along. It's what drove me to jump into a new life when I was terrified to leave the old one behind. It's what keeps me going now. My wish is that hope is strong enough to withstand anything that comes its way.

Life isn't extra gentle with me now just because my husband died. The universe doesn't give a shit. It just keeps churning away, with its joy and sorrow, good and evil. I hope (ha!) like hell I have enough in me to sustain whatever else comes my way.

I'm not naive enough to say things (even to myself) like "everything will be okay," anymore. I have to learn to live with the light of hope and the darkness of potential tragedy. Holding them both together takes work. It's like trying to process things like school shootings. How does life go on after something that horrific? I don't know, but it does.

I suppose it's what we do in the face of all the horror. We reach out because we don't give up hope DESPITE the sorrow. It's all we can do. We make things better when we can. We hold onto each other when we can't. We breathe. We take leaps of faith. We don't give up.

I can't close up shop yet and hide away from everything because it might hurt more. That would be the real tragedy. Tragedy on top of tragedy. Dave couldn't help leaving. He would have stayed if he could have. I have a choice though. I can give up or I can keep hoping and fully living with all the risks it entails.

I'd better not squander that choice.