Immortal

I've been traveling a lot...all for good and great things, but it still takes its toll.

Luckily, I've noticed that it takes much more weight from life to throw me off-balance, as I try to find relief in the little things...mementos surrounding me, waiting for me to find peace and relief in what they hold.

This week it was in a quote from an in-flight film. It was some actor reciting lines that I felt embodied my baby...and helped shed light on the facts my heart already knew...the reasoning behind my love's service and sacrifice.

It's these things that help tip the scale a bit towards the center...helps me remember why my husband is the man he is and will immortally be...for I share his heart...the heart he so vulnerably and excitingly offered me to carry forever.

"All men fear death. It's a natural fear that consumes us all. We fear death because we feel that we haven't loved well enough or loved at all, which ultimately are one and the same. However, when you love a truly great woman, one that deserves the utmost respect in this world and one that makes you feel truly powerful, that fear of death completely disappears. Because when you are sharing your body and heart with a great woman the world fades away. You two are the only ones in the entire universe. You conquer what most lesser men have never conquered before, you have conquered a great woman's heart, the most vulnerable thing she can offer to another. Death no longer lingers in the mind. Fear no longer clouds your heart. Only passion for living, and for loving, become your sole reality. This is no easy task for it takes insurmountable courage. But remember this, for that moment when you are making love with a woman of true greatness you will feel immortal." -"Midnight In Paris"

old shoes and wooden spatulas

Photo from here....

I've been sorting through our cupboards and closets and purging the least needed/most outgrown items lately in anticipation of living mostly indoors again after a summer in the backyard and beach.

I have found mismatched gumboots, lost flashlights, a dried up snail and the odd coin. Most surprisingly, I have unearthed copious amounts of Jeff's clothing despite thinking that the vast majority of it had been distributed among family, friends and the Salvation Army.

As I have worked on this task, the kids have been playing together...or re-enacting small-scale wars in the back hall. Today, their fighting somehow led to the playroom door (for which there is no key) to be locked.

Since I imagine myself to be somewhat of a handi-woman, I attempted to pick the lock. Failing this, I attempted to break into the room from an exterior window. Then, I removed the door knob not really realizing that the bolt would still be intact...without a knob. After this, I tried to shoulder the door open with brute force. Sometime later, I gave up and called a friend.

As he kneeled on the floor peering through the impenetrable knob hole, I stared at his large sock-clad feet which brought to mind a pair of new, brown leather shoes I had unearthed at the back of the laundry room closet.

"Hey, Dave," I said, "Do you need any shoes?" He turned and looked at me quizzically.

"I found a pair of brand-new shoes of Jeff's at the back of a closet and thought that maybe you could use them."

"Um. Well. Not...I don't know, Jackie," he stammered, "That's...um, very nice of you. But, um, weird." He went on to explain, "I have never had anyone offer their dead husband's possessions to me. It feels really odd...and wrong."

I sat and pondered for a moment. I thought about how uncomfortable I would have felt in the same situation three years ago. How I may worry about accepting some one's beloved's possessions would ultimately upset them or that I may be terribly close to catching "dead".

But then I started to laugh, "Dave, I am sure when we are in our 90s and most of us have lost many of our loved ones and close friends, offering a pair of unused shoes or a wooden spatula that once belonged to a dead person will be nothing short of common place. This is just the beginning, my friend! And really, Dave, I do not think that you have to worry about Jeff needing them back."

But this evening as I washed dishes, I wondered again if it was wrong of me to ask a friend if he had use for something that had once belonged to Jeff? WAS it odd? Did I cross some taboo barrier? Was this a "widow's faux pas"? Am I still too young for my peers to "get" how ridiculous this attachment to a dead person's unused possessions is? Or is my way of thinking off-track?

I truly just wanted someone who could use them to have them....I suppose it will have to be a stranger who will use them. And that is okay too....they won't have to know that the shoes have "dead germs" on them. :)

Today would have been our 14th wedding anniversary.

Written on September 27, 2011

Fourteen years ago, I awoke in my childhood bedroom … well got up anyway … I was too excited to sleep much.
My bridesmaid, my Mum and I quickly ate breakfast and took ourselves down to the salon for 'hair and makeup'.
We emerged hours later, coiffed and painted, but still recognisable.
Everyone ate lunch … not me … I couldn’t eat for the excitement.
Then I put on my beautiful dress, remade from the Guipure lace from my mother’s gown.
I looked beautiful.
More than that.
I glowed.
Lit from the inside.
The flowers arrived.
The photographer arrived.

Then we left for the church in a pair of 1970s vintage Holdens.
Dad walked me up the aisle.
Greg was crying: I avoided looking at him so I wouldn’t cry too.
We promised to love each other until death parted us, (never thinking that death would part us after only 12 and a half years).
I felt so loved and lucky that my face ached from the smiling.
and the kissing.
and the loving gazes into his beautiful blue eyes.
I glided through the reception – everything was perfect.
and we left our friends and family at the party to have our own celebration of our first night as man and wife.
~~~~~
Today would have been our 14th anniversary.
and it’s been just over 18 months since Greg died.
I awoke to the screeching of the car alarm of the bogan who lives across the street.
...well, not so much "awoke as "got up anyway". Sleep isn’t so easy for me these days…
I couldn’t open my eyes.
Literally.
It seems I have conjunctivitis to add to my already long list of symptoms typical of my “holiday illness” (I never get sick during work time, just holiday time).
It seems appropriate that my eyes are already red and puffy.
I had a shower and prised open my red, oogy eyes.
I put on track pants and one of Greg’s old shirts: nobody was going to see me today.
I didn’t bother to do my hair.
but I did brush my teeth.
I look like crap.
I ate breakfast so I could swallow some cold and flu tablets.
…and I sent my mother out to buy my eye drops to fix my oogy eyes.
Somehow, this seems an appropriate way to mark this day.
….the second of many lonely wedding anniversaries….

One Thousand, Three Hundred & Seventy-nine Days ....

                                                       Picture from here
.... since I've heard three small words.

I heard, or rather, read them yesterday.
And I was stunned.
I'm still stunned.

I'm not stunned that I was sent the words, but am happily surprised.

I am stunned at the impact those three words are having on me.
I was stunned when I read them and I'm still stunned.

This has been, and will continue to be an emotional week for me.
You know the kind .... where you can feel that the dams inside of you .... one around your heart, one behind your eyes ..... are starling to crack.
I can feel the cracking actually happen.  And the tears have been able to seep through, though just a bit.
But I know that the cracks will soon crumble more and those dams will burst wide open.
And the tears won't be seeping.

Tomorrow I "get" to go to court with one of my children, who made a stupid, stupid decision several months ago, but it recently caught up with him.
The damns crack more every time I think about showing up in that courtroom tomorrow at 9:00.
I think that it's likely that this will go well, so it's not that I'm worried about the event.
It just "one more thing".
I know you get that.

I am SO sick of "one more things".
I should not be doing these crappy things alone.
He should be here.
He should be holding my hand, reassuring me.
He should be here to take on half of the load of stress.

But he's not.
And here I am.
With
One.
More.
Thing.

And yet ..... last week I met someone.
For those of you who are nowhere NEAR that point, it's ok.  And so are you.  You'll get there in your own time.
I didn't plan to get here.  At all.
In the first 2 years I found the thought of dating offensive and nauseating.
And then one day ..... it wasn't.
I have no idea why.  It just changed.

So last week we went on three dates over an 9 day period.
And had fun.
We talked a lot.
It's still new.
It's still too early to tell.
But I like him.
And he, evidently, likes me.

Because yesterday he sent me a text.
One small text with three small words.
Words I had forgotten about.
Words my heart has longed to "hear" and feel, but had given up on hearing them again.
Three simple words:
I.
Miss.
You.

My heart melted and my face lit up with a huge smile.
No one was there to see it, but that's ok.  I felt it.
And have been stunned ever since.
I've missed him after a fun weekend of going out two nights in a row.
But my heart has learned to not say that ..... to not admit it.
I dated one man after Jim died .... 2 years after he died.  For a little over a year.
He never missed me.
Ever.
So I learned.
For a while.
And then I knew that I wanted someone to miss me.
I knew that I deserve someone to miss me.

So that text was amazing.

Yes, it's still early.
Very, very early.
Who knows where this will lead .... or not lead?
I'm in no hurry.

But this man has warmed my heart .... and made me smile from the inside out.
All because of three little words.

And he has no idea.
Yet.
:)

Sometimes You're the Bug

Found this picture while looking for images that expressed how some of my days have been recently. This one made me laugh out loud! I'm glad to report that it isn't as bad as all that...but there are moments when I feel like the shark is about that close.

I think I sometimes lean heavily on the idea that "this isn't hard, I've experienced hard, and compared to that....this isn't hard at all". It's true. Compared to the loss of your spouse and all your dreams of the future - most of life's pressures are minuscule in comparison. It doesn't mean they don't suck though. I have to remind myself that it is okay to let little things bug me sometimes. I'm human. Widowhood has made me stronger, but I'm not freakin wonder woman all the time. I have a tendency to put on a happy face even when I'm not feeling it, and lately I've been needing that fake face a bit more often. I'm not a great actress, and I'm sure my coworkers are beginning to sense the strain.

I've been less patient with them, less patient with G, less patient all the way around. I've written more than a few nasty emails that I've deleted before I hit send...thank goodness I'm not too rash or I'd be seeking unemployment benefits at this point I'm sure. I actually told a co-worker in an "off the record" conversation that I thought another co-worker needed to put his big girl panties on and stop acting like such an spoiled brat. Although I really meant it when I said it, the visual of this guy in his big girl panties was so powerful that I was in a much better mood the rest of the day! ;-) Whatever it takes!

Fortunately for me (and the people in my life), bad days and bad moods such as those are few and far between. I tend to bounce back quickly, I hate being grumpy...it makes me grumpy! So I remind myself of the things I'm grateful for, and let the thoughts of those things buoy me through the rough patches. While lately I'm feeling more like the bug than the windsheild, this too shall pass....

Happy Tuesday! - michelle d.

Meaningful Moments

This weekend I was out running a few errands with my daughter. We were at Lowes buying a replacement microwave oven. And, because I love gardening, anytime I'm at a store that has a garden section, there you will find me. I was walking down the isle, pushing my cart, and looking at all the varieties of plants. I had something specific in mind, but at the same time realized that I didn't really need another plant, nor did I have a place for another plant.

I began to wonder, what am I doing here? What am I searching for?

Suddenly I felt a bit light headed, and lost. I stopped moving, and looked to see where my daughter was. Within seconds she was walking up to me, asking if I found what I was looking for. I told her that I felt like I was wasting my time away. I felt like whatever it was I was doing at that moment was insignificant.

Why is it that after two years, my life still feels somewhat insignificant? I explained to my daughter that before Michael died, every moment was significant. I was always busy taking care of my family, researching cancer trials, filling prescriptions, and being mindful of every waking moment. Everything I did was either for Michael, or with Michael. Every moment of joy was spent with him. I didn't want to lose a single second of my time with him. I didn't want to look back and regret moments that could have been spent loving him.

I remember how after he died, I felt like time just stood still. It was like nothing else mattered anymore. Now of course my children still mattered, but what I was feeling was about my adult self, my married self. Suddenly my other half was gone, yet the void wasn't half of me, it was all of me. I have since struggled to regain a sense of feeling complete, and finding joy as a single adult once again. And, there is joy, and there is pleasure. Yet at times like this, walking casually down the isle in a nursery, with nothing, or no one to rush home to, time doesn't really seem to have the same value.

The rest of my weekend went the same. I did absolutely nothing. For many people, the idea of doing absolutely nothing is highly valued. Others complain about being too busy, and having no time to slow down and appreciate what they have. Yet for me, at least for now, I still have too much time on my hands. I think that in time my daily life will be filled with more moments of value, but I also think that I'm just not wanting to fill it with a bunch of insignificant moments. I don't want to busy myself, unless I become busy with things that truly mean a lot to me. What those will be I'm not sure.

So, I will continue to remind myself that as long as I find myself contemplating these thoughts while I'm out and about, then I'm on the right track. In time, moments like this will begin to feel significant once again, and I will find myself valuing every one of them.

He’s Not Here

Last weekend we moved. 
Our new place is smaller, more intimate.
I like it.

It’s simpler to manage. (There are only so many places Ezra’s left shoe can be!)  It makes sorting through the boxes and boxes of stuff I should have sold, much simpler.  (If it stays, exactly where is it going to go, Kim?) 

And I feel lighter here, less weighed down by stuff and keeping track of the stuff so I can find the stuff. 

But today, I walked out of the bathroom, I looked at my bed and I realized…

Art’s not here.

He’s nowhere in this new place.  Not in the decision of which draw to put the utensils in, nor in which painting to hang where.  He’s not in the money spent at Ikea nor will he be in the car when I return a few things. He’s not in the assembly of the shelves, or the finding of the toothpaste.

He’s not in the walk in closet.

He’s not in third call to Xbox Live in two hours about the hook up issue. He’s not there when the electrician, plumber, handy man and old renter all arrive within 20 minutes of each other. 

He’s not in the dinner I cook, the good night kisses I give, or in the bed where I collapse.

He’s not here. 

It was not till I left the house that I see that I have left him too.   I didn’t think I left him. I thought he was coming with us. But here in this new place, I see that he was in every damn thing in the old place: in the walls, in where the toilet paper was stacked and where the breakfast trays were kept. He was in the lights he put up around the large kitchen window that looked out onto the back yard. He was in where the canned soup goes, the best place for the dresser and the fiction book order:  black writer fiction, black female writer fiction, dead male writer fiction and damn good fiction to reread over and over again. (Yes we really had the books divided like that!)   He was in the up high shelf with the extension cords and the bicycle tools tool box.

There was this weird potential, like maybe, just maybe, he'll show up again.

I could hear him sometimes, in the catch of the kid’s voices as if, for just a moment, they might forget and call to him, instead of me.

In this new place, their voices are clear and call, with piercing clarity, only my name.

The potential is gone.  

This feels like this is where it begins.  Where our new family starts, this family of four.

Our dinner table no longer has the extensions out.  It is square: one side for each of us.  Tonight, I looked at each of my kids, one across from me, two on either side of me and sigh. We are a family of four now.  Four sides of a square for four people.

The most weird, unnerving, pleasant and peaceful thing about this observation is that

I’m OK with it.

In 2009 we became a family of four. It was not what I wanted, not what was planned.

In 2011, it is what I have accepted and come to embrace.  It is what we are, it is who we are. It is neither bad nor good. It just is.

My new place just taught me that.