unfinished.

in a drawer.

in a bag.

some yarn.

a notebook.

on one page:

"chunky baby sweater"

on another:

"cable knit baby hat"

in her handwriting.

those words

followed by

a bunch of

numbers that must

have meant

something to her.

eyes scanning the

pages, finding different numbers

at the top

of one page:

11/7/07.

at the top

of another page:

12/(something)/07.

a bunch of

numbers that mean

something to me.

dates.

projects started

(never finished)

for our daughter.

i held the notebook.

i turned the pages.

nothing after

those two dates.

blank.

empty.

i pulled out the yarn.

knitting needles

right where she

left them,

mid-project.

but which one?

sweater?

hat?

and where is

the other?

i wish she would

have taken me seriously

that one time

when i asked her

to teach me

to knit

(i probably should've asked with a straight face).

maybe i'll learn

you know,

to fill up those pages

for both of them.

Who Would've Thought ....

There are way too many widowed people around.

Way.

And is it just me or do there seem to be more and more all of the time?

It's as if our "club" is growing by leaps and bounds.

And that, my friends, is one of the worst/best things in my world.

Last week I met three newly widowed people and two who are not-so-newly widowed.

It broke my heart.

As if my heart could break any further.

I hate meeting new people on this path.

And yet I instantly love them, too.

I hate that they have any reason to meet me .... and yet I'm so relieved that I can be here for them.

Who would've thought that each of us could be so unhappy to make new friends?

Who would've thought that you could cry just by meeting someone?

Who would've thought that you could bond instantly with a total stranger?

Who would've thought that you'd give up everything in your life to not have a reason to meet these people?

Who would've thought that, in spite of not wanting to be in the same "club" with all of you,

I don't know what I'd do without you?

Who would've thought ....

A long distance dedication

Tomorrow is 5 years. Impossible to comprehend, but true nonetheless. Today's blog will be a long distance dedication from Daniel to his friends and family. I think if he'd been given the choice (or if I'd had more time to think of it myself), he'd have had this played at his funeral.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_I_0C1ltMRw

Jimmy Buffett - Lovely Cruise

Drink it up, this one's for you
It's been a lovely cruise
I'm sorry it's ending, oh it's sad, but it's true
Honey, it's been a lovely cruise

These moments we're left with
May you always remember
These moments are shared by few
There's wind in our hair and there's water in our shoes
Honey, it's been a lovely cruise

Ohhh, these moments we're left with
May you always remember
These moments are shared by few

And those harbor lights, lord, they're coming into view
We'll bid our farewells much too soon
So drink it up, this one's for you
Honey, it's been a lovely cruise
Yeah baby, it's been a lovely cruise
Oh darlin', it's been a lovely cruise

Contradictions

Over the past month or so I have introduced Michael as my husband in a variety of circles. The responses to the word "husband" have been fascinating to me.

When we are out with a group of friends or new acquaintances, the response is enthusiastic and congratulatory. These folks are just happy to see love in action.

When in the company of people who have walked with me through loving and losing Phil there is a sense of wonder that life has made a turn for the better and that somehow I have survived the blinding glare of grief.

When at a training for bereavement teams in the Los Angeles area the response to announcing that my husband was sitting at the back of the room caused a group head turn.

When using Michael's new title one on one when meeting other widowed people there is a brief moment where our eyes meet and I silently assure them that love never dies. The feeling between us is almost electric.

I was stopped after the presentation I mention here by a man who was going to be working on a bereavement team in his community. He first congratulated me on my marriage. Next he let me know he is not a widow. Then he asked the million dollar question, "So, how can you talk about your dead husband that way in front of your new husband? I mean, I understand that life goes on but how does your husband feel about the fact that you are here tonight telling us how much you miss your other husband? Does that bother him? I mean, it must."

Well, believe it or not...it doesn't. Because Phil is dead. There are no two ways around that fact. I didn't choose to be widowed, and I feel confident in saying I'd still be married to Phil today if it weren't for the accident that took his life. But he did go out on his bicycle that day, and he didn't come back. So here I am five years later creating a sculpture from the ashes of one life that will speak to the love, the pain, the courage, the determination, and ultimately, to the eternal nature of love.

I have written on this blog in years past about my vision of Phil as a hawk. Over the years I have been visited by hawks at odd times, in odd ways, over and over again. My heart is certain that there is a message in these visits, and I usually have a chat with Phil whenever a hawk flies overhead. Michael and I saw a huge hawk on our first hike together in Australia, and since that time Michael also has a word with Phil when a hawk drops by. So the other night Michael and I went out for a walk after dinner. High up on a telephone poll sat a gorgeous red-tailed hawk. Michael pointed the hawk out to me and asked me if he'd mentioned that he has a stalker these days. No, I said you haven't. What kind of stalker? Michael answered, Phil. Huh?

So he went onto describe a moment last week when he was stopped at a traffic light. His eyes were drawn to a nearby street light, and there sat a very large hawk...opening and closing its very sharp talons as dirt and grass dropped to the ground. Michael got the message.

And though there are a million different ways to make the moment described here insignificant, I felt loved.



Wise Ass Widow

My Halloween Costume

Guess what I am.

Art was in my head all day saying, "Babe, don't say anything. Let them figure it out."

But that is not me.

So here's a hint.

I am a certain kind of spider!

I am a certain kind of widow!

Guide

I've always taken my own path. I like the fresh, uncharted dirt beneath my feet, the barren terrain of land not crossed by others. Yes, as Michael would say, I lived in the clouds, a world of my own, but he never tried to change that, and in all honesty, I think it's one of the things he loved so much about me. It's the Christopher Columbus in me, which did lead me to him to begin with.

 

After Michael died though, I forgot about this land, the trail of life I was blazing. Soon my life became consumed by the "What would Michael want me to do?" I had lost my inner compass, my sense of direction, and leaned on Michael to show me the way.

 

This sustained me for a little while, but I felt Michael fading more in presence.

 

Then it hit me. How or why would I feel his presence and guidance when I was losing and forgetting that I was my guide all along. I was losing me, in this pursuit to let go of my steering wheel, hold my hands up and expect for there not to be a crash.

 

Once I realized that to continue on my journey to him, my journey through this life without him, my journey, I had reclaim that girl that "lived in the clouds". That girl that had a machete in one hand to cut her way through an alien world.

 

I've found her. Piece by piece, new and old me's, gleam beneath the gravel of life they've been hidden in.

 

It feels good. To have that compass inside of me working. It feels good to know that at the end of my pioneering this life before me I'll be with my soul mate.

 

I remembered that the only phrase I needed to ask myself the whole time, "What would Taryn do?" and it's a phrase that has brought his loving presence back into my life more powerful than ever.

 

There is great meaning in life for those who are willing to journey.

-Jim England

thank you....mostly

Photo from Sycamore Street Press

I met a recently widowed woman in the doctor's office the other day. We talked sadly yet conspiratorially. I nodded as she mentioned having trouble trusting herself in public as she was concerned she would either throw up her hands and scream at all the ridiculous and vacuous frivolity that seems to go on in the world unnoticed by 'normal' folk or break down and sob gut-wrenching tears when faced with the choice of buying whole milk (her dead husband's favourite) or skim.

As I drove home after giving her my number and strict instructions to call if she needed to, I dredged up some of the partially archived memories and thoughts from those very early widowed days. I remembered how annoying and labour intensive every small task was and how I felt that I could see through the inane societal expectations.

I remember the suggestion that filled me with confusion and, somewhat, with anger was a family member's insistence that I begin to write thank-you notes. Everything within me screamed bitterly at this implication.

I was and remain very thankful of everything that had been done for, given to or assisted with for the remaining members of our little family. I was so touched and comforted by those who came by (although I was unable to greet them as I was more prone to laying in my bed staring at the imperfections in the drywall). I felt humbled by the empathy and kindness of those who loved us and even of strangers. I was relieved that my children were being fed because I was unable to make anything for them. People's generousity was a balm to the aching 'alone-ness' that I felt every second after he died. I was grateful. I still am. I will always be....even for the actions of those who I do not remember...either from the lack of ability to concentrate post-Jeff or from the sedative effect of the meds that the doctor had prescribed.

But I still feel that marking these acts of kindness and generosity with a card is brutal and hard.

When you're well and upbeat it is not a difficult feat to buy, write in, address and mail a small note letting the generous party know that you appreciate their thought. You have plenty to say....and often, you have a helper (husband or wife) to assist in the daunting task.

Weddings, birthdays and other festive events are truly wonderful moments in our lives to be chipper and express our grateful nature. Our eyes are smiling, our hearts are joyful and the generousity of others is given to share in the joy of others - not for the needs of the heartbroken.

I believe that the birth of a baby is cause to celebrate....but it is a bit iffy in the thank-you note department. The last thing I want a dear friend to have to do while their new baby finally sleeps is to have to write me a letter saying 'Thanks for the stripy green sleeper. My son barfed breast milk on it last night'. I'd be pleased if they used that moment to have a bath, eat some nourishing food or take a nap themselves.

I felt that somehow, in a warped way, my thank you note was creating the image that I was thankful for this situation. That this disaster that had caused the flood of casseroles and flower arrangements was to be celebrated. But I felt quite the opposite. I was horrified to be in this predicament facing down a life alone with two tiny kids in tow. Every breath was marked by reliving Jeff's death....and here I was writing a missive expressing my gratitude for the kindness bestowed upon us because of his death. "Thank you so very much for your kindness and generosity at this very difficult time..."

But I became obsessed with these notes. I had stacks of them ready to mail at all times. I was so very concerned that someone who had sent something or called or visited had not been given their 'dues' and been noticed or mentioned upon these pieces of card stock. I'd worry that they didn't know how thankful I truly was. I'd attempt to come up with some ingenious or creative thought. I'd stay up so very late into the evening with ink staining my fingertips trying to express my gratitude....and loathing every second of it.

So now, I wish that instead of handing this new widow my phone number with instructions to call if she 'needs' me, I wish that I had told her that if she felt that these tokens of gratitude were entirely necessary, I would write them for her....or instruct her that those who have empathy for what she is going through would tell her that these notes were a waste of energy. That those who were doing it with a truly generous heart would know that she was grateful and comforted. No note needed.