The Big Leap

One good step begets another and who am I to not abide.  So since my last post about finally cleaning out the closet I've kept the momentum going.  I quit my job.  Then I joined a new early-stage high tech startup.  Then I put my house – our house since 1999 - up for sale and am making plans to move downtown in about two weeks.  It’s been an absolute whirlwind of chaos.

I can’t say I’m thrilled with all the upheaval.  But it’s about time I sat in the drivers seat.  Today, a friend asked me how I was coping with all the stress of the change that was going on in my life right now.  I brushed off their question with a dismissive statement saying, “Oh, I’ve been through a lot worse.”  Funny thing, though, is that even though I’ve been through days where walking barefoot on salt-coated glass would have been less painful, this upheaval still strikes my heart cold from fear. After what I’ve been through, you (and I) would think such a simple task would be trivial.  Yeah, well, nope.

Wrestling this great big house full of crap into a packing van and subsequent storage space is beyond my comprehension and my capabilities.  But I have this little secret weapon now: faith.  I have a very simple faith that frees me to believe that even without a clear path I know I’ll land on my feet.

So I’m leaping.  It’s time.  It’s going to be a wild ride.

When the lines blur

source

It started out innocently enough...

Just chatting away about nothing really, then it reminded of some memory. "Remember that time..." I said to Steve.

"Um, that wasn't me."

As soon as I realized that it wasn't a memory I shared with Steve, but a memory I had with Jeremy, I was immediately embarrassed, then angry with myself for not remembering something about Jeremy more clearly. How could I confuse that?

But it's happened several times. And not just with Steve. I remember it happening in different forms not that long after Jeremy died. Talking to friends about something that happened and not remembering whether or not Jer had been alive for it. Listening to a song on the radio and not being able to recall if it had been released after he died or before.

These blurred lines between before and after can be so disheartening. It made me feel like I was losing control, and more agonizing, losing pieces of Jeremy. How could the memories I put on such a pedestal be getting fuzzy? What does this mean for the future?

The only comfort I found in all that was also realizing that it was just a sign of life moving forward...and that I was allowing it to happen. I held on so tight for so long, but eventually when you let other things seep into your life, you have to loosen the grip. I don't mean forgetting or letting go, but allowing the things that are here and now to change and grow, and knowing that Jeremy is forever stuck in yesterday. No new memories will be made with him, only in ache for him. No new experiences will happen with him by my side, only made with others or by myself.

The idea that I've embraced this evolution somehow is oddly comforting. Like, I'm finally getting to where I feel like Jeremy would want me to be. I might think harder before I blurt out a memory to make sure I've got the details right, but I know Jeremy would be proud of me for letting normal life seep into my bones a little more each day.

There's a Certain Light ......

...... that leaves your eyes the moment your loved one dies.

It's like that part of me, the light that lived in my soul and lit me up from within,  left with Jim's soul as he took his last breath.  I wasn't in the same room, so I didn't actually see this happen, but I certainly felt that light, that energy,  leave my body.

For the longest time I hated looking at pictures of us ...... of me.  Both "before" and "after" pictures.
I hated seeing that light in the "before" pictures, but I felt something worse than hatred when I looked at "after" photos and saw that it was missing.  I felt hopeless.
There are so many photos of me over the last 5 years that are very difficult to see.  There's definitely part of me missing.  And my eyes look, well, for lack of a better word, my eyes look "dead".

I know I can't be the only person who noticed this.  I know I'm not the only one who's eyes looked dead after the love of my life died.

But here's something that I started noticing in the past year or so:
My eyes are starting to shine again.
It might not be the exact same light that was there "before", but once a light starts to shine, it's difficult to distinguish it from any other type of light.

And not only do my eyes have some light back in them, but so do the eyes of people I've loved these past 5+ years.  People who's eyes also looked lifeless several years ago ...... for the same reason mine did.

I'm sharing this Hope with you today ...... the Hope that light will return to your eyes.  I don't know when, or why ...... I think everyone's timeline is different, and so is the reason our light returns.

But here's proof of the Hope I have ...... and the Hope I want you to hold on to:

Every single person in the above photos lost their light several years ago, just as I did.  I knew them back then ...... back when all of our eyes were a lot more dim.

But I started noticing over the past couple of years that each one of us looked a bit different.  It wasn't just a change in makeup, or hair color ...... or even adding a relationship.
It was just ...... time.
And love.
And Hope.
And joy.

They don't all arrive at the same time, but they do come wandering back ...... little by little, bit by bit.
And once they start congregating inside of us ...... they can't help but put off a small spark of light within us.
No, that light isn't there every day ...... not at first.  It's just a spark so it has to learn how to survive and hold on to its energy.
And it does.

You don't have to believe me.
But pictures don't usually lie.
I have loved these people for over 5 years.
And I've seen that light grow in each of them.

I've seen it grow in some of you, too.
You'd be surprised at how very different the eyes of someone coming to Camp Widow for the first time ...... look when they come back the next time.  And then the time after that.
It's wonderful to see the light starting to glow in their eyes.
Most of us don't even notice it at first.
Not until someone points it out, or we're surprised by a picture of ourselves.

Keep breathing.
One breath, one day, at a time.
And keep Hoping.

I can't wait to see your eyes in the near future.
:)

Home maintenance

...and the widowed woman.

I'll say it: we had traditional gender roles for some things in our family: I did most of the cooking and grocery shopping; Greg did most of the home maintenance and yard work.

....and while I can change a tap washer and hammer a nail, there are some jobs which will always be beyond my capabilities.

Greg trimmed the large trees in our yard several years ago.  He pruned branches and mulched leaves.  Any fallen trees disappeared amongst machinery noise, but not much fuss. 
Greg was a farm boy.  I remember him using chainsaw to clean up logs for a pole-shed he was building on one of my first visits to the farm.  The chainsaw had a blade that was about 4ft long.... it was massive.  He handled it like a butter knife.

...and so you can understand the monumental effort I have been through to find someone handy enough with a chainsaw that I could trust to fall a an old bauhinia tree without either hurting themselves or the neighbours house which was overhung with branches.

But finally, another farm-boy has come to my rescue this week. .... in the form of Greg's sister's husband. 
I mentioned my tree problem on one of the recent visits to Brisbane and then they were here with chainsaw and a spare and he had the tree down and chopped up into manageable pieces in half a day.

But unlike with Greg, I was his lackey - moving branches out of the way and pruning the thin branches for mulching from the thick branches for stacking.
It really made me stop and appreciate just what a dynamo Greg really was .... he made light of the heaviest labour. 

Just another way he was completely amazing, and just another way I completely miss him.

Fuel

There was a moment during the Camp Widow banquet as the Soaring Spirits Board Members were on stage together and Michele hugged each one in turn, when something washed over me in a huge wave. It's not a new revelation for me but at that moment it coalesced and I felt it. 

Seeing her joined to these other beautiful souls and realizing I was joined to it all, too, in my small way, made me realize that losing our spouses is the worst that can happen, and yet somehow that pain becomes fuel. It fueled Michele to start this incredible organization, it fueled all of us to connect with each other and form our own community of souls. Because of the deaths of those people so dear to us, this growing community gets together every year. The foundation and our collective love is the phoenix that rises from the ashes of our losses.

 The power of that dawned on me in a visceral way that moment at the banquet. I could almost feel the collective love from all of our dead spouses swirling around us, moving us all forward to hold onto each other and keep pushing for a life worth living.

Death sucks and it hurts and it tears us apart, but it also fuels us. It fuels us to make change, to help others, to reach out, to allow love in, to accept help, to travel to a convention called Camp Widow where we might just make lifelong friends, to connect, to open our hearts, to start over, to be even more brave than we ever knew we could be. It's fueled many of us to start foundations in our loved ones' memories to help other survivors, and start blogs, and learn to walk on fire, and travel the world, and brave the fears we bury deep inside. It brings us together and bonds us for life. It might just be one of the most powerful agents of change around. 

I felt all of that as I sat there amongst these people I consider the true heroes in life. I also felt my brain grapple with the idea that so many beautiful and beloved people had to leave too early for all of this to happen in the first place. 

The most unlikely thing in the world is that beauty grows out of pain and loss. It makes no sense and it seems unnecessarily cruel, but it has proven to be true in my experiences again and again.

There was so much beauty and love wrapped around us at Camp Widow and right alongside that was an endless supply of broken hearts and traumatized souls, the aching of an empty place where there should be a much-loved person. 

I don't fully understand it all and its enormity overwhelms me, especially when I'm with hundreds of other widowed people for a weekend. It is possibly the most powerful collective experience I've had in my life. 

I find it hard to put words to it all, but I know that going to Camp Widow when I did saved me and launched me into this new life with a team of supporters whose love has fueled and inspired me. 

I am so grateful. 

And Then...

Source - I couldn't find a picture that spoke to me.. so again I used my own photography.

At Camp Widow, Michele did an amazing keynote.

It was about finding our “and then.”

My “and then” started 12 years ago. I was happily married to my husband Seth. 

And then 7 years into our relationship, bipolar stepped into my husband’s soul.

And then… my husband took his own life.

And then… that was the end of our life together. And what I thought was the end of my life.

And then… I was left walking in a strange land. Where everything was wrong. Everything was terrifying. Everything pissed me off. Nothing helped my pain. All I could do every day was drag myself out of bed and go to work. That’s all I had to give to this strange land.

I felt like an alien. I felt like my body wasn't mine anymore. I was trapped in a body that didn't belong to me. Where the hell did I pick up this altered version of myself?

Nothing fit in this new world.

I felt like I had this huge puzzle with a million pieces missing. How would I finish this puzzle I call my life if the pieces are missing?

I remember I was about a year into my widow journey. I was completely devastated and trying to get out of the hell hole I call depression. I remember thinking what will make this life.. my life.. worth living?

It was then that I took a look around... took a look at things that kept nagging at me.

My mind kept taking me back to my struggles I had within the first year. Struggles with depression, in-laws (out-laws) and struggles with keeping my job through my husband’s death.

That’s when my FMLA (Family Medical Leave Act) petition dawned on me (see it here).

Through my petition I found a small piece to my “and then.”

It gave me purpose. It gave me something to focus my energy on. Something to drown myself in.

Shortly after starting the petition, Michele came knocking. She asked me to write for widow’s voice. To share my story, struggles and joy. To write about my experience as a suicide widow.

I remember the morning after she called me I stood staring at myself in the mirror. I was of course crying, because that’s how all my mornings were back then. I wondered how I would ever share my story. For so long I hid my thoughts in my personal blog. Where very few people knew it was my writings and they defiantly never saw pictures of me or my husband. I pondered how I would share something so personal, gruesome and tragic for complete strangers to read?

How would I write so honestly about my life, without hiding behind a fake user name?

That’s when I found another small part of my “and then.”

Sharing my story, with my name and my pictures was a relief. I didn't have to hide my story anymore. I could scream my story and there were people to hear me. There were people that understood my pain. There were people that were just starting this journey and people that were years into this journey.

I was no longer alone or hiding my story.

Sharing my story so honestly has given me another small piece of my “and then.”

I realized one way to help myself... was to help others..

I didn't want my husband’s suicide to be in vain. Through sharing my story I could possibly help someone on the verge of suicide or a widow that just needs someone to understand their pain.

My petition, my writings and helping other widows has given me purpose. Has given me hope. And gave me small pieces to my “and then.”

I left Camp Widow thinking about how I have picked up pieces of my “and then” without even realizing I found the pieces.

How did I pick up these pieces without noticing the movement I had made to get there?

I couldn't stop thinking that my life is still missing some of my “and then.”

What is my “and then?”

I don’t know. I’m still wondering what or where it is.

I realized I won’t see my “and then” as it’s happening. It will be something that I look back on and realize a certain person, memory, movement or even a thing or place… was my “and then.”

And then – I realized I still have work to do.

I still have pieces of this puzzle to find.

I still have pieces of my “and then” to find.

I left camp with hope.

Hope that one day… piece by piece, little by little, I would find my “and then.”

Bloom

I've had a fascination with the lotus flower for quite some time (and actually wear a pendant of it around my neck daily).

I feel like we've been buddies for some time.

Once, from a distance, where I watched in amazement at its capabilities...

And then, as kindred spirits who shared in one's mutual growth from the "below".

You see, the lotus flower starts in the nastiest, murkiest, grossest part of the pond...the bottom (sound familiar?).

Slowly, bit by bit, sun will seap though the dark waters, showing the flower a glimpse of its light.

It takes just that tiny bit to provoke the lotus to slowly (marathon not sprint) rise and rise...

The smallest beam to entice its curiosity to see what's beyond its comfort zone of sludge.

Somedays, just like the skies, are gloomier than others, and there may be a halt altogether in this lone trek to something brighter...something better than the place the lotus has lay dormant in for however long.

But that does not kill the lotus, but allows it to strengthen its roots, to rest for the journey ahead, and to have that moment to look down and see how far it's come (maybe not the flower itself...but you catch my drift).

And as the light continues to creep in, amongst all odds and obstacles, it grows and grows, closer and closer to the surface.

Until the day comes, that it breaks through...blooms open...and unveils itself as one of the most beautiful flowers the pond (and the world that surrounds it) has ever seen.

It's a story some of you may have heard. But one part they leave out, time and time again, is the fact that the mud was necessary for its journey...its blooming.

And even more than that, once it's reached the brighter place, the surface where it can breathe, there isn't one bit of evidence that the sludge, that at one point was all consuming, was even there.

You see, just like the mud, the grief, pain and angst are necessary.

The pauses (that sometimes feel like failure) are the moments we can use to reflect on just all we have pushed ourselves to do. And even more, the time needed to refuel as we continue to push even farther.

And once we've let the sun play its part and we reach a place of air, light, and beauty...the painful parts will not have seemed as if they were even there the whole time...because they weren't and they aren't.

They play their part and will always be there with our roots, but the bloom will not be tainted or tarnished...just more strong, more resilient, and more thankful for all its come from.