Into the Unknown...

©Sarah Treanor

Along with being a writer, many of you know that I'm an artist. You may also know, as I've sometimes shared here, that I've been working on a photographic series for the past year all about my journey through grief. What began as just a small idea, to take a self portrait every week and share it on my blog, has snowballed into something of a whole new direction for my life. I was only a hobby photographer before I set out on this journey.

Now, a year later, I am looking back and seeing just how much has changed... how much I have changed. I am just this week kicking off my first international show, in Rome. What the hell? And have won quite a few awards at recent shows for my work in this series. Looking ahead, I have goals to publish a book of the series and begin speaking about death and the healing power of creativity. A year ago, none of this was here. I was completely and utterly lost. And still very broken. Somehow, this project put me back together. It rebuilt me into someone new who has bold things ahead of her. It's exciting and really daunting all at the same time. I am frequently terrified of where this freight train is taking me and of whether or not I can handle it all.

"Still, Life" has been easily the most significant, most difficult and most life-changing project I have ever worked on. It has taken every ounce of me... creative, conceptual, technical, physical, emotional. There have been many many weeks when I just wanted to give up entirely. I cursed enough to make a sailor blush because the burden felt too big. I hit walls of resistance and would inevitably have no choice but to force myself to get up and shoot something, anything. I was consumed by anger for the fact that I am even in the situation to be doing a project all about death and grief. It has been a long and difficult journey. I don't think I need to make it apparent just how much this project has aligned with the challenges of grief itself. The struggles of creating this have so deeply gone hand in hand with navigating the waves of emotions from losing my fiance.

There have also been good things. The small glimmers of hope when I finally begin to see an image taking shape that I have worked hard on. The bright and brilliant moments of winning awards for the work that I could and would not be doing if it was not for him. The quiet moments of deep meaning when someone writes or shares with me how much one of these images resonated with them on their own journey with grief. It's those quiet moments especially when I realize that telling my story is helping someone else to tell theirs. Which also aligns with the journey of grief itself.

Reflecting back, I realize that this project has been not only a physical manifestation of one woman's inner voyage through grief, but also an example of the simple power of telling our stories... however we choose to tell them. It is in telling my story that I've been able to journey deeper into it, deep enough to find the gifts within the darkness. Telling my story is what pulled me back out of the darkness - by connecting me with others who feel it too. Allowing my story to be heard heals me, strengthens me, and teaches me all the time that death has given me something very valuable - knowledge and wisdom and experience with which to help others. Death has given us all that.

This project came to a close for me this week... quite unexpectedly. I sat down to write about the next image, and instead, a final statement ended up pouring out of my fingertips - which you can read here on my blog. By the time I was finished typing, I was in shock. It happened almost without me... as if some part of me willed the thing to come to a close. It was a sharp reminder not only of how I cannot control the creative process, but of how I cannot control life... or when things may end or begin in my world. It has of course stirred me up. I've been emotional the past few days. I'm sensing a need for some time to grieve and let go of the project itself (or at least the initial year of it) just as I would let go of any chapter of my life.

I know deep down I was ready for this to come to a close. I have been ready for a new chapter to begin in my artistic world but scared to initiate the change. And so I suppose I just got pushed into it somehow. It was certain: I was done being at the end of something, and ready to be at the beginning of something else. A very very huge statement in this journey as a widow. I'm not even sure what I am ready to be at the beginning of yet... or what this new chapter of my life will be or look like. All I know, is that I am ready for change again... or at least as ready as I'll ever be.


You can view the full "Still, Life" photo series on my blog: 12moc.com

Fear

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I'm heading into the run of second anniversaries that begin in February and run for about 4 months - his surgery; the complications hitting and the roller-coaster of his illness; him dying.   Something I'm acutely aware of.

In my journey, the big anniversary for me is the March "complications hitting" anniversary.  That's the day from which my life was never going to be the same again.   Ian's death itself changed the tone of "never going to be the same".

And right now, year three and beyond looks scarier than the first two.

Throughout this journey, I've never been worried about "surviving". 

But this week, fear of the future's suddenly risen to the surface. 

It's always been there, I guess, but has come into sharp relief this week.

Fear of being alone.

Fear John will grow up, and then toss me to the wind.

Fear I won't re-partner in the future; find someone for simple companionship.

Fear something will happen to either John or I.

Fear of the next 40-50 years that stretch out before me.

The battle

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This weekend as we traveled to Indiana, Michigan, and back to West Virginia in 3 short days, we logged a lot of hours in the car. Sometimes I dread long trips because let's face it: we have 5 children packed into our vehicle like sardines, who we lovingly refer to as "the pee and flee gang" constantly asking us to stop, fighting over what movie to watch next, and just in general making our trips a little more, well....complicated. But most of the time, I enjoy the time just to sit and veg out for awhile, to listen to music, to read with my husband, and to dream, talk, listen, and grow with each other while the scenery passes by us.

As we made our way home starting at 9pm Sunday night, we had a nice silent car ride with our children sleeping almost the entire trip - which made for lots of great conversation to keep us both awake (ok, I may have dozed off for awhile...) But Steve asked me a question in the midst of our drive that really resonated with me.

"Do you ever feel like you battle wanting to live in the past versus living in the now?"

It resonated with me because I think every person reading this blog understands this battle. To be completely honest, YES. I do battle wanting to live in the past. Not because I am not thankful for my now or because I'm not looking forward to the future, but because my past is the only place that Jeremy lives. It's the only place I see him laugh, hear his voice, or watch him play with his children.

What I can say is that I've come a long way in this battle since the beginning. I used to ONLY want to live in the past. The present and the future meant nothing to me with him in it. Everything seemed meaningless without him next to me. And I still have those moments where I just wish I could go back for even a moment....just to see his face one more time.

But now, the battle is not about wanting to live in the past, but rather trying to figure out how to carry my past with me into my future. I still miss Jeremy every. single. day. Sometimes it still hurts so bad that the weight of it makes it hard to breathe. I want to be able to share with him life's ups and downs, to talk through things with him, to hear him laugh at the things only the two of us think is funny. I want to seek his advice, to share moments with him. But I also know that I love and appreciate my now and everything that comes with it - and most of it I would never have if he were still here. I try to never compare the past to now because it's apples and oranges - it gets me nowhere and it's comparing two different people.

Our now deserves just as much attention as our then. Both are precious in their own right, and we have to use what our then has shaped us to be to create a new and meaningful now.

Take Care of Each Other

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I had coffee with a widowed woman I met at the workout studio I go to.

It's been four months for her and her pain was tangible. It was all I could do not to follow her home just so I would know that she didn't have to go back to her home alone. Those first few months were brutal and returning to my house all alone after being with people was still a blow every time. His absence was even more glaring when I would return.

She said she'd be working on more paperwork/legal/financial stuff as she was still dealing with all of it. At the reminder of that I cringed. At four months out the paperwork and phone calls would drive me to an almost catatonic haze of exhaustion for the rest of the day. It physically hurt to call and say "I need to close/update/change the account because my husband died". It felt like being punched in the chest to send copies of the death certificate far and wide.

I wanted to take it all away from her and make everything better but I couldn't. I wanted to give her hope that things would get better while being honest about how 2 + years really felt. As I walked home, I could access feelings of contentment while I watched the summer scenery go by and wished desperately that she could fast forward to a time in the future when she could feel any part of that again.

 It's hard to think of those strange, shock-muffled months of the early days of this. There's a part of me that is so relieved to be past it and a part of me that feels bad for leaving it behind only to know that others are experiencing it now.

I don't want to feel that way again, and yet I don't want anyone to be there alone.


To those of you still early in the first year of this, each day will feel like an eternity but somehow the weeks will soar past in a blur.

The shock will buffer you and you'll forget a lot (a blessing). You'll slowly slowly climb out of the depths. It will be hard as hell. It won't be over at a year. Not yet. It won't ever be over, but that horrible, acute, my-life-is-over feeling will eventually recede. Promise. Then you'll be able to rebuild and see a reason to hope again.

Until then let me remind you and hold you up. Let me take just one thing away from your list of worries and hurts.

I wish I could make a few calls for you or take that dreaded death certificate to whatever stupid wait-in-line office it has to go to. I wish I could cook you dinner and do your dishes. I've needed those things along the way (still do from time to time) and I wish there was a convenient way to return the favor right now.

For the millionth time I fantasized today about a communal sort of living arrangement for those of us who've been widowed, where we share the heavy load. Those of us a little farther out can handle the tasks those of us more new to it can't bear.

We share the child care, we share the chores, we share the sadness. We make sure no one is alone unless he/she prefers it.

We take care of each other. It makes sense.

Maybe before our society became so fragmented, we came closer to this arrangement, but we are so isolated these days. When we're suffering we really need each other, especially those of us who've been through it, and yet we pull away and go off to our quiet homes and close the doors. We're afraid to ask for help and afraid to give it.

And yet I can say for sure that small (and huge) kindnesses by others were what made this survivable for me. It's the way through it, to hang on to each other.

I have to remember that and not shy away from helping when I'm strong enough to do so. I also have to keep asking for help when I need it. No one can help me if I can't tell them I need it. On the other hand, my friend today reminded me that, especially early on, even coming up with something TO ask for is challenging. It's probably best just to offer help than to ask "What can I do?".

Just show up and do something. Even if it's just listen. That's what I need to remember. Just show up.

We have to take care of each other.

Small Words ......

...... can add up to one powerful sentence.

Or two.

Monday I went to lunch with several friends.  We decided on Chinese.  The food was good.  The company was better.

At the end of the meal came the traditional passing around of the fortune cookies.  We always open our cookies and then take turns reading the "fortune" out loud to the others.  

This time there was one difference:  I didn't read mine and no one seemed to notice, for which I was glad.

It was a simple strip of paper.  With ten simple words.

Those ten words made two very powerful sentences:

I was stunned when I read those words.
And suddenly felt overwhelmed.
But in a good way.

And that surprised me.

If I had read those words in the first two years of my "after", I most likely would've felt stunned, overwhelmed and very, very grieved.
I could not have dealt with the thought that my happiness was not behind me.
Because behind me is where Jim is.
As is the happiness we had.
And that was all the happiness I would ever have.
Or so I thought.

But I was wrong.
Back then ...... so fresh in my "after".
And, even if it hurts to read this ...... so are you, if you think that all of your happiness is behind you.
I'd like for those words to give you hope, and not hurt.
But in the beginning ..... which lasts as long as it lasts for each person ...... just about everything hurts.

Even ten small words.

But now ...... now at almost 5 years in my "after", those ten words made me smile ..... not cry.
They reinforced the hope that has been planted in my heart.
Yes, they are only words.
No, I don't truly believe that fortune cookies hold the truth to my future ...... or anyone else's.

But I do believe in the power of those words.
And I believe there's a reason that they were in the cookie that I opened ...... and not in the eight others that were opened.

But what's more important, at least to me, is that that little slip of paper was powerful ...... but only partly true.
I do have happiness behind me.
And I treasure it.

But I also believe that I have much happiness before me.  I don't know what that looks like, but I do know that it's my choice.  If I choose to spend all of my time looking behind me, I'll miss out on all that is before me.
That doesn't mean that in order to be happy I have to stop looking behind me completely.  I don't.
I know that I can glance behind me, and yet stretch my hands out in front ..... to catch hold of the happiness that's there.
I can remember what I had, and yet look forward to what is yet to come ...... whatever that is.
I don't have to forget Jim ...... that's just physically impossible.  He's part of me, and will always be.
But I can take him forward with me ....... because he helped make the woman I am today.  And the woman I'll be tomorrow.

I am happy.
Now.
Where I am.

And I'll be happy in the future.
Because of the happiness and love I had in the past.
I know what's possible.

And I know that ten little words can pack a lot of power.
If I choose to believe them.

And I do.