Losing My "Widginity"

Ok. So. A LOT of things have happened in the past week for me. And just days ago, one of the biggest new firsts happened. One I have wondered about and feared and dreaded for two and a half years. I can't even believe I'm going to share this... like, PUBLICLY, but it's part of the journey. So here goes.

I spent this past week up in the Alaskan wilderness with Drew's mom, grandma, and aunt. His grandma is 91 years old and had never seen the northern lights, so we decided to take her. The trip was wonderful. We stayed at a remote lodge an hour and a half north of Fairbanks... and by remote I mean there is NOTHING out there but this lodge, some moose, and pure wilderness. No cell service. No internet. All their power is geothermal from the hot springs that run through the area. I had no idea of all this until we arrived, but I welcomed unplugging from the world for a while. So rarely do I get a chance to.

We went out Tuesday night for a viewing up on one of the nearby hills for the lights – and they were out all night long. For 4 whole hours, we enjoyed an incredible show. His grandma got to achieve one of her lifelong dreams. I captured pictures of the entire expereince for her and all of us to look back on. We also did a short sunset flight, a dogsled ride (yes, a 91 year old woman on a dogsled! And she wanted the ride to be even longer!) and got to drink appletinis out of glasses carved from ice. Spending this trip with two generations of my fiance's family was so incredibly special to me. To be there to watch his grandma enjoy a lifelong dream for him – my heart overflowed. To see the lights myself, to watch them dance thru the sky, brought me to tears. Because he brought me there. And he keeps bringing me to amazing places in this “after” life.

But something else happened on this trip. And its crazy and weird as shit to actually write this in conjunction with all I just wrote above... but... a VERY big personal milestone happened.... involving several beers and a VERY handsome young man who worked as a waiter at the lodge restaurant. Yeah, you know where I'm going with this. Everyone... after two and a half years, I officially lost my “widginity” as I am calling it - or widow virginity. 

And yeah that's an entirely appropriate way to say it I think, because the first time after the death of your loved one really is JUST as big of a deal as the real first time. Every first thing is. The first time someone holds you. The first time you kiss someone.  Hold hands. And definitely the first time you have sex. Everyone does this differently. Some folks jump right into it, others have to wait years. I have never been an impulsive person nor have I ever had casual sex before, so, I have ended up in the latter category. Sometimes unwillingly. I cannot express to you how many times I just want to be able to go ho it up. Don't judge, you know if you aren't ho'ing it up, you probably harbor this same secret wish... or you will at some point.

So as it goes down, I'm on the last night of my trip, at the lodge bar having a few drinks with the staff as they wind up for the night. Before long, an especially delicious looking waiter ends up joining me for drinks after his shift. I mean this guy could be a model. There is not an ounce of fat on him and muscles galore. Seriously not someone I would ever attempt to approach... then again, the new me lately seems to be full of surprises.

We chat a good while and get to know each other. When we leave the bar, we run into each other out on the trail back to our rooms. We chat a moment there in the cold, snowy wilderness, and I just think to myself “it's my last night, it's now or never, fuck it!”. I grab this gorgeous man and give him a kiss. Which leads to some heavy making out. Which leads to my asking to go back to his cabin.

Yeeeep. That's where it all happens... right there on the mattress... which is on the floor. Yes, the floor. It was like a Dirty Dancing sequel y'all. All we were missing was that "Hungry Eyes" song (which I so should have played since I have the soundtrack on my phone - damn the delayed realization!) This story is made even better by the fact that he had no bathroom... so I am forced to run the 30 or so feet to his outhouse in the cold (NINE degrees) in nothing but a blanket and my snow boots. Yes. You are welcome for the visual. Ah where life takes you when you live in the present moment - lol. 

All joking aside, the amazing thing is, it was nothing like I feared it would be. It wasn't traumatic. It didn't trigger me drastically. It didn't feel shallow or empty or like I was pushed into anything. We laid in bed, drank chocolate milk, watched comedy specials, laughed together, shared stories, and took our time with all the rest. I told him back at the bar about losing Drew, so that was out there already. Before anything happened, I was also very up front that this is the first time for me since he died. I wanted him to know that beforehand, because I was pretty sure I'd get upset at some point, and he needed to know why. I also said it so he could know this was a very deliberate and conscious decision which he needed to handle carefully and respectfully. 

Sure enough, shortly after we began to make love, I got overwhelmed. We stopped, and he just held me, and I cried in his arms for a few minutes while he reassured me that it was okay. I didn't have to say a word. In that moment, even though he barely knew me, all this man cared about was making certain I felt safe and cared for. And even though I barely knew him, and he was not Drew, I allowed myself to be cared for by him. I allowed myself to be cared for. That is HUGE. It was strangely beautiful to think - while in the arms of another man - how much it would make Drew happy to see me being cared for so lovingly. I swear I could feel broken pieces of my heart melding back together. 

We made love on and off for a few hours that night before he finally walked me back to my room. I say “made love” because it felt surprisingly like that, despite the fact that we barely knew each other. We weren't two broken people trying to use sex as a band-aid, we were two healthy people who made a conscious choice to share something beautiful together for a night. I've never had casual sex before this, so I honestly had no idea there could be love between near strangers that way. I was left so surprised by this - and even more surprised that I did it. I mean, who is this chick?! Ho'ing it up now whenever she damn well pleases, on her own terms,  and not beating herself up one bit about it? Whoever she is, I think I like her. My god I am full of surprises in this damned "after" life. 

The most wonderful part of this entire experience though was something even bigger. Seeing how it fit together with my love for Drew. It didn't make his space in my heart smaller. It didn't move him farther away from me or erase him or make my love for him any less. He was there in my heart, just the same, even through this experience. And when it was all over, and this sweet man walked me back to my room, kissed me one last time with a coy smile, and we said our goodbyes... I knew in a brand new way, that no one will ever be able to move Drew from my heart. No one will take his place. No one will erase him or take up more room than him in my heart. I learned in a brand new way that my heart will only get bigger to accommodate others, but that it will only begin to grow when it is healed enough and ready to. I think because I have not rushed this, and because I have waited until I truly felt ready, it has allowed it to be a positive experience. In the past few days following all this, it has only more deeply solidified the understanding in me that Drew isn't ever going anywhere. And I never have to be afraid - because I will not ever lose him twice. 

Brave Love

I'm writing you tonight from my hotel room in Seattle – en route to a four-night stay in Alaska. I hadn't really given any thought to what I was going to write today for this post, as I've spent the better part of the day running around like crazy. It could have been about the usual stuff of Valentine's Day... like how bitchy I've been all week leading up to today. Or how I went into Walgreens yesterday for some picture hanging wire and was assaulted by the pink and red décor that vomited all over the store interior. Or about how sad I was when I woke up this morning or how hard I've tried to stay off of Facebook all day.

I am lucky that I've spent most of today at the airport, lugging around an ungodly amount of camera gear and luggage. After all, this trip is with my mother-in-law and her mother... which is very sacred to me. Two generations of his family and me. Our “Valentine's Dinner” was not exactly fancy. Some cheese and fruit in a tiny cardboard container with a plastic cup of white wine – some 30,000 ft in the air halfway between Texas and Washington. But that suited me just fine, nothing traditional. 

But what I really wanted to share is what my evening was about. And just why I am up at 3am Texas time still writing this. Once we finally got into our hotel room and settled in, I called one of my closest friends. It wasn't to share the usual laughter or the depression of the day's events. It wasn't for me to cry about how much I miss my late-fiance. But instead, she opened up to me about some very deep emotional stuff that she has been burying from most everyone in her life for a long time now. So much so that it has led to some very dark thoughts.

As she shared, I remained solid and unwavering. I listened to everything she had to say, and I assured her that all her feelings – even the suicidal thoughts – were okay. I mean hell, if anyone understands what it's like to not want to live anymore, it's widowed people – am I right?

I did not judge her. I did not try to fix her. I just loved her. And reminded her very strongly that no darkness inside her could be enough to chase me away. I will be here always to sit next to her in there as long as we need to until we can find that first pinprick of light together. And so we sat, together, for over an hour... until I began to hear the tone in her voice shift ever so slightly. Until I began to hear the weight in her voice just a hair lighter than before. Even manged to make her laugh a few times in there too.

After we got off the phone, I hopped in the shower and kept thinking of it all. I was so surprised at how calm I was. How unshakable my dedication was to this friend. And how well I was able to listen and make them feel safe and heard. The person I was before I met My late-fiance could have never done this. The girl I was then would have been so scared by the vulnerability of the situation that she wouldn't have been able to hear that friend. The person I was before Drew died did not have enough of her own darkness to be able to strut into someone else's so fearlessly either.

I started to realize... Drew was the first person in my life to model for me that kind of love. Real and deep and unconditional love. Always he was solid, and reliable, and steadfast as a friend. And over time, without my knowing it, I began to infuse those same qualities in myself. This happened even more so after his death - when others sat with me in my darkness, I learned again how to better do it. 

And suddenly tonight, I realized that perhaps I have more of his qualities in me now than I ever knew. And I saw what a truly vital gift he gave me in his death. I chose the possibility of pain for the privilege to love. It did not matter that I could be hurt if this dear friend one day chooses to end her life. Because loving her matters more. Because she matters that much. And because of his life, and his death, I was able to be there for her in a way no one else has been able to.

So this Valentine's Day for me was not about the chocolates or the flowers I didn't get. Or the person who wasn't here to hold or kiss. Yes, those things were there – and they were sad. But more so, it was about being able to give someone real love – deep, unconditional, open-hearted love – and meet them in their most vulnerable and fearful place. This year, Valentine's Day was not about what I do not have, but about what I have to give still. It was about Brave Love.

Neighbors of the Heart

It's been a few weeks since I shared about going on my first date with someone since my fiancé died. I have been through every wave of emotion imaginable since then. I have cried buckets of tears for how much this experience has made me miss my fiancé. For how much all of this is bringing up old familiar memories and joys I shared with him those years ago. For how much it makes me miss the safety and rock solid trust that I had with him. I have felt paralyzed by the fear of being vulnerable with another man in ANY way. Of allowing any man into that space in my world again - the space where I cry, the space of allowing myself to be comforted. The space my fiancé has held so powerfully in my heart all these years. His space.

I have also felt joy, and butterflies in my stomach, and a giddiness that has been so delightful. I have felt excited by the idea that someone is thinking of me in this light. And I have enjoyed thinking of them in this light too. So all of this, both extremes, have been rushing through me at the speed of light.

I honestly did not expect things to go anywhere after that lunch date. I thought I wasn't ready… not even for the slightest romantic experience. I thought he would fade out of the picture pretty quickly. But since that first date, to my surprise, we've talked pretty much daily. And despite the fact that his presence has triggered a tsunami of emotions in me, I have still found myself feeling open to it. There is something so strangely comfortable about him - it's felt very quickly like old friends. In some unexplainable way, I feel like he's here for a reason.

Last night, we went on a second date - a dinner date. And I cannot remember the last time someone made me laugh so much. Well, that's not true. I can precisely remember… because it was my fiancé - every day together. He lived to make me laugh. It's one of the things I miss the most about him. It has been two and a half years now since someone has made me laugh like that. Since anyone has even cared about making me laugh. So last night felt so beautiful. More than words can say. To have someone care about making me laugh… especially when they know I've had a really hard week with the holidays. How often really does anyone do that for us? Not often at all.

There was another moment that meant even more to me though. More than he'll ever know. It was when we walked back to his truck after dinner. "This is SO WEIRD… because I miss someone else" I said, starting to get visibly upset. He hugged me tightly and said, "I know, and you'll always miss him". My heart nearly burst with those words and I held onto him with everything I had for a few minutes.

Maybe it was just a second date, and maybe I have no idea if this even goes anywhere at all… but in that moment, he gave me a priceless gift. He gave me a small glimpse into what it means to meet a person who is accepting of who I am and respectful of this person's place in my heart forever. He gave me hope I can all find someone who makes sure to let me know there is more than enough room for me to love my fiancé forever.

For almost three years now I have had NO idea how on earth a new man could possibly fit into my world. "I'm too complex. My life is too complicated. Who is going to want to deal with all of this?" I have said many times. "How could any of that possibly work? How could it not just feel like a battle trying to be won in my heart? How could there be room for two people in my heart?" countless other times.

This experience over the past few weeks has made me realize, yes, I am complex and so is my life. But that complexity does not mean I am a burden. In fact it very well may be the opposite… because this complicated life has also made me more lovable, more open, more compassionate, more accepting, and more beautiful. And there are people out there who are looking for that kind of complex beauty in another soul, and who will appreciate it in me.

This experience has also taught me that when new people come into our lives, it doesn't mean that there is less space in our hearts for the person we lost and still love. I have always feared that. But I'm discovering it's not true. Our hearts grow when we let in new people - be it friends or more - and there becomes an entirely new piece of heart created there just for them. They never replace any part of us that loves the one we've lost. They live instead as neighbors of the heart, alongside each other, strengthening and healing our heart in a way we never imagined possible - and doing so together.

The Away Letters: Finding a Way

When he left for the trip he never returned from, we began writing letters to each other. Despite the fact that we also talked on the phone every night, we wanted to have the letters as a reminder of these times. Neither of us ever knew that he'd not make it back from that first flying contract. Neither of us knew we would only exchange three away letters between us before the accident happened. But I’ve been writing to him still, for the past two years, all along. Most of the time in my journal. But every now and again, I share them...

"Today was one of those days I really wished you were here for all number of reasons. Around noon, I realized suddenly that I had completely forgotten about the deadline for an art show I was entering. I rushed to get my three photos matted and framed, shoved them in the back seat of your truck, and took off to New Braunfels. I got them there in time. I did. In fact with an hour to spare. But I was so beside myself by the fact that I had been planning to get this done today for days in advance and then somehow, as I woke up in the morning it was completely wiped from my memory. It reminded me of how my mind still doesn’t work as well as it used to when you were alive and around. It’s so frustrating. I never know when or what I will forget. And it reminded me how – if you were here – you would have remembered for me just in case. You always held me accountable like that, and always cared enough to make note of the important things in my life. I really miss that, you know. I do.

The other big thing about today was that it was the last day to hear back from the Badlands National Park about the artist residency I applied for. And I heard no word back. I was so very hopeful and have waited almost two months now to hear about this opportunity. It’s been such a long time to wait in anticipation. I know you would understand, because you know it’s been a dream of mine for many years to work in one of the parks. I hate that you aren’t here today – for either side of the outcome. I hate that you aren’t here to congratulate me had it happened… and I really hate that you aren’t here to make me feel better about not getting accepted. I know you, and you’d have taken me out for a nice dinner either way – rejected or accepted – to celebrate me. To make me feel special, and to remind me to just keep trying and never give up.

No one else in my life even realizes what a hard day it has been to not hear back about this opportunity. Most of them don’t even know today was an important date for me to begin with… because they aren’t part of the “us” that was you and I. I don’t hold that against anyone, it isn’t their job to remember all these things. It was our job to remember them about each other. It’s just really hard not having you here sometimes to pick me up the way you always did so well. I keep trying, and I keep pushing and I keep living. But it's really hard not being part of a team anymore like we were.

On my drive home, I tried to think of what I could do since you aren’t here. How I could make myself feel special tonight. I didn’t very well want to go out to a fancy dinner alone! So instead, I bought myself flowers at the store, and some sushi, and okay… I admit it, my own personal and delicious piece of cookie cake. Because who can be upset when you are stuffing your face with cookie cake right? And even if I do sit and cry all over it… well, at least I am freaking eating cookie cake! I can feel you smiling already. Patting me on the back a bit, for finding some way through it "like you always do" you'd say. I tell ya, it’s sure not easy without you. But somehow, I find a way. "

The Star of Seven

I was at an estate sale yesterday and I found this little wooden bookmark hiding away in a corner that really intrigued me. I picked it up and read on the back something about The Star of Seven Day. Further intrigued, I purchased it and brought it home to research. It turns out it is a scene depicting the story of the Tanabata Festival. And this is where it got cool. This is the annual star festival in Japan that is celebrated on the 7th day of the 7th month each year. It celebrates the meeting of the deities Orihime and Hikoboshi (represented by the stars Vega and Altair respectively). According to legend, the Milky Way separates these lovers, and they are allowed to meet only once a year on the seventh day of the seventh lunar month of the lunisolar calendar.

If you're new to the story of my late-fiance and I - I will fill you in. Mine and Andrew's initials spell STAR. And the week before we began dating, we were out star-gazing on the beach one night and we saw seven shooting stars, making seven wishes a piece. We later learned that we both wished for each other, seven times. It became a beautiful part of our story... And crazy enough our first rela date and thus anniversary was the 7th. Stars and sevens continued to show up in other ways in our time together, and they still do for me. The web address for my photography business is sevenshootingstars.com because I couldn't think of anything better for it to be named since my photography is so deeply influenced by our story. In the entryway of the hospital where my first solo photo show was displayed, there were seven large blue stars hanging. Lots of things like this happen all the time for me now. So now when I see stars, particularly in combination with the number seven, I know someone is trying to get my attention.

There's no doubt in my mind that this bookmark - which I learned was likely brought home from Japan by the husband after WWII for his wife - was meant for me to find. It is our story - two stars, a galaxy apart. Maybe it was just a hello from afar. Or maybe, on the 7th day of the 7th month every year, we too are brought closer together like in this legend. I also can't deny that, since he died, I often get very clear signs that revolve around the direction I should go or decisions I should make in relation to my art. Which makes this finding especially cool...

While at this same estate sale, I was introduced to an interior designer who had seen my solo photo exhibit at the hospital and offered me a really exciting next opportunity for showing my work this fall. We hadn't said two sentences to each other before he was offering to show my work in his space. I was so taken back, and so honored that someone would offer such a thing so immediately to me based on the work of mine that he had already seen. For this bookmark to be right in the same space as where I met this person - I dunno, I like to believe in that sort of thing. And I like to believe I was brought there to find both the bookmark and the person today - and it was just one more sign that I'm going in the right direction.

Two Years Ago

Two years year ago this week, I had no concept of time.

Nor of my life any longer as I knew it.

Two years ago today, I was making funeral arrangements

For the man I had planned to grow old with.

And going from pain to disbelief and back to pain every 10 minutes

Like an endless loop

Two years ago today, I was two days in to being an unwedded widow.

Nothing will ever erase the memory of this week -
of the phone call
of falling to my knees in the hallway
and screaming into the phone those animal sounds.
Of lying awake at night in horror and waking up in confusion -
praying to God each morning that it wasn't real.
That delirious pain slamming into me like a freight train from hell.

I had no idea what kind of life i could possibly have beyond this ending.

None.

Two years ago today, I was lost and terrified for my life.
For the first time ever I met a pain so immense that I feared it actually might kill me.
And that was a very real fear.
That - even if it didn't kill my body - it would surely kill my soul
and leave me behind as nothing more than a dark, empty shell of a person.
God, was I scared.

Two years later, and I'm sitting at a local festival,
having drinks with a whole buffet of artists and musicians
whom have become part of my comminuty since he died.
Not only it is a night and day difference from my life before -
it is a world I always belonged to at heart
but one I was to afraid to open myself up to.

That life I could not imagine beyond his death? 

This is it. 

Somehow in these two years
I have started to carve out a new place for myself in the world
a place where I want to be -
where I make a difference in the world
where I say important things with the work I do
and where my soul feels most free.
A place with loving, devoted people who aren't afraid of my pain.
Creative people, emotional people, kind people.
Two years later, I'm still here.
And it didn't kill me.
or turn my soul black beyond repair.

It did quite the opposite as it turns out.
It broke me and it broke me open.
It made me crumble and it made all the walls I'd built up over a lifetime crumble, too.
And I decided not to rebuild them.
And instead, to leave my brokenness open
and my fallen walls fallen.
And now, that is where the love flows in.
Their love, and his love, one in the same.

I'm not certain what I think just yet of this "new life" I was forced into.

All I know is that at this very moment, there's a fire dancer to my right

And a man with a bright blue afro to my left,
a band playing, people laughing and crying and sharing and dancing.
It's quite possibly some of the most wonderful weirdness I've ever enjoyed -
because my heart is open enough now not to judge such things
but instead to let it flow into me and wash over me…
to open to the whole kaleidoscope of experiences and human connections
that are out there to be had in this life. 

It's still new and scary at times
and completely overwhelming, and always exhausting.
I still feel alone in a crowd
and my eyes still search for him, as does my heart.
But I think, just maybe, somehow…
I'm where I was always supposed to be
doing what I was always supposed to be doing - helping people.
and most importantly,
I'm still here.
And to my surprise… I'm actually okay.
And the one thing I know now that I didn't know two years ago,
is that I am always going to be okay.

The Strength Among Women.

Source

The above picture is a specific shot of the Sex and the City girls that my girlfriends and I send to each other when we miss each other or just need a smile. It is - like the show is for us - a reminder that thru thick and thin, life and love and illness and death, it is your girls who were there for you. I'm sharing it because I was reminded of that tonight.

On this pre-Easter evening, I would like to say,  I really hate being vulnerable. I mean, doesn't everyone? It's definitely not the best feeling out there. Tonight, I felt so completely vulnerable. It's the evening before Easter - my in-laws are having a big party at the ranch. We are grilling and cooking up a ton of good food. I spend the whole day in the kitchen with my mother-in-law… partly because I really enjoy helping her out on these kinds of days and partly because just keeping busy with helping keeps my mind off the obvious person missing. So really, for the most part, I made it through the day alright. I made this amazing lemon-lime bundt cake that was "to die for" (I always feel odd saying that now). But the sadness was underlying. And eventually after dinner and several beers… the flood gates opened. Everyone was out back playing ping pong - I could hear them loudly cheering and laughing over the game and the country music. Laughter. That kind… you know, the kind we used to all enjoy? Yeah.

I snuck out to sit on the front porch. Alone. Crying in my beer. And looking at pictures of my fiancé and I on my phone. And crying some more. And wishing that someone would notice right away when I wasn't there, and would come to check on me. The way he used to when I needed it most. Wishing I was the center of anyone's universe like that again. Or that someone would just happen to come outside and notice me there and sit down beside me to be my friend. But no one came… except one person who walked right past, ignoring me. Which as you know, feels even worse than no one coming at all. And so I sat there more and more alone - just me, the glow of the porch light, and the june bugs occasionally thwacking into my back. I cursed aloud to… what? Someone. Something. My life. My stupid emotions. Him being gone. My pathetic desire to have someone rescue me. All of the above.

Eventually… I texted a few of my girlfriends. My best friend. And one of my also-widowed girlfriends. And my old high school girlfriend. It turned out we were all having pretty emotional nights for entirely different reasons. My best friend has just found out that this guy she really likes who she's been on several dates with is still hung up on an ex. My high school friend is pretty sad because her best friend just moved really far away, she just broke up with her boyfriend, and she had to move back in with her parents to boot. I really wish none of us had been going through any of that crap tonight… but you know, it helped to know I wasn't alone. Even though their situations were very different, that didn't matter. Tonight… each one of us was in need of someone to be there for us and console us and love us. Each of us wanted that someone to be a man, and each of us didn't have that. So we turned to each other. And we found exactly what we needed in each other. Love. And support. And understanding. And a warm welcome that will always be there. And a powerful "I've got your back, you are amazing and don't forget it" sort of feeling that we all needed.

I didn't used to be very close to any of my girlfriends. Many years ago, I had a really hard time connecting with women and I kept my distance from them for the most part. Losing my fiancé has changed that world so entirely for me. I have come to rely on the women in my life in such a deep and powerful way. No matter what our situations or differences… when we are in pain, and we share that with each other, there is a sacred bond of holding each other up that occurs. Its like this unspoken code that all women seem to abide by. And it only occurs when we take the risk to be fully vulnerable with each other.

For the past month or so, I've been resisting taking that risk. It's so easy to do… to try and avoid being truly vulnerable - even with my closest girlfriends - because I just don't want to face it sometimes. But this week as I've had a few instances of both myself and my girlfriends hitting low points and really needing each other… I am reminded again how important, how powerful, and how healing it is to just let it all out to each other. Sure it felt better to let that out with Drew. More comfortable. More secure. But there is something equally powerful about baring your soul to other women. Something that I have never experienced until losing him.

I'm not even sure where I'm going with all this. Honestly, it's late, I've been on my feet all day cooking, and super stressed about a million other things, and I'm on my 5th or 6th beer (the fact that I can't remember which tells you something!). All I can say is that tonight, I am so incredibly grateful for the women in my life. The ones who are widows. The ones who are not widows who still seem to get it. The ones who are older and wiser and help guide me, and the ones who are right in the thick of it with me. I truly do not know what state I would be in today without each and every woman who has crossed my path since losing Drew. They, you, are the safety net that keeps me afloat. The wind beneath my wings. And the fuel that keeps me trying to make something big and bold and powerful out of all of this pain. We may not have the lives we want, but dammit, at least we have each other. And really, that's a hell of a lot.

Happy

There is a lot going in my life right now that I can't share here.  It's too personal.  But it's good.

What I can tell you is that I am happy.

I never thought I would ever meet this mystical beast ever again, but here it is, showing up in my day and making me smile for no good reason.

Not the legendary, mythical HAPPY that we all hear about in fairytales.

But the happy that comes from lifting your eyes from the floor and seeing that life is really not so bad.
OK even.

I have chosen to believe that my one-sided conversations with Greg are really two sided and that he is letting me know what he thinks and feels about things. 

Case in point ....
I had an attack of the "uglies" the other day.  Not that I am a particularly vain person, but the last time I allowed myself to be vulnerable to another human (other than Greg) was when I was 22 years old and 22 years younger than I am now.
Growing up, I had two grandmothers who were determined that vanity was not a sin I would ever have and so they both managed to convince me that I was a "solid" girl who was plain.  I don't hold it against them - that was the thinking back then.  But I wished I'd listened to my mother who told me what a beauty I was.
Anyhooo  - there I was, having an attack of the uglies last Friday night when I decided to look in a cupboard that contained yet more of Greg's "stuff".  ... and I found a motherload of his old photos.
 He had photos from the night we met (I looked shy and a bit lost) and he had photos from our early dating life that I had never seen.  I looked young and fresh and positvely beautiful.  Certainly not "solid" or "plain".
...and he had a couple of photos of me (and he) all dolled up at a friend's wedding that were positively smokin' hot!

 ...and just like that, the "uglies" went away and I knew that my boy had shown me what he saw when he looked at me.

So yeah - happy.
It doesn't come in with a fanfare and a show of light.
It sneaks up on you and surprises you when you think it has gone for ever...

Four years

Four years since you left me.
 Suddenly.
Violently.
Bereft.

Nobody could possibly begin to understand the soul connection we had. 
Anam Cara.
We two were so closely linked.

...and yes, I know we are still connected.

I have learnt to recognise the signs you send me.
I know you are near.
I know you miss nothing.

I am lucky that intuition comes naturally to me.
You always said that I could "feel" whether people were good or bad. 
I can't explain it. 
I just "know" things.
Like what you were about to say, or what you were thinking.
Or how my soul knew yours as soon as it saw you, standing there in the backyard of a friend's house.
Or how I knew that we would marry from that first kiss.

Or how I had a premonition of your death, right before your death.

 I have  realised that you have never left me, that you hear me, that you are actively leading me forward.
... to a new life.
...to the people I needed to meet.
...towards the light.
... Towards hope.

...and my love for you is stronger than ever.
XA

The death march part 4: signs

Angel Danbo by the immensely talented and all-round nice guy Aaron Aldrich

Here I am in the final week of the death march.  March 1 is racing towards me like a freight train. 
To be honest, it can't come soon enough so I can put it behind me and then maybe my subconscious won't feel the need to see 2am come in each day.

But 2am has seen me think about all the signs I have received .... some of them, even before March 1, 2010.  I am not going to list them here, but I will say that there have been so many, many specific instances of contact that I can not ignore them.
...and on talking to others, it seems I am not the only one who knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that they are here with us.

As many of you know, before I was a teacher, I was a scientist.
I have a PhD and a string of other qualifications. 
I am trained to be skeptical of anything that can't be backed up with hard data.
 ..... but at the same time, I am trained to entertain novel ideas and I am trained to understand that just because something can't be measured with current technology, it doesn't mean it isn't happening. 
But then again, I have always had a Bayesian weight-of-evidence view of science over and empirical one.

....and for me, for my own personal beliefs, the weight of evidence is overwhelming.  It may not be overwhelming enough to withstand peer review and publication, but then I don't really care how others view the eternal .

So as I sit here, writing the last of the death march posts, I remind myself of my own, hard-won knowledge that he never left me and is part of my life everday.

Another Birthday ......

                                                                 source

...... remembered, but not celebrated.

Jim would've been 54 today (as I write this it's Tuesday night).
Instead, he's forever 47.
And that sucks.
In more ways than one.

I hate that his birthday is so close to Christmas ...... which is so close to the day he died.
This time of the year can be one onslaught after another.
And yes, it still brings tears.

But it also brings warm memories.
Memories of baking spice cake for him every January 7th.
Memories of surprising him with a limo filled with friends ...... and a restaurant filled with more friends when he turned 40.
Memories of sitting around the table with the kids, having his favorite dinner of roast beef and mashed potatoes.
More memories than I can list.
Which is a pretty wonderful thing.

Yes, I could sit here and write about all of the things he's/I've/we've missed out on.
But that would only serve to make me feel depressed and worse than I want to feel at the end of this day.
So instead I'm going to focus on doing more than I thought I would do today.
I'm going to do more than remember him.

I am going to celebrate him.
I'm going to celebrate who he was, and who he still is.
I'm going to celebrate the time we had, for as long as we had it.

I'm going to celebrate love.
Because it never ends.

Long live love.

Turning Pain to Love

In 2012, when his death was so fresh, I needed to talk. About the pain, the fear, the agony, the anger, the loss, the accident, the future we will not have, the children we won't raise, the wedding we won't share… all of it. I wanted to crawl out of my skin with all the pain. I talked and cried almost every single day to someone about my pain. I talked to everyone. Even inappropriately so.

No literally… I have told my story - complete with shameless tears - to perfect strangers. Including customers at the gallery I worked at, a seamstress I had hemming a pair of pants for me, and my masseuse. Really anyone was prey to my grief attacks for about a year there. Sometimes it ended up weird or awkward, but most of the time, it didn't.

Most of the time, it would allow them to share something really vulnerable in their life (the seamstress it turns out was a widow herself many years back, and has since remarried to a wonderful man), or help them simply feel honored that I would trust them enough to share. Almost every time, we both ended up in tears and hugging each other. It turns out, it doesn't really matter if we know each other - we can all give that exchange to one another just by listening and honoring one another where we are.

Looking back, I can begin to understand it this way:
Sharing pain transforms it back into love. I stretch out my arms - with a piece of my pain held in my hands - to someone, to anyone who will have it. It is always a risk that they will not reach back, always, but I know I need to try if my heart is to survive this without becoming hardened. So I reach and I show them my pain. And my hope is that they reach back. And usually, they do. They take that small piece of my pain in their hands. They see it, touch it, come to know it. They turn it over in their hands and take it to their hearts and feel it for a moment. And then they give it back to me, but when it is returned to my hands… miraculously, every time, I find that it is no longer pain at all, but love. They have completely transformed that one small piece - with nothing more than a simple act of acknowledging it, and therefore acknowledging me.

Because our pain, you see, is really just the part of ourselves that has loved fully and deeply and come to be broken. When we give a piece of it to someone, and they receive it with compassion, they can return it back to us as love - as it once was. To me, this has been what healing is about. Taking the chance to be vulnerable and share my pain, bit by bit, day by day… reaching my hands out again and again and again… each time holding a single grain of sand from the desert of pain that resides in my heart. And each time receiving back a single grain of love.

It is a lifelong process, grain by grain. And no, we never do turn all those grains back into love. There will always be some pain amidst our hearts, but looking at it this way helps me to see how every person who has touched my life - and everyone who will - helps me to transform my pain back into love. He did this for me too, well before I was aware. Our vulnerability with each other helped us to turn each other's pain from the days before we met back to love. And now, by the force of his death, I am having to learn a new way to do this. It is time to let others be part of that journey… let them turn my pain back to love, and give the same back to them. I am hoping that by sharing this, it does a little of that for both you and me.

Image Source

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.

Image Source

Where We Began

A big hello to everyone here at Soaring Spirits and Widow's Voice on my debut post. I'm incredibly honored and humbled to have been asked to join this team. I hope that we can help each other to feel heard, honored, and loved for exactly where we are in these years of tears. I've been a writer all my life in some form, but this is the first time I've ever written anywhere but my own pages. It means a great deal to me. So I thank you for reading! With that said, I will begin...

Last year, I was supposed to be standing at the altar – marrying my best friend. Instead, I was standing at that altar trying to tell a church full of loved ones who this man was in my life and what he had meant to me. Striving to articulate the sheer magnitude of this person was like trying to hold the all the world's oceans in my hands – an impossible task to ever fully contain him... and not something a twenty-nine year old woman should ever be faced with, or anyone for that matter. But there we were.

Drew and I met in Dallas in the fall of 2008. He was in flight school working toward his dream to be a commercial helicopter pilot. I was a web designer at the headquarters for a global fashion company. He was analytical, I was creative. He liked guns, flying, beer and war movies. I liked art, beauty, nature, writing… I was terrified of guns and hated war movies. On the surface, it sure seemed like we couldn't be more different, but underneath all that we shared deep passion and curiosity for life and a seriously goofy sense of humor. We both loved to learn, laugh and explore almost anything. I'd say that's a pretty good basis for the start of something awesome.

We became best friends over the course of the next year and in June of 2009, we started dating. As it turns out, all those differences are incredibly fun when you have two really curious people who love to explore anything new. He taught me how to shoot guns, build fires, and fly planes on the simulator. I taught him about design and how to look for beauty and art in everything around you. He introduced me to delicious dark beers and aerodynamics, to camping and Texas country music, and I took him to art museums and festivals and exposed him to incredible art he'd have never otherwise seen. There was skydiving, parasailing, hot air ballooning, race car driving and so much more. I was his first flight student – letting him practice his lesson plans each night with me while he worked toward his flight instructor certification. And of course.. he took me up for a few helicopter rides. These are by far some of the most special memories – watching him in his element – living his passion and sharing it with me. The war movies though… I never got on board there!

It wasn't always clear skies of course, but for 3 years, we built something strong and good together. There was always, above all else, an unspoken agreement from the beginning that we would be kind with each other's hearts. Neither of us had had a particularly sugar-coated life thus far, so we had our insecurities and issues. But somehow together, we never clashed. Instead we learned how to help each other to become more aware, heal some of the past, and choose new and better ways to cope with life's challenges. I have often said that it was as if I could see the little boy in him, the one that was good and pure and hadn't been hurt or made insecure by the world yet... and he could see that little girl in me, too. It was as though we grabbed the very core of each other and pulled it right to the surface where it could breathe. Together, we were more who we were always supposed to have been.  

It's amazing to look back and see how much impact just one person could have on my life in just three short years together. On any given day, I can look at myself and see a whole list of things about me that feel as though they've always been there... but they haven't. They were the things he brought out, the things he exposed me to and shared with me and taught me, the parts of myself that he saw and encouraged that no one ever had before. I cannot hardly imagine who I was before I met him. Before beer and western boots. Before a passion for flight, which he passed on to me. Before the camera he got me on my 27th birthday – and my love affair with photography that is still going strong today. Who was I then? Surely me, but so much more myself because of him. 

And then of course, it all ended. And everything… as you well know, changed. I changed. And that part, my newfound friends, is a story for next week. 

Too busy

I have report cards due in the next few weeks. 
Work is hectic as we finish up assessing where the kids are at. 
Home is stressful as my own kids finish off assessments that their teacher need to assess (but DON'T get me started on teachers who allow assessments to be done at home in primary school and just how many parent's are earning their kids' grades).

I am busy pretty much all of the time right now.

....and while I am not stressed (at this stage), I am also so busy that I have not had any time to just sit and miss him.

I feel distant from him, when I had been feeling like he was so connected to us that I could almost feel him next to me.  I had been just starting conversations with him when I was alone, feeling like it was not a one-sided thing.

....and I need to get that feeling back before I crash and burn later....

I need to remind myself that I was (am) loved by the most remarkable man. 
A man who I trusted with my heart and soul. 
A man whose love for me was bigger than anything I can imagine.

So on the weekend, I will make a time between marking report cards and cleaning the house where I can go outside, sit in the sunshine and just be with my memories of Greg.
Where I can feel his hand on my shoulder and his whisper in my ear and remind myself that I am still loved.

Motivation

Where has my motivation gone?

I don't care about anything other than people anymore. The people I love. Loving myself. That's all that matters to me right now.

A job? Who cares. My passion? I don't know. No, maybe I do know. My passion is people. My people. After losing my life with Dave, all I want is to surround myself with those I love and spend time gazing at them, listening to them talk, holding them and being held by them. So little else matters to me now. It's a phase, I know, because nothing lasts and I've been here before and I've ridden the wave back up again to a place where I felt somewhat motivated again, but motivated now is a completely different thing that it used to be.

In general, the graph looks like this:

It turns out I don't care about getting a job. I care about supporting myself, but I don't care about what it is I'm doing to support myself. I've lost my passion. Maybe that's not true. It's not lost, it's just changed form. My passion now isn't succeeding or making a good income. It's not teaching. It's transferred to a desire to be okay again. To feel at home again. To heal. To love.

Those four goals have become paramount and have proven to be so difficult now that they could easily become a full time occupation.

I didn't know how hard it would be to allow my heart to thaw out, even slightly. I didn't know how scary it would be to take a leap. I didn't realize how this new life would keep me up at night with anxiety, even after 2 years of it.

This is such a long haul. Making it back to where I used to be is impossible. I have to travel in a direction that leaves that life behind in some ways and that is hard to accept.

I find that I stare in wonder at people who have kids and a spouse and a job. It feels a little like being at the zoo, looking through the glass at a little world I can't get to, watching a species so different from my own. I examine them and wonder how they feel. I wonder if they feel lucky to have so much to live for. I wonder if they feel the sense of belonging I miss so much.

It's that sense of belonging I wish I had built into me, regardless of where I go or who I'm with.
I imagine it's in people who seem happy and relaxed and who have kids and a spouse to hug when they get home.

I know the picture I have is only in my mind and that other peoples' reality are very different than I imagine them to be.

I know everyone struggles and grieves and feels alone at times, I just sometimes wonder what it would feel like to be someone who hasn't felt so much loss.

But I'm not one of those people. I'm a part of a tribe of warriors who have battle scars and a weary heart. I'm brave and I'm strong. I've lived through some awful stuff.

I can survive. I can feel a sense of belonging. It won't be the same as before, but it will come. And with it, maybe the sense that there's something I want to do with my life.

Courage

source

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.

Would I still be your Valentine?

source

Jeremy was never big on Valentine's day.

He didn't hate it. We didn't ban it. He just wasn't overly romantic. He tried to be, and did some very sweet things, but most of the time we were too broke to really do anything anyway. And yet, on this Hallmark holiday celebrating love, it brings those little moments rushing back as if it were a big deal. Cause he was a big deal to me. 

Our first Valentine's, while we were still dating, I cut up hundreds of hearts and wrote different reasons why I loved him on each one. Every year after that, I re-used them in different ways, and would add more reasons why I loved him in the mix. I was thinking today that I'm not sure what I would add this year, because he's not evolving or changing anymore, I love him for all the same reasons. He is and forever will be the 31 year old, handsome and strong husband and father in my eyes. But then it also made me realize how much I have evolved and changed since then, and pieces of me that Jeremy will never get to see. And it made me wonder if he would love the girl I am now.

I don't love the way I used to. I'm more careful with it, but I also cherish it so much more. I'm more comfortable in my own skin. I actually enjoy cooking (who would have thought?!), and I know how to maintain a household pretty well on my own. I'm scared of things I didn't used to be scared of, and unafraid of things that used to terrify me. My support system has changed, my friends aren't the same. My priorities have shifted. My dreams and goals have evolved. Would you still love this version of me that has been beaten, broken down, and built back together?

Of course, I know the answer. Even though I'm not the same girl I was before he died, I know that essentially, emerging from grief has forced me to be a better version of myself....probably the version that Jeremy always saw in me. And even though I've grown for the better, I'm still me. I'm still the girl who has to sleep on the left side of the bed, who tries to please people too much, who quotes Friends in my head on a daily basis and then hears his laughter in the back of my head affirming how funny I am. I'm still the girl who wants Faith and Caleb to love the things their daddy loved, who cries at nearly every movie, and who holds onto all the precious and unforgettable quirks that he had. I'm still the girl terrified of fish, loves all things cotton candy, rollercoasters, pink, and slurpees. I'm still the girl that wants to tell our story. I'll always be that girl.

Yes, I am still convinced that no matter how much time separates us, no matter how much change comes between us, I would still be your Valentine.

Another Anniversary

Last year on February 4, on a cool gray morning, I was moving from my big, beloved house in the country into a small apartment in the middle of Portland. I had left my house and almost all it contained, packed up my cats, clothes and a few belongings and let go.

I let go of a life I thought I wouldn't survive without.
 
When I think of those days just before leaving, I remember things in flashes. Everything felt raw and harsh, yet hazy with shock and grief. That strange detached sense of being submerged in the depths. I can see these flashes of memory, but they seem like they happened to someone else.

The last few heart breaking minutes I spent in my old house. My sweet friend tearfully and gently  telling me that it was time to leave as I sobbed and fought with reality. Closing the door behind me and feeling completely numb and empty. The cats yowling for the entire 90 minute drive as I shifted between crying and feeling numb again, wondering if yowling like them would release a little of the pain that was choking me.

But I wasn't alone and that saved me.

There were many people who loved me so much that they managed to make these days less terrible and lonely. They helped me take care of details I simply couldn't bring myself to. They unpacked for me, stayed with me that first night in the new apartment, they brought me food and took good care of me. They even went through some of Dave's things for me because I had reached a point where the pain was overwhelming and all I could manage were the basics. Eat, try to sleep, and cry.

I took notes about the entire process, I tried to stay present. I made the requisite phone calls, but I was barely hanging on. Since then, though, I have felt stronger and stronger even though it didn't seem like it most days. I've made a life for myself here and found ways to settle in. I've fallen in love with this city and gradually grown to love myself and even appreciate the potential of my new path too.

But on this anniversary, I can't stop thinking about the love of those friends. They each took away some of the darkness and fear and pain in their own wonderful way. Next to the days right after Dave died, it was the hardest days of my life. The most draining and scary. But there they were, offering their love and kindness. I grabbed onto their support like a drowning person and felt the gratitude flood through me.

I sit here in the living room of my cozy new home in the new city I already miss the second I leave it and I realize how far I've come. I had to let go to know what I was capable of. I had to loosen my grip on what I thought was my life's plan and find out what the actual plan was. I had to participate in that plan by being open and following the paths that presented themselves to me. I had to go out and FIND some of those paths. I had to enlist the help of so many. I had to learn to lean on others and accept help. I had to trust myself. None of it was easy, but that's what makes it so precious to me now. It was hard-won.

All that hard work came from the fuel of those first few days I thought I wouldn't survive. Once I saw that I did survive, I could move forward. Before I was able to see the possibility of a better time ahead of me, I had those incredible people who cared about me, holding me up when I could barely stand on my own.

Dave's parents have told me a few times that some of his last words to them were "Make sure Cassie's OK". I don't think he had to worry. I made it on my own but I made it surrounded the entire time by the energy of those who love me, including him.

I am so grateful to have found this feeling of peace and joy again. There was a long period of time when I thought I'd never feel it again. I'm able to see now, how strong I really was, even when I felt completely broken. I was so low and scared in those days that I couldn't rely on my own hope. I had to borrow it from those who had faith in me.

I know that the universe doesn't deal me a better hand now just because I've been through hell, but there's just as much chance that the future holds amazing things, too. I know sad times will come again and little things will set me back. I know big bad things can and will happen. I know I have an incredibly long way to go, but now that I've crested the hill of the one year mark since that pivotal move,  I can look behind me, at the distance I've come and marvel. I guess I really am strong. There is no denying that now. And so is the love that helped me get here.

Read, Breathe, Repeat

My sweetie

Thursday was Dave's birthday. He would've turned 40, an event we would talk about so often. We completely took for granted that he'd be around and for some reason, this thought keeps circling me lately.

We believed (of course) in full faith that he'd turn 40. We had no reason not to. And yet, he is gone and will never be older than 38.

This is so unbelievable to me that I can't make it fit in any compartment in my brain. It sort of hovers there above it all, unable to click fully into place, like a puzzle piece that almost but not quite fits in an empty space.

On Wednesday night I stared for a solid hour at his face in picture after picture.

I tried to will his picture to come alive. I suddenly (for the first time) needed to see video of him. Previously the idea of seeing videos of him made me feel seconds away from a full meltdown. It terrified me.

But on the eve of his birthday, I felt almost as though I needed concrete proof that I didn't make him up in my mind. Sadly, I don't have a single video with him in it. I have video he took of the Colosseum in Rome, but he didn't even talk. I have a video he took of me when he did talk but I can't figure out where it is.

I realized, with a sudden stab of pure remorse that we didn't take enough pictures or videos. Why didn't we?

The time I spent staring at his pictures felt holy. I stared at his face with fresh eyes. His deep, dark brown eyes and handsome beard, his smirk, his incredibly perfect white teeth, the smile I believe he reserved for me alone.

I tried to turn the images into a three dimensional memory. I tried to smell him and feel the texture of his arm once again, run my fingers through his hair. It was beyond frustrating and I cried myself to sleep.

The day of his birthday I felt numb or distant or on auto-pilot, or a mixture of the three. I had some things I needed to do and I did them, staying relatively alert and present, but when I got home, there were 20 facebook notifications and they were full of bad news. So much sadness had descended on several people I love all on the day Dave should have turned 40 but is instead ashes in a box. The tidal wave of sadness crested and I finally lost it.

So much pain, and why? I don't believe in a merciful universe or god. I suppose there might be a greater power I can't fully understand, but it's not merciful. It's not evenly doling out the pain.

There's no reason behind any of it, only the chance to dig yourself out of the pits of despair and find something to get up for. It's finding silver linings and not shutting down completely, but how much can a person take, I wonder? And are we sometimes fooling ourselves with our silver linings and positivity?

I am so furious that there has to be so many broken hearts. I'm so tired of pain, my own and others'. I'm working so damn hard to remain hopeful but I'm also going to give myself a break for feeling hopeless, or deliriously angry, or brokenhearted and I'm not trying to push the feelings away, but god dammit this is hard. It's scary to feel the hope for better things slip away even temporarily.

I keep thinking of the videos of Dave I could be looking at now, if we had thought to make them. It reminds me to continue to try not to take for granted what I'm lucky enough to have now. I don't care if I'm filming my cat purring on my lap or my friend talking to me from across the couch. I'm making a record of the people and furballs I adore and I'm going to remember how incredibly lucky I am to have them at all.

What else can we do, really, when the truth is, nothing lives forever and nothing stays the same?
Isn't that the lesson death teaches us? Cherish when you can. Don't be afraid to love just because your heart will be broken if you do.

Makes me think of my favorite C.S. Lewis quote...

 “To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket- safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.”

Read, breathe, repeat.