Into A New Darkness

Well, here I am in the caves region of Kentucky. Last week I shared about the trip I would be on with my new guy - seeing each other in person for the first time since we met several months ago. As I write this, we're a few days into our trip. He is lying next to me now, munching away on donuts while I write. I'm finally ready to share a bit more about this person with you all... particularly because you may know him more than you think - or at least his writing. He is our very own Tuesday featured writer on Widow's Voice - Mike. 

We met at Camp Widow East back in February. I sat down beside this guy at the meet & greet on Thursday night, and for the entire rest of the weekend we were inseparable. We shared our whole stories with one another and laughed more than either of us had in ages. Something certainly clicked... although I had no clue then that it would end up meaning I would fall for someone new and be sitting here states away on some whole other adventure. 

I've been saying for three years now that Drew would give me a really obvious sign about someone new coming into my life. And Mike and I have had many, many obvious signs. One of my favorites was just a few days ago, within hours of arriving in Cincinnati for our trip. He surprised me with a short ferry ride across the Ohio river, and on the other side was a little restaurant he took me to... called Drew's. Imagine the delight on my face, and the love in my heart. Those are the moments I know that Drew will always be a part of us - just as his wife Megan will be. And speaking of Megan...

We walk inside and sit down by the window. It's dead in there, no one but us, as it's around 2pm in the afternoon. I said jokingly "Just watch... our waitress's name will be Megan". And sure enough, this very friendly waitress walks up and introduces herself as... you guess it... MEGAN. We both look right at each other in total disbelief. At the end of our lunch, we told her the whole story of us, including their names, and she was as amazed as we were. We chatted a while and there even ended up being other unreal similarities... so we had to get a picture with her for that first crazy memory of this new adventure.

Yesterday we made our way to Mammoth Cave National Park – the main reason for our trip here. We picked this place because it is something we could not have done with our loves that died. Drew was claustrophobic in small spaces, and Megan was unable to due to her medical condition and the bacteria in the air in caves. It's a hard pill to swallow... but the truth is there. We WILL do things with someone new... Things we never could have experienced had our loves not died. Maybe that's one of the gifts they leave us... the chance to discover new adventures in a way we couldn't have done with them. With new eyes and new hearts. I like to think it is.

We did a few tours yesterday of Mammoth Cave, the first cave either of us have explored in years. As we gazed out into the darkness of the tunnels underground, that feeling of wonder and childlike excitement about the unknown filled us both. As we hiked around some 300 feet below the surface of the earth, I couldn't help but think of the expansive metaphor before us.

Two people who have gone through unspeakable darknesses on our own in life, now walking willfully and quite literally into the darkness together – knowing full well that to love again will inevitably mean to endure pain again. Yet we are doing so with a sense of wonder, not dread. It's not easy to do. There have been moments on this trip when I have broken down crying because of how new love is reminding me of the love I lost, and also of the fears of losing someone else. But even with all of that, with all we have both endured, how amazing it is that each of us is still able to see wonder in the darkness.

I have thought this weekend about enduring the journey through my own darkness for the past three years. I've thought about all the pain and fear I have encountered in the dark, and also all the amazement and wonder I have found there. Treasures that cannot be found above ground, but only in the most hidden depths of ourselves. Perhaps that is what the darkness of grief can bring us... a different appreciation for the dark and the light.

One thing is for sure, today I am very grateful. After traversing the dark alone, it is beautiful to have someone to journey into the darkness with me. Someone with their own darkness who is not afraid of mine. I suppose that is the best kind of person to find – one with a galaxy much like our own inside their heart. One who looks into the dark with wonder.

Minefields & the Miles Ahead

Next week is a very big week in my world. Early Thursday morning, I will be hopping on a plane to see this new man that has come into my life. Yes, something I haven't shared yet is that we live pretty far away from each other. I'll be sharing more of the details next week, but it will be the first time seeing each other again since we met several months ago.

So yup... not only am I beginning again, but beginning with distance. Because apparently, the universe decided just being widowed and dating locally was not a huge enough challenge on its own. The distance has created a whole other set of challenges, but also a few benefits. It has created safety for me in this very scary and fragile world of trying to love again after death. I've had a buffer zone, allowing me to keep my life here the same for the most part while gradually opening the door of my heart, just a small bit at a time. It has been a beautiful experience, but not without difficulty.

Let me tell you, as soon as I began to open my heart again, oh how the triggers came flooding in. At every small step of the way... on every day that I choose to open that door of my heart just a millimeter more to this new man, the triggers are there waiting to rush in. At first this scared the shit out of me. At first, I was so terrified of having the triggers climb inside my heart that I was triggering myself ABOUT having triggers. I was in fight or flight mode about it. And then something began to happen... I realized this person was still here. Still listening, still supporting, still loving me. Doing everything he could from a thousand-plus miles away to comfort me and acknowledge my feelings. And I remembered, this is what Drew always did for me. At each turn, when I met a trigger, I shared it and it was heard. This was how he helped me to heal my old wounds. And this new person is doing the very same thing. With his patient love, I am finding there is so much room for healing.

This past week has been a grand buffet of triggers. On Thursday night, he announced excitedly that it is now just ONE week until we will see each other. And underneath my excitement the trigger swooped in. Within moments I was in tears... because Drew died exactly a week before I was supposed to go visit him up north where he was working. One week before seeing each other. It was a trigger I didn't even see coming... but one that seems obvious now. Instead of shutting down about it, I opened up. I cried to my new guy, and I told him what I was feeling, and how scary it was for me. And he just reminded me that he will be there. Just a few minutes of feeling deeply heard... it passed right through.

There have been many others splintering off from this as we get nearer to the date... like thinking about having to say goodbye at the end of our trip. Not knowing if it might be our final goodbye, because after all, I didn't have any idea the last time either. I hate that new love means new triggers... but, I'm deciding it is worth it.

We are days away from our trip now, and I am gradually learning how accept the new triggers surrounding this whole thing. I am excited beyond belief, but also emotional. I know seeing him in person again will be a trigger. The physical closeness will be a trigger. The goodbyes will be a trigger. And likely a dozen other micro-triggers I won't have even considered.

I am very aware that I am traveling into what may look like a minefield in the next week. And there is something actually very exciting about taking that risk. The thing is, I think most of the fields we travel in life may only have one or two actual mines. Yet our triggers are like signs telling us there are hundreds... telling us to turn back, not move, there is danger everywhere, be afraid. If there is one thing my life with Drew taught me, it is to question those signs. To not listen to the signs of my triggers telling me to turn back, but instead decide that love is worth walking through the minefield for. LIFE is worth walking through the minefield for.

Drew was worth the risk of having my heart blown to pieces when he died. And it is worth risking the chance that I may be blown to pieces again. It is worth it to feel the messy, uncertain, electric energy of living life fully. It is worth deciding to trust even though I have no clue whether I will be hurt... just to feel the cool rush of aliveness pumping in my veins. I know now, that I can put myself back together again. That is a gift his death has given me. And I also know, that some of the most beautiful parts of life are waiting just on the other side of my fear. I am walking ahead... into that so-called minefield with adventure - not fear - on my mind.

My Two Mother's Days

I have struggled with Mother's Day all my life. I lost my own mother when I was nine, many of you know. I don't really remember my father knowing what to do with that day anymore afterwards. We had no other family around to celebrate, and so it just kind of became a non-holiday in our house. I sometimes wish we had continued to make it about her - but maybe he had the right way of doing things. Maybe it was too hard for him, and so he changed it. And perhaps, that was just the better way for us, who knows.

Through my twenties a few times, I tried to celebrate this day again in her memory... it went disastrously. The first time I went to a little french bistro and tried to order a lovely single dessert to just take home with me. The ten minutes I was there turned out to be a festival of triggers I was not prepared for. Mothers and daughters and daughters and mothers... I was surrounded on all sides. I held it together just long enough to get my dessert and anxiously bolt out the door... upon which the tears began to flow instantly. I don't even recall what I did the second time I tried, likely I decided to block the traumatic event from my memory entirely though. Needless to say, after two attempts, I decided Mother's Day was no longer a day I was going to associate with my mother. It didn't work anymore.

In my late twenties, I met Drew. Having no parents myself, I quickly became part of his family and began instead celebrating his mother on this day. It was always fun but bittersweet for me. I usually could not get through the day of watching him and his siblings with their mom without breaking down. It was still wonderful to celebrate his mother, but also compounded my awareness of mine not being here.

In a very odd way... Drew's death changed this for the better. Now, I have a new job on this day... to honor his mother FOR him. It has brought new purpose and meaning to this day and allows me to not only honor his mother but also him. I hate to even admit his death has brought good things... but this one I cannot deny. His mother and I have a bond now that we would have never had if he hadn't died. We both wish he were here and that we didn't needed to have such a close bond, we are both eternally grateful.

Now, almost three years after his death, that is still how I am doing things. His mother, and his grandmother, are the center of this day for me. And my mom? She still has a Mother's Day... I just decided to move it to her Birthday instead. I figured out that this works better because it is not a holiday EVERYONE is celebrating... instead it is just OUR day. It makes it far easier and eliminates all the triggers so that I can just focus on my mom. I buy her a card and write something to her, buy myself some flowers, and a small piece of cake or dessert and some wine that I enjoy for her. I honor both her and myself on this day, as I think honoring me would bring her such joy. It's also a great excuse to eat some seriously bad-for-you cake.

I think when anyone we love dies, we are forced to make a decision - either adapt ourselves to the traditions or to adapt the traditions to ourselves. It sucks. But there it is. Sometimes, we might decide we don't even want to celebrate certain events or days anymore. And that's okay. We might decide to change it or even walk away from a holiday entirely for a few years and revisit it later when we are more healed and ready. Maybe not every holiday is like this, but there will be some.

The point is... We always have the permission to change things. To do it our way. To find a new way that works for us and our immediate family. Even if that means moving Mother's Day to February 26th like I did... or choosing not to celebrate Christmas at all until you are ready, like a good friend of mine did for several years after her husband died. Or assigning the job of hosting Thanksgiving to another member of the family, like my mother-in-law did after Drew died. We always have a choice to change it if it isn't working or if it feels like too much. No one will hate you. And if they do, that's their problem.

Now I celebrate my mother--in-law and all of the other mothers in my life on this day. It has taken many years and a very long and winding road through grief, but now I am able to see all mothers as an extension of my own mother's love... and so honoring them in fact is always honoring her, too.

Carrying the Grief Ahead

I've had little time to think in the past few days. I came down for the weekend to the beach a few hours south of where I live, with a bunch of friends. Like everything in this After Life, even the most ordinary stuff - like a beach trip - has significance and can feel heavy.

I woke this morning early to write this - all my friends still dozing away from a late night of fun. As I brew up a pot of coffee in the morning quiet, I am able to finally think things over.

It's been a great trip, but I have found myself having to really try hard to put on a smile. I am just having a diffiult time getting excited about things...

This morning, it hits me: All these friends who came down for the weekend... They are new friends. Friends I have met in the past year. Friends who never knew Drew. Even after almost 3 years, that can still be hard. It can still be hard to not wish he were here, and remember what it felt like when my partner was there on these kinds of trips with me... Where we could enjoy being that beautiful extension of one another in the company of others.

This was compounded by the fact that the new guy I am dating was not able to be here, and I was simultaneously wishing to share that with him too. And then finally, further compounded by the fact that we are staying at my in-laws' beach condo. The place where Drew and I had so many memories. And the forever strange reminder that his family is not only still in my life, but IS my family now too... Only he isn't here to get to enjoy that. 

Anytime there is a coming together of my new and old world like this - it stirs up the grief. He wanted so badly for us to be married and share a life together... And we just didn't get there, and while I may someday go on to have that with someone else... I will always be sad that it was a funeral - not a wedding - that united his life and mine forever. 

Grief: it's like a pack I've been carrying these years. At first it was too heavy to even walk with - for a long, long time. At first I could not fathom how I would ever be strong enough to carry it onto any forward path. And while I did become stronger, I'm discovering a lot of the forward movement has had more to do with lightening the load I carry.

I have been opening up this pack, day by day, taking things out of it - pieces of my grief. I've turned them over in my hands and heart. I've cried for them, held them, felt them, and then.... Finally, kneeled down to leave them on the ground as I walk ahead. 

The good news is that, after a few years of pairing things down, my pack IS getting lighter. And I AM stronger than when I started out. Even with a lighter load and a stronger back though, carrying the grief on the new legs of this journey is still exhausting. Sometimes the inclines get too steep and I have to slow down, or the storms of life cause me to have to hunker down a while. I am okay with that most of the time. He was worth it, IS worth it. But some of the time, I wish I could just leave the whole pack behind... Only I know there are vital tools for navigating in there that I must take with me.

Last night I ended up staying in while all my friends went out to the bar. I hesitated, almost forced myself to go out when I wasn't up for it. At the last minute though, I bailed and let them go out while I went to bed. Today I am already feeling a bit better overall.

I am reminding myself this morning that this journey is still challenging and there will be times when I need to take my pack off and rest a while. It may even happen in the middle of a social gathering or another inconvenient time... But the most important thing is to put that pack - and myself - first. To make room in my life to stop and open up my grief, and also to stop and look back over all the distance I've traveled so far... and be proud.

Into the Unknown...

©Sarah Treanor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Returning with New Eyes

This morning I went for a hike out on the ranch scouting my next location for a photo shoot. I started out at a particular dry creek bed. Parked the truck, walked down a shallow slope and stood a moment taking in the world around me. This was where Drew first taught me how to shoot a gun. Back when I was so terrified of them that my hands would shake just to hold one. I have only been back here twice since he died… always I can feel the absence so strongly here. This time was no different.

I stood looking out at the steep slope where old cans and barrels still lay in the dirt – full of bullet holes and rust. It’s an empty place to go to now… with nothing left but these small aluminum reminders of a past life, now decaying slowly in into the earth. It all looked smaller now – the way childhood places look to you when you visit them for the first time as an adult. Only I wasn’t a child when I was here… it was only a few years ago when we last came here together and shot a few rounds. But how strange it all looks now. As if the life is gone out of it. Despite the creek bed being full of winding mesquite trees and dusty green cacti and a hint of the first rush of wildflowers of spring. To see it with my eyes… there is no life in it.

I look down at my feet and notice a few bones, vertebrae of a deer or a hog likely. I have a thing for animal skulls, so my mind is immediately on the search for a skull to collect. I find none… but the thought of one “out there” somewhere ends up getting me wandering.

I follow the creek bed about a half a mile or so – somewhat still looking for a location for my photo shoot… but mostly not. By now the clouds are clearing and the harsh sun coming out – so my chances of getting the light right for the photography are blown anyway. I really do need to start getting up earlier for this stuff, when the low morning cloud cover offers the perfect light. I wander… Enjoying the cool breeze on my skin, enjoying the birds singing all around me, and the crunch my boots make in the residual dead leaves from winter. For a little while at least, I am lost and enjoying it. Enjoying being alone and the feeling that no one knows where I am. Why is that such an appealing feeling? The freedom of it, I suppose.

I find a few more bones… a shoulder blade, likely from a hog, a large femur from a cow long ago passed. No skulls. I find an old dead tree that looks like a cross, and pull my phone out to snap a picture and note its location. It might be something worth capturing in different light. Then I make my way back through the creek bed to my place or origin… listening along the way to a recording on my phone of an artist friend talking about life. He is saying how each day is a new day, a chance to make a new choice, to be reborn. It’s comforting… even as sad as I am today, still this idea is comforting. To even live somewhere where I have the opportunity to choose so much in my life, is really quite remarkable.

I am back at the beginning of my trek before I know it… and as I’m crossing the creek bed to return to the truck, there, right at my feet… is a skull. Wild hog, in very good condition. It is laying only 4 or 5 feet from those first bones I saw, yet somehow I missed it? There all along. I smile, and I think about this all for a while. They say that which we may spend our lives looking for, our peace, our happiness, acceptance, love… we need not search it out, for it is always right where we were to begin with. Sometimes maybe we just need to look a bit closer to find it. But maybe at times we do just need to go on a search outside ourselves in order to return back to our hearts with new eyes. I know it has helped me to do so since he died. It’s far too treacherous a landscape to stay inside myself for too long.

As I returned, and looked around at this place that felt so alone before, it felt different… transformed somehow by my journey outward. I could see it with new eyes that were able to notice all the life around me – the birds, the wildflowers, the insects. Amazing how I hadn’t been able to see any of that before… only the loss, only the memories which I can no longer recreate there with him. And now I was seeing everything else. I suppose sometimes we need a good venture outward in order to see ourselves and our loss differently.

Both Feet In

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

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

At least... for the old me. 

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

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

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

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

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

A House for his Soul

There's a story I've been wanting to share here for a while now. It is one my grief counselor has encouraged me to tell, as he's felt it could be of help to others. So here goes. It's been roughly two and a half years since my fiancé died, very suddenly, in a helicopter crash. I've gone through unimaginable pain. I've wanted to climb out of my own skin. I've wanted to rip apart every synapse in my brain for the constant knowingness that he is never coming back. I've been angrier than I've ever known possible. I haven't given up though… I have kept on fighting as every new wave of this journey washes over me.

Things are easier now. I'm not as angry as I used to be. I'm learning to sit with my pain better. I'm learning not to apologize for where I need to be at any given time with my life and my world. I'm making new friendships, I'm building a new and meaningful career following what I feel like I am meant to do. Most days now, my life is more filled with current-day thoughts and activities than it is of the past. He is still always there. There isn't a day that goes by that I am not thinking of him. Missing him. But as I have begun to return to life… our relationship is changing. He is still at the center, but Now, my new life is the center too. And that leaves the question which I have struggled with for probably the past six months or so: Just where do I put him now? In this new life?

It's a question I never really understood in the beginning… the idea that he would somehow NOT be the full center of my world anymore was just so hard to grasp. And also felt horrifying. And it has been something I have struggled with a lot this past year. As I made new friendships, new memories with those friends, new accomplishments in a new career, I struggled with where he fit into all of this. How to have both of these worlds living inside me at the same time.

And then one night, I was just arriving home from a night class. I live out in the country where you can see a sky full of stars… so I often stop as I am walking in the house just to gaze up for a while and take it all in. As I admired the dark, I noticed the neighboring house in a way I never had before. Set quite a few miles off from our ranch, this house sits up on the horizon, and at night the entire thing is lit up with a warm glow. Every single night.

Now I've seen this house and it's warm light in the night for years… it is always there, off in the distance. And I always look out at it when I come home in the evenings. But on this particular night, something or someone whispered a thought to me as I looked up at it. A thought of my fiancé. And an intuitive feeling that I think maybe came right from him. "Maybe it is like he is just over there now?"

It was a small idea that I took and ran with… and began creating a story around in my head. And the story is that, perhaps - in a way - he is just next door now, instead of right beside me. Perhaps on warm summer nights, he's sitting out on his back porch with a cold beer wondering fondly what I am up to... while I am soaking in the hot tub out back doing the same. There is a peacefulness to it. And almost a relief… for I feel like this narrative has helped me with a question I have struggled with greatly this past year… knowing just where to put him in my life as things begin to move forward. Not wanting to leave him behind, but not wanting my world to be entirely about him anymore because it simply cannot be if I am to create a happy life again.

We still love each other deeply. We still miss each other. But we know we each have a new and different life to live - him in the afterlife, and me here in mine.

The idea makes me feel comfortable with going out into the world and living my new life that he is not physically part of. It is a tangible reminder for me that when I return home, he is always just there… in the warm glow of the house on the horizon.

A Powerful Destruction

Before I get into my post for this week, I just wanted to mention how EXCITED I am to be attending Camp Widow in Tampa this coming week! I mention it because last year, I attended but did not mention here - and it turned out there were a few readers who had no idea I was coming. For anyone out there who is, I am so looking forward to meeting you at camp!

I know many of you read my first post of the year - about the first man I've been romantic with since my fiancé died… and how, after a night of fooling around he took off and never called or texted me again. Days, then weeks go by, and I hear nothing. I don't need to explain how traumatic that was - you can read all of that here. Instead I wanted to share an update on the whole thing… one I am very glad for. And very proud of myself for.

After a few weeks of having no contact, I decided I had some things to say. So I wrote him a brief but to-the-point letter and sent it off this past week. Was it risky? Absolutely. Was I terrified? Beyond imagine. But sometimes you just have do the damn thing, even if it scares you.

There was no guarantee at all that this would end well. That I would even get any response at all from this person. But that no longer mattered. It was now about standing up for myself, respecting myself, an saying what needs saying without giving a shit what the outcome was. After all, if my fiancé is no longer here to defend my honor, then it is up to me to do it. No one treats me that way. Furthermore, I needed to leave the situation in a way that respects myself and the other person. Not because they deserve it, but because I deserve to walk away knowing I did the right thing.

I cannot express the anxiety of hitting send on that letter. But I did it. And I felt a huge weight off my shoulders as soon as I did. Amazing how quickly it can shift things inside of you when you speak your truth. That in itself was good. And then to my surprise, a few hours later, he actually responded...

It took me probably an hour to even open up his response. I was so nervous of what was on the other side. But finally, with the support of one of my girlfriends who was visiting for the weekend, I opened it. It was the best possible response I could have gotten. He was kind and respectful. Full of remorse and regret. Deeply apologetic. It showed me how broken he is - with his own set of problems that made him panic and run. In the end, he wasn't using me. It wasn't just a game. He just freaked out and handled it badly. We both agreed it went farther than we meant for it to at the time, and he was incredibly stupid, but we wish the very best for each other. Look at that. Resolve. Which never would have happened had I not risked approaching him and saying my piece. God damn, I am proud of myself.

Although this situation made me feel incredibly weak and hurt initially, it has come to bring much the opposite now because of how I chose to handle it. It has reminded me of a few really important lessons too. The old me likely never would have stood up to defend myself. And she certainly would not have done it with such incredible tact and grace. My words were not angry or overly emotional, but instead were bold, confident, firmly grounded in myself and unafraid. It quite surprised me at how powerful I could be. And that part of it had nothing to do with the other person at all. Even if I had gotten no response, I will would have been able to feel powerful for standing up for myself.

It seems, as widowed folks, that we feel pain and weakness so much for so long that we do not realize all along, we are becoming more POWERFUL. It's something I lose sight of ALL the time. But all of the fighting we have to do to survive creates an incredible force inside us - even if it's hard for us to see. It is oftentimes a new painful event that had the ability to allow us to choose our power and thus see it more clearly.

It's a force that can only come from the ashes of devastation… for it is precisely because we have to fight so hard to survive that we become so powerful. You don't spend every day of your life for years crawling through the broken shards of yourself without becoming more battle-hardened and more firmly grounded in who you are. You don't endure years of being broken open by a thousand smaller losses and come out with a heart that is weaker. Even if you feel weak, your power is there... in the choices you make. Hopefully, eventually, when those new experiences come, we are able to make the choices that reinforce how powerful we are… even if it scares the shit out of us to do it.

Milestones & Grief Creep

"Sanctuary" © Sarah Treanor

This past week one of the most amazing things happened to me that has happened in my "after" life. I was selected as a finalist for a magazine cover of an art magazine - for one of my photographs that tells part of my grief journey - and ended up winning the final vote. It is the first time my art will be published on a magazine cover. This is huge for my fledgling career as an artist. And more-so it is huge because more people going through loss will see my grief series and hopefully find something of their own story there.

I couldn't believe how many people voted and shared. Thousands of fans and friends and family all rallied behind me to make this happen. My gym shared it on their business page. My mother-in-law's employees all voted and shared it. People I don't even know. Old college classmates. Old coworkers. So many left comments about the grief journey they are on, and how one particular image or another of mine spoke directly to them. People bought prints - one, a counselor, who will be putting up the photo in her grief counseling room. It has been unreal.

Suddenly I have found myself looking back in a different way than I have before. Looking back and realizing that I've gotten somewhere I do want to be. Before my fiancé died, none of this was here. I was working in a cubicle, feeling trapped and unhappy and scared because I had no clue how to ever really go for my dream of being an artist. Leaving a full time job was the MOST terrifying thing I could possibly imagine. Before he died, this idea of being an artist was all just wishful thinking… a far away notion that he and I would often talk about over afternoon lunches and morning coffee.

Little did I know that his death was going to take me on a journey I could have never imagined for myself. Not an EASY journey… but somehow, a far more meaningful one. His death was the catalyst in my leaving that career behind. It was the thing that shook me awake and made me see that if he could die for his dreams, then I'd better get started living for mine.

It's been a horrible and agonizing and fear-filled journey that I wouldn't wish on anyone (you all know this!), and it STILL is every step of the way. Somehow though, during these two and a half years I have found some sort of really meaningful beginning. One that is far more meaningful to me than the life I was living before he died.

It isn't the one I wanted - not like THIS. I never wanted to make art about the death of the most important person in my world. Or death in general. But when you lose your mother at age 9, your father at age 26 and then your fiancé at age 29… it begins to feel like someone is trying to tell you something. I finally decided to listen and allow death into my art… nothing has felt more healing.

I'm learning that by having his death and him as the center of what I'm putting myself into, it is giving it a solid foundation. On the days when I feel scared shitless and still have NO CLUE how I will ever make any REAL money doing this (living off my savings, betting it all on this crazy dream right now). On days when I feel lost and like I'm floating… knowing that he is at the center of this work is what helps me to be able to keep faith going. It helps me to know with all my heart that this work is valuable and meaningful, because all of my love for him rests within these images. And I know without a doubt that will mean something to other people. Clearly, it is.

The days after the big win have been of course an emotional roller coaster - just like any major event in our lives without our person. I call it grief creep… we all know it well. The aftermath of anything exciting - the quiet moments when the pain slips back in to steal the spotlight. As the week has progressed, I think I've just gotten sadder. Sad that he is not here to celebrate with me. Heartbroken that no one actually thought to take me out for a celebratory dinner or drink for this monumental moment in my life. No one. Which leaves me with the painful reminder that the person who was sharing a life WITH me is not here… and that I no longer have someone to be excited for me in the way that only your partner can be. And I miss that so much. And I miss him.

And suddenly, the whole milestone event of the magazine cover begins to pale in comparison to the feelings of sadness and grief. Don't you hate that? When the grief just seems to swallow up the good stuff - no matter how hard you try to not let it? I know I do. I've been fighting it all week - trying so hard to hold on to the good, and trying not to let in the sadness. I know… I have to let the sadness in. It needs to be felt as much as the joy. I will let it in, but dammit, I don't want to.

PS. A big thank you to anyone here who may have happened to vote for my image. You made a huge difference in my world this week.

To view my grief series "Still, Life" you can visit my blog here.

Third Thanksgiving Lessons

Thanksgiving was easier this year. I think. It was certainly less terrifying than the first year. I still remember that first year, when we changed the tradition from being at my in-laws' house to Drew's aunt & uncle's house near Houston. His aunt did assigned seats… and I was sat next to the ONLY empty chair in the whole room. Which also happened to be at what I affectionately call the Widow table. Myself, his grandmother (widowed), his aunt (also widowed). Now I know it was accidental, but I had to laugh at the complete irony of the whole situation. Sometimes you have to laugh or you'll cry, am I right? I was paralyzed by the fear that I would cry during the prayer (which I did anyway, so fearing it was futile). It ended up being a fun table to be at in the end. We had plenty of dark laughter to go around, after all. Still, I remember wanting nothing more than to be alone and just erupt in tears for hours on end. The feeling was literally a pain in my heart. You all know that pain.

Oh the fear of that first Thanksgiving. Every single event that first year - fear held me captive. I was afraid to leave the house at all in the first few weeks. Afraid to go to movies. Afraid to eat out. Afraid to get a hair cut because of small talk. Afraid of work. Afraid to go to the doctor to get anxiety meds because I knew I'd have to say why. Afraid to be introduced to people's friends. Afraid to go places he and I went together. Afraid everywhere I went because I didn't know when the grief would overtake me or how or why. I was SO fragile. So deeply deeply fragile. I felt like a child again. Perhaps I was so broken that - in a way - I was a child again.

Last year was better. We did the same routine at his aunt & uncle's house, but at least this time the seating arrangement was different and I didn't get the empty chair next to me. I remember waking up on Thanksgiving morning and actually feeling excited about turkey and pie… and to my surprise, the paralyzing fear was not there. There was sadness, deep deep sadness still, but not the sort that overtook me entirely. More the sort that was able to sit alongside my joy and wait its turn a bit. So it was better.

This year, my relationship with the sadness was even more changed. A part of me seems to understand that he won't be there now, and know this more as a matter of fact now. It has started to become something my body and soul are accepting as the norm I feel. Like "okay, we've done this before, we know what we're dealing with" Which is strange, but… in a way nice. Nice to not feel like I am fighting it. Nice to just know this as truth and perhaps begin to relax into that a bit.

I think it helped that we did something different this year too. His family and I went in to San Antonio and had our celebration at a nice hotel there in town. His little brother just joined the Air Force, and was only allowed the day off base - hence the plan to do the hotel buffet thing. It ended up being this really beautiful day. We have barely had any contact with his brother while he's in basic training. In a way, this limited contact has reminded us again just how precious our time together is, each day we get to have it.

We had no expectations for the day other than to see his brother. We could have enjoyed our Thanksgiving dinner at McDonald's for all we cared, so long as we got to all be together. That is something that Drew's death changed for all of us, I think. When we are all together now - there is a different kind of gratitude flowing through the room. A deeper gladness for each other. It is how Drew's death has changed all of my relationships to those I am close to. It is a gift he has left us - a deeper perspective about what's important.

In a really unexpected way… the sadness was minimal. Instead of it riding alongside my joy, or just underneath it waiting to erupt, it actually seemed to take a back seat. That doesn't meant Drew took a back seat though. There was not a single moment all day that I wasn't thinking of him and loving him. But somehow… instead of the sadness, there was love. The miracle of the love he gave me. The love of the family he brought into my life. The joy of the new opportunities and new people that his death has brought into my life. The gratitude of his life and death giving me the chance to live my dreams today. The joy of knowing this one man changed the entire course of my life forever - and that he still is, even in death.

The more I heal and the more I step into myself and live my life fully - it seems the closer he and I get. I hope that is something everyone can believe and hope for - that when we begin to heal and help each other heal, our relationship to them only becomes stronger. That when we begin to live more boldly - they come with us along the journey.

I was told this a long time ago and I never could believe or understand it. It sounded impossible to ever not feel the pain or sadness at an excruciating level. But now… I'm beginning to understand. It has happened really slowly over these three years. So slowly that I couldn't even notice it was happening until just this week.

Pain is not the only way to experience our loved ones who have crossed over. And as we heal, and the pain begins to subside naturally on its own timeline, it will leave room for the love. I was scared it wouldn't for a long time. This whole year it seems has been a lesson in letting go of the fear that not feeling the pain or sadness as strongly will mean not feeling him anymore. Not true. I am learning.

As we heal there will only be more room for the love to grow. And grow it will. They are with us forever. Sending all of you love on this Thanksgiving Week… whether you are in the hell of it all or somewhere further along that feels less raw - my love to you all.

That which doesn't kill me...

Yesterday was one of those days in this after life that was both incredible and heartbreaking all at once. Earlier this year, I started going to the gym and took up Crossfit to try and get into shape. I hadn't done anything for over a year since he died and was really out of shape. Not to mention I've never really been athletic my entire adult life.

So yesterday was big because I went to my first Crossfit competition. And it was cold. And rainy. And I had a cold. And I somehow still didn't back down and I did all three of my workouts to compete. I was on a high all day... The very fact that I was even there was amazing. The fact that just a year ago I'd never have imagined I'd be doing something like this was so fulfilling. 

I didn't win anything, I did probably somewhere around mediocre compared to all the other women. But that didn't matter. I showed up. And I worked harder than I ever have. And I beat my own practice times by a lot. And I did it with a layer of grief underneath it all. 

My team mates were all so supportive. My best friend came out to cheer me on. My in-laws even came out to watch me... And oh, the sound of his Dad's voice cheering me on is one of the best feelings I've had in a long time since neither of my parents are alive to see me now. It was incredible.

I learned something about myself I never thought to be true too - that I'm quite a feirce competitor. I may not be strong enough to do everything yet, but the fire within me is a lot stronger than even I realized. When that timer went off - I went somewhere else entirely. Razor sharp focus. The feeling of pride I've been given by this experience is amazing. It reminds me to keep on surprising myself and that we should never put limits on ourselves and what we can do.

It's a bit ironic that I needed Crossfit to remind me of the fact that I'm incredibly strong. I mean duh, we have all lived through hell and back losing our partners, yet somehow it's so easy to forget just how strong that has made us. It really has. The kind of fight I have for anything I care about now is tenfold compared to before my fiance died. 

This morning of course, as the excitement of yesterday's events wears down, the deep sadness is setting in. The horrible kind that cuts to the bone with the truth that he isn't ever coming back. That he will never know this newperson I'm becoming more and more as time passes. He will never get to see me as an athlete, and cheer me on from the sidelines. And embrace me tight in his arms after I finish a workout and tell how proud he is of me. Which he would be. So proud. I hate that he would have loved Crossfit too and we probably would have done it together if he were alive still. Then again... If he were alive, I'd have been too comfortable to ever try something so extreme. 

I hate that I can see myself changing - slowly but surely - into a woman who was not the woman he knew. A more amazing and beautiful version of myself that he will never get to have and hold. I really hate that. It breaks my heart.

This all just sucks. It feels incredible to feel so strong while I'm in the arena fighting hard to compete. I feel grateful the entire time just to be there. To have a healthy body that allows me to do this. To have worked hard for 8 months at the gym continuously despite the many waves of grief that have slammed into me during that time. To have not give up on myself and on living again when it's sometimes so tempting to want to do. Don't get me wrong. It feels incredible. All of it. But... 

At the end of the day, I am still a heartbroken woman who misses her best friend more than anything on this earth. And every single new step - no matter how fulfilling - is so excrutiating. Oh how I wish people really understood that. I wish they knew what it took for me to have the courage to do what I did yesterday... Without him there. Or with him there in my heart, as he always is, but "in my heart" is never really enough, we all know that. I wish they knew I was not such a ballsy person before he died... And truly I don't want to have to be, but being this way now helps me through my grief.

I wish they knew that I could barely sleep the night after because my whole body has been raging with grief and anxiety about him never returning. My whole beautiful experience of the day swallowed up by grief once more. It is so exhausting. But I will not give up on me and this life. Or in sharing the good and the bad with you in hopes that we all become stronger together. Somehow... Through this horrible storm, we do become stronger. 

So no matter how shitty it feels this morning, I'm going to hang on to yesterday. And to today. I will not give up on striving for things that do bring me joy, Because to live boldly is the best way to honor his life. I just wish he were here to see it, dammit. 

When Sick was Pretty

This past week, I've been under the weather with a mysterious illness. On Tuesday, my lymph nodes started to swell up. By Wednesday they were the size of golf balls and very tender. And then some glands in my cheeks started to do the same. Needless to say, by Wednesday night I looked like I had gained twenty pounds on my face. I actually had no other symptoms of any kind save being a tad achy and tired - so when I went to the doctor on Friday, even he was stumped. Whatever it is, it seems to be subsiding with the antibiotics he gave me though, but the whole week of dealing with this has been awful.

I've been sick since Drew died a few times - colds, flus, stuff like that. But the last time I remember my anything that changed my physical appearance was when I got my wisdom teeth removed a few years ago. And he was by my side the whole time… laughing at my chipmunk cheeks and making me laugh which made me look even dumber and made us both laugh even harder. Funny as it was, I knew I looked awful, yet here I was looking completely beautiful through this man's eyes.

Even with gauze shoved into my face and swelled up cheeks for miles, there was this man. This man who drove me there and waited with me at the dentist. Who calmed me and held my hand because I was so scared to have a tooth pulled that I was getting anxiety. This man who picked up my medicine for me at the pharmacy and got my soup. Who watched with loving humor as the Codeine took affect and made my already very talkative self about 1000 times more talkative…. until I totally crashed 3 hours later. For all of that, and for all the many other ordinary, vulnerable moments, he was there…. Looking at me with those beautiful blue-hazel eyes that said everything about being sick was pretty. Even the stuff that wasn't. Because those were some of the most tender and most beautiful moments of showing our love for one another. I really miss that.

This week, I did not feel beautiful. I felt hideous, and fat, and so completely self conscious that - despite having no other symptoms and feeling pretty fine - I did not leave the house for four days. Not even to have dinner with his/our family - whom I still live with. I did not want a soul on the planet to see my looking this way. I only wanted one soul to see me - the one who I knew really saw me… him. It made me realize just how fortunate I was to have had the kind of man who would take such wonderful care of me. A man who was so in love with me that I could see my own beauty through his eyes - and that even after he died, his love continues to make me feel like the most beautiful girl most days.

Just… not on the days when your head swells up three times its normal size. On those days, it doesn't matter how strong and unbreakable your love is, you want your person THERE. Really there. I wanted so badly for him to look at me from behind those glasses with hint of a smile that tells me everything I need to know. Or to feel his arms wrapped around me, embracing me and my puffiness. Or to have him make me laugh at my own ridiculous of thinking I look hideous at all. Those are the things I really miss. The ones I would give anything to have back.

~~~

Instead, though, there was a different kind of love there for me. His mom's love. It was she who called me every day around lunch to see how I was feeling and what the doctor said. She who brought me home Gatorade and soup - and not just soup, but like ten different flavors… a buffet of soups. It didn't make me feel beautiful, not in the way his love can… but still, I have felt so deeply loved and cared for.

For a gal who lost her mother as a child, it is impossible for me to take for granted these moments. I was eight years old the last time my own mother cared for me while I was sick. I'd given up on ever feeling any sort of deep motherly nurturing long ago. Now, twenty four years later, I am feeling that love through his mom and our relationship that has been fostered and deepened in the wake of his death. In a way, it is also feeling her son's love for me through her - and her love for her son, too. It's a gift beyond gifts and one I never imagined I would hold. She is, as many have called her, my angel.

So there was still much love this week. A different kind. Nothing will ever be the same as how he made me feel when I was sick, but I don't guess there's any need to compare. I suppose sometimes we just have to allow our partners to send their love to us through those who are still here to give it.

Wishing you good health as the cold & flu season comes.
And if you do get sick, don't forget to let the love and caring of others help make the sick days more beautiful.

Healing with Pride

Photo © Sarah Treanor / Ceramic Wounded Heart © Beverly Mangham

I've been thinking a lot lately about accomplishment, and just how important it has been in helping me to heal and learn to live again. I'm a few months into my third year of being widowed now. Since he died, there have been dozens and dozens of leaps into the unknown. Like most of you, a lot of what I have accomplished I did not have a choice in; planning his funeral, making it through all of the "first"s of year one, or even just getting out of bed on the days when I had only about one cell left in me that was strong enough to do so.

It can be so easy to forget to look back at all the things we've accomplished, especially when we're in pain. Even though these past few years are full of things I never wanted to accomplish - things I never wanted to be able to say I have done - each one of them still makes me feel incredibly proud. It's a kind of pride unlike any other. Because his death did break me… it completely broke me. And for a long time, I was terrified I might not survive. Yet here I am, somehow, learning to live a beautiful life once more and discovering that he is still an integral part of that. And I am proud - not because it didn't break me - because it broke me and I am still here. 

There are also the other things I'm proud myself for since he died… the ones I did get to choose. I have done things I never imagined I'd do because they are things he never got to do - like open-cockpit aerobatics in a WWII era biplane (I am still astounded that I did this!). I've achieved lifelong dreams that he and I talked of often - like having my first solo art show, selling my photography for the first time and visiting my first national park. I've even achieved a few new goals that the old me NEVER would have set for herself - like taking up Crossfit and, just recently, doing competitions (a big deal for a woman who hasn't done anything athletic since the age of twelve! No, seriously).

When we're talking about building our broken selves back up - pride in who we are and what we can do is a vital part of it. Because that pride - along with trust - breeds hope. A hope that "maybe, just maybe… I can survive this." which turns into "Maybe I actually can have a happy life again" and becomes "I am building a happy life again, no matter what".

Whether it's the things we never imagined having to do, or the things we never imagined we could do - it's really all about one thing: surprising ourselves and never forgetting it. There is so much healing in sitting down each day to allow yourself to feel pride in all you've accomplished. Going hand-in-hand with that is continuing to give yourself new things to accomplish each day that you can feel proud of. Things that allow you to surprise yourself. Even if that something seems very small, we all know - in grief - no accomplishment is small.

There is also, I've begun to realize, another aspect of accomplishment which I didn't expect to have after my fiancé died; him. He is interwoven into every single thing I achieve. Not only because his death has changed everything about my life, but because I still feel his pride in all I do. Death has not changed that. Sure, it still really sucks that I cannot call him or see his face light up when I tell him. That will always suck. But I still feel how proud he is and I decide to focus on that.

At first, accomplishing things was just survival… a thing I had to do. But over time, I'm discovering it to be one of the most important parts of building a meaningful and happy new life that includes him in it. With every moment that we surprise ourselves, we come to know, love and appreciate ourselves more fully and see our partner's place in our lives more clearly. Each accomplishment becomes a gift from their afterlife to our after life - ensuring they never really leave our side.

I challenge you to get out there and surprise yourself (and your partner) today. Big, small, doesn't matter. Spend ten minutes (or all day!) allowing yourself to feel proud for all you have accomplished up to this point of your journey... And feel how proud your partner is too. A little pride can go a long way.

The Tides of Grief

The past week has been hard. I suppose that isn't surprising... Coming down from a really incredible week surrounding my birthday. I don't know if this has happened to any of you, but every so often there is a week or a month in which I feel like someone put me in a giant slingshot and plummeted me into my new life. And not in a bad way necessarily... But more like I finally relax into the new life and begin to enjoy myself there for a bit. I start to have fun in the new and feel some really deep joy there... the sort I didn't know I could still feel. This has only started to happen maybe over the past six months - as I've entered into my third year without him. And it happened over my birthday this year. I was honestly so busy feeling joy that I didn't ever have that sinking "he's not here" feeling. Instead, I felt like he was there, in my joy. He was there feeling my smile and my laughter dance in the air. And it was beautiful.

But this past week hasn't been so good. All I have been able to feel is that deep longing for him and the sensation of falling backwards into the pain. But that's the ebb and flow of this life. It is the tides of living with loss. They rise, and bring you with them higher, farther up the shores of a new life. And then they fall, and you recede back into your old life a bit - Or at least back into the in-between life - to float a while. Over time, we get a little farther up the shore, but its always a back and forth process.

I think there is good reason for this. I think our minds and hearts are very purposeful in how this happens. Because we could not handle letting in a new life all at once... Just the same as we cannot handle all of the pain at once. And so just as our minds only let us process so much of the pain at a time, so too I think it goes with the joy. It doesn't make it any easier of course, but sometimes it helps me to be able to tread the waters a little calmer when the tide draws me back out into my grief a bit. On a week like this past, where I've cried more tears than I knew I still had in me, it does somehow comfort a small part of me to know that it's all part of the cycle of things to sink back into the pain. 

Embracing the After Birthdays

Birthdays. It's one of the hardest parts. My first birthday in this afterlife was just three months after my fiancé died. I didn't even want to think about my birthday much less have one. We had decided to go to the Grand Canyon that year for my birthday, since I had never been to a national park. Refusing to spend my 30th birthday in bed, I decided to take the trip anyway. So in late September, his mother and I hopped on a plane and headed for Arizona. It felt like exactly the right place to be, and the exact right person to be there with. On the morning of my birth, there we stood, silently overlooking the canyon… both feeling a connection to this deep wound in the earth because of our own deep wounds of loss.

That year, I didn't want to see anyone or speak to anyone on my birthday. I didn't want my friends or my family. I didn't want to gifts or cards or balloons or a party. With the exception of his mother, I wanted nothing more than to be totally cut off from my life and to just sit silently with my heart. So the canyon proved to be the perfect location for that… after all there isn't even any cellphone reception in the park.

Last year, I had a small party with only a few very close friends and my fiancé's family. It was a small step towards re-entering life… towards being able to allow joy in again. Of course it was also full of a lot of sadness and weeks of dread leading up to the day. I was worried constantly about how dreadful the day was going to be. How painful it was going to be. If I was going to have a total breakdown. If I was even going to be able to get out of bed. But all in all, the day was filled with love, and a small party of those who matter to me most.

This year however is what I think I will always look back on as the birthday of re-entering life. I had plans for this weekend again with my close friends and family as last year, but then I did something else. Something BIG. At the last minute, I invited a bunch of friends from the gym to come out for dinner and drinks last night. There's a few reasons this was such a big deal. Firstly, because none of us have yet to hang out outside of the gym, so there was a big risk no one would even show up. But more importantly, these are really some of the first new friends I have made since he died, due to the fact that I left Dallas very soon after he died. Yup. NEW people. AFTER people.

You all know how scary and difficult and stressful that transition into letting new people into your world is. They didn't know our person - and we don't quite know how to fit these two worlds together. But, I took a deep breath, and sent out the invite, trusted that it would work out for the best.

The last reason - and biggest reason - that this was a huge deal was the fact that I even WANTED to do it in the first place. That's right. I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to celebrate with new people and old. I wanted to finally open myself up to allowing the new world and the old world to collide a bit. I wanted to embrace joy fully. Holy cow… how did that happen?

Not only did a few people come out, but quite a few. Probably 8 or 10 people showed up, and we had such a fun night. Honestly more fun than I've probably had all year. And to my complete amazement - even despite having quite a few drinks in me - I did not ever get emotional. I stayed fully in my joy the entire night, and never did it even occur to me to actually get upset. By the morning, I was so shocked that I had been so busy having fun that I never had a moment to be sad.

There was something really beautiful about the fact that these people were brought into my life because of his death… because of my moving here right after he died. It made me realize that every step of letting the new joys of life in actually keeps him even closer to me. Somehow it seems to solidify his place in my life even more strongly. Somehow, it is still like he is right in the middle of all of it. And I'm slowly beginning to see that letting more of the new life in doesn't actually mean that any part of me is left behind, but that he comes with me as he brings new people into my world that never would have otherwise been part of it. I'm definitely marking this birthday as a pivotal one in my new life.

The Cold Front Comes In

Photo Courtesy of Diana Varner

The cold front comes in
and chills my bones
with the reality
that you are not coming home -
not now
not tomorrow
not ever.

That none of my family is.
not my mother
not my father
and not you.

So many people I have lost already
in thirty-two years of living
I have lived and died already
many lifetimes in this body.

Some years
the cold front whisks in
with a freshness of
possibility

Other years
and apparently this one
it feels more like
it steals something from me
my breath
my heart
a piece of me

Just by its bare reminder
that I will never have memories with
any of these three people in my life
ever again.

I have gained so much
I have a life full of love
full of incredible people.
But I think some years
no matter how long its been
(23 years for my mother,
5 years for my father,
and two for you)
The cold front still steals away my ground
and leaves me floating once more.

The Healing Cycle

"On the Backs of the Wild" ©Sarah Treanor 2012

This past week something really big happened for me. It was one of those things that originally came out of nowhere, yet will be something I will remember for the rest of my life. It all began almost a year ago, with an email. The woman writing to me was a poet, and she came across my photography online and wanted to use one of my images for the cover of her first poetry book. I was astounded. Somehow… in ALL OF THE INTERNET… this stranger from Utah found MY photos and fell in love with one of them for her cover. Was I dreaming?

And it wasn't just any photo, it was one of my favorite photos that I took in the year that took him. A simple, serene image of the soft slope of a horse's back just after a heavy rain… the sky still melancholy with a blanket of clouds. I can still remember the day. It was fall. I had moved down to central Texas from Dallas to live with his family on their ranch. It had poured all morning and the horses were covered in rain and dirt from running wildly through the pastures. Horses always know how to play in the rain, they never grow up in that respect - a lesson we could learn from.

It was just months after he died and the only thing in my world that made me still feel alive was to get behind my camera. There I could search out mysterious other worlds. Worlds where my reality didn't feel so heavy. Sometimes worlds where it didn't exist at all. Looking back, I am astounded at the photos that came out of me during this time. They were drastically different from anything I had shot before. Operating entirely by my broken heart - suddenly all of my photos were like portraits of my grief. This one in particular felt so very close to that sacred space inside me where my deepest grief lay. The quiet solitude of this image mirrors the feeling of my own solitude so precisely. I'm only now beginning to grasp that, two years later.

So by now you're wanting to know where this story goes. I've wandered enough. I first mentioned to you that something big happened this past week… and it was this: After almost a full year of patiently hoping that my photo would be the final one the author would choose. After sometimes months of not hearing anything and wondering. And then months more after my photo was chosen for the publishers and designers to complete everything and get it into print… after all of that… this past week, a package arrived in the mail. From Utah. I zipped open the brown packing and there it was. The image that says everything that was inside my soul after he died... singing gracefully and proudly from the cover of a book. And not just a book, but a book of poetry - another deep love of mine (And the poems inside are breathtaking, by the way. I've read a dozen or so this week and many have moved me to tears with their beauty).

I'm not certain I can put into words what this feels like for me. It isn't closure, I don't really believe in that concept. I think it is something like purpose or meaning or maybe understanding. For the author wrote to me this: "I really can't express this properly -- I had no idea how beautiful this book could be until it was realized with your photograph on the cover. I'm so proud of this book & the image reflects the exact kind of beauty & solitude & mourning & serendipitous joy that I hope it contains in its pages. Thank you, thank you, thank you." And there it is… yes, an understanding perhaps that I never had before. Something that I created when I was in the very darkest and most painful place in my life has somehow gone on to live its own new life. And it has its own entirely different purpose now too - to uplift the breathtaking work or another artist. And forevermore, this poet and I will be inextricably linked by the creations that we have both made out of our own lives and our own pains. It is an eerie and darkly gorgeous thing I could have never imagined would happen in my life.

I didn't expect to have some profound lesson come out of this venture. But there it is… this understanding that maybe that is what we're supposed to do with all of this pain in life. We're supposed to express it. And give it away so that it can become something that uplifts or supports the life of another. In this way, it can be transformed into something - transformed actually, back into love - which is what our pain was in the first place. That is one powerful healing cycle.

Maybe it's something we create - like this photo or a song or a painting - or maybe its as simple taking the time to talk about our pain openly, so that it can help another feel less alone. When we express it openly we are giving our pain a chance to grow wings and soar - and to give a gift to someone else's journey along the way.

It is precisely the kind of impact I have hoped for his life and his death to have since that dreadful day one. And slowly, as I begin to heal a little more, and as I keep expressing my pain in any and every way that feels right, I am starting to feel like he and I are building a legacy together… one in which he is teaching me the lessons I could not have learned any other way. Lessons that are vital in helping me to be a part of others lives in ways I never would have been able to before. And that part of this dreadful journey… I would not trade for anything.

I don't say it enough - but thank you all for allowing me space in your Sunday to give my pain. And thank you for writing back to me with yours so that we can keep this healing cycle going together. ~ Much Love

Spirit

"Spirit" © Sarah Treanor 2014 

Living with the loss of partner, or any great loss, is one of the most challenging things we will ever face in life. It sends us on a journey through the fire – into a darkness the likes of which we have never experienced before. It brings us to our knees and breaks us. Severely. I certainly remember this feeling well. Before my fiancé died, I knew I could handle anything that life threw at me. Only I didn’t really know that at all…

On the day he died, and the dark days thereafter, I came to find out what it really means to be able to handle anything life throws at you. To lose a soul mate – particularly in a sudden way – takes you to a place more painful and terrifying than I ever knew could exist. It breaks you right down to your bones. I know… I don't have to explain that to any of you. You have all, unfortunately, been there too.

I feared for my life – in a very real sense, for probably the whole first year. I feared for my life because I feared the death of my spirit. I was so badly broken that I honestly did not know if my spirit could ever recover. I was afraid that I would become dark and lose my sense of childlike wonder and hopefulness about the world. That this brokenness would overtake me and I would not be able to come out of the fire with my eyes ablaze anymore.

YET… I can still recall in the midst of it all – in those first hours and days and weeks – something inside me WAS ablaze. Something inside me was saying that this world can throw anything it wants to in my face and I will not stop believing that this life is beautiful. Or in the words of Mr. Tom Petty… “You can stand me up at the gates of hell, and I won’t back down”. (one of my go-songs right after he died, and still today).

I didn’t really know it at the time, but am quite certain now… that this was my spirit. This is the kind of stuff that amazes me about the human spirit. How broken we can be and yet still somehow, inexplicably, that soul part of us stands up for our broken human self. It doesn’t mean we feel any less broken. Or powerless. Or scared. But what I do know is that listening to my spirit was – and still is – something that gave me the ounce of strength I needed each day to get up and keep on trying to figure out what to do with all of this.

Looking back over things two years later is incredible at times. Because it feels like no time has passed at all – and often I still feel like I’m back at square one with my grief. But other days, like today, something lends me some perspective. And on days like this I can actually begin to feel like, yeah, I’ve crawled out of the fire… out of the worst of the darkness. This week's image from my "Still, Life" self portrait series is about just that. I’ve been battered and bruised and burned and scarred by this long journey, and I will be battered and bruised and burned and scarred much more before my time here is done… but I have not been broken. My eyes are still curious, my heart is still hopeful, and my spirit still burns bright… perhaps, even brighter than before. 

"Still, Life" is a weekly self portrait/written series I am doing for the entire year of 2014 - all about my journey of living with loss. To see more of this project you can check out my blog at 12moc.com.