open for fun

The message on this truck: RITZ: OPEN FOR FUN!



On Saturday, our middle daughter graduated with a Bachelor's Degree in Nursing.  She put herself through school (with her husband's help) while working part-time or full-time.  I'd say that is quite a feat.  Although joyous, the day pulsed with sorrow-missing my husband. The conflict of emotions was palatable. How great it would have been for him to be with us.  His laugh loud, I imagined his arms wrapping around our daughter, kisses marking her forehead, "I am so very proud of you.  You've worked so hard," he would draw her close.  How does one parent make up for the other's sudden absence?  I don't think this is possible.   I am me and I am not him.

I am the more practical, level-headed; I bet my kids would categorize me as boring in comparison to their father.   Feeling sad and a bit inadequate without him, blinking through tears, I look up and ahead spot a whole truck solely dedicated to Ritz Crackers.  Don't you think this is odd?  That was my first reaction and then it reminded me how much my husband loved Ritz. He would sit and eat a sleeve of the buttery crackers at a time.  The message is fun.  Fun can be infused into my life. Spontaneity can still be a part of my life too.  So can joy.

Then I remembered the first minutes of this day.  After a few slobbery kisses across my nose and lips from my dog Rex, he rolled over for a rub and wagged his tail furiously, batting it across my face.  I laughed out loud. My head resting back on the pillow, I smiled.  Immediately my thought was, "I am happy.  It is a new day."  My husband's philosophy: Each day we are given is a gift.  He taught me so much, among the lessons...infuse each day with fun-each day is indeed a gift.  I certainly digested Ritz's public service announcement.  Thanks Jerry.

Just Ask?

In darkness, I fumbled around the bedroom that my husband and I had taken over in the last six weeks.  My bra in hand, my brain in a dense fog I was unclear what to do with it.  The strap hung from my fingers.  "Breathe," I reminded myself.  My clothes were all laid out for the day; it took me forever to dress as though each article of clothing was foreign. Buttons and zippers impossible.  My husband's best friend was coming to pick me up shortly after 4 a.m. taking me to the hospital, as I began my first hour without my husband.

In the aftermath of loss, there are some days that I just don't know what I want other than my husband to return by my side and stay there.  Alone the simplest of decisions are major events.  Still mundane tasks seem to take forever to execute.  My bullet journal has become a tool that helps to alleviate an over-taxed brain.  To do lists have become instructions to live day by day. These written reminders have become doable blueprints for living.

One day, I will adjust to a degree to this new life.  Despite the everyday challenges, I still look for joy.  I look for the blessings even through loss.  However, courageous I am, right now I haven't a clue what to ask for, but relief from this pain. Asking isn't all that simple, is it?

The Lumberjack

Stanley, the lumberjack is here.  So far he has cleaned out the ashes, started a fire and is now on his way to the dump to take care of the recyclables and trash.  When we closed the inn years ago, he stayed on with us at the log cabin.  It helped us and it kept him busy.  Jerry was his boss.  He and Jerry had grand plans-a vision.  Now, I must be the one to hold the visions and direct.
It's a big task.

This Saturday morning is strangely quiet. I miss Jerry.  I miss the hearty laughs and stories that Stanley and Jerry would exchange. I miss the delineations in our lives.  Jerry primarily dealt with heating, yard work/gardening and tinkering about the house.  Right now, I hold it all.

My vision is to simplify.  I know it will take time.  In the meantime, I must be patient, breathe and trust that all will be well. I am so grateful that little bits of my life remain the same.  It is good to have Stanley around now and again.

Thoughts While Changing the Cat Box

Lately, I contemplate life while I sift through the cat box.  Really.  

My husband's sense of smell was pretty weak, so I would mention that the cat box was odorous.

"Your turn.  I did it last time.  As a matter of fact I've done it for the last three times," my voice is balance between firm and sickly sweet. I feign that my attention is fully spent on the book I am reading, but I am really waiting for him to pounce on the cat box, watching him out of the corner of my eye.

Nothing.

"Wow," a few minutes later I just can't help it, "I know that you can't smell a thing, but it really, really stinks." My voice changes to understanding and pleading.

I glance over to my husband.  I am not sure he has even heard me.  His nose is in a book.

Tonight, I contemplate my suddenly changed life as I sift the cat box.  How I miss my husband.  He did his fair share of cat box duty. I am sure of it.

Dreams

Sitting in the heat of the sun, I plucked plump blackberries popping them into my mouth one by one. Savoring.   Biting into the seeds, the flavor burst through my mouth.

I must partake of the bounties offered to me in this life.  I mindfully accept and if need be will reach for what there is breathing in gratitude aware that I am nourished and supported.

A striped multi-colored hat umbrella sits on my head.

I roll over and think:  Playfulness and joy is part of living.  Life will bring rain, but make the best of it.

Jerry is packing for a trip alone to Florida to stay with a friend.  He is sick.  It is clear that this is his journey.  I want to come, but a man in a van passing out flyers for trash removal takes my attention away and I yearn to return to Jerry who is slowly packing the car.  I remember I just want to be with him for however long we have.  I am unsure he will make the journey.  There is anxiety.  I have no choice, but to let him go.

I had no choice.  Presently the details of my life distract me.   The kids.  The house.  Cooking.  Filing.  Dust bunnies.  Crunching the snow beneath my feet.  Listening to the birds sing.  Blessings on this earth continue without Jerry.  He wouldn't want it any other way.

Clinomania

Clinomania (n) an excessive desire to stay in bed.

Most days, I bound out of bed ready for a new day.  Not today.  Sleeping for ten hours did nothing to allay my fatigue.  Under the weight of comforters and blankets, I begin to thumb through the reasons for my lack of energy and either disregard or verify each as a possible cause.

Maybe I'm coming down with something?  I swallow hard-no sore throat. No headache either.  My stomach is OK, too.  I guess I am alright.  Just tired.  Wait, it's my thyroid.  It is true, I blame everything on my thyroid.  No.  Just tired, that's all.

My life is altered.  My brain does not function as it once did.  CS Lewis describes, "... it feels like being mildly drunk or concussed...I find it hard to take in what anyone says." I understand this all too well-this grief.

No, I am unable to function as I once did.  I often ask for help feeling like I am hoisting my widow-status for service.  I find that I have trouble carrying loads of wood up the cellar stairs, so I don't think I ought to try to replace the washer in the basement with another in storage.  I need my boys.  Having always had a fear of chopping off multiple fingers and toes, I won't handle a hatchet or an axe, either. I call on a family friend who is a real Maine Lumberjack.  Physical challenges abound, but so do the intellectual ones.   Sometimes, I trip over my words when I speak. I often have to ask for things to be repeated as my brain can only take so much information in.  Rather than become victim to despair, I recognize that this is grief.  No one expects me to be fixed.  Things will get better in time.  Right now I need to be gentle.  I need to treat myself as I would a dear friend. Tonight after a hot shower, I think I will put myself to bed with a good book and a cup of chamomile tea.  I have an excessive desire to go to bed and stay there. That is more than alright.

Running

                                                                          Winter Sea

I didn't always like it.  I wanted a life beyond work and bed.  Some cold nights we were snuggled under the layers of covers soon after we ate and the dishwasher was loaded. When I begged him to stay up he responded, "I work hard; I'm tired.  My work is physical...'Night."

Sighing, I hugged him a bit tighter, wrapping my arm around his torso and forcing myself to sleep, when all I wanted to do was get up and play Parcheesi or sit at either end of the couch and stare at each other.  Nothing was worse than coaxing your body to sleep when it isn't ready.  My husband was indeed weary. Instead,  I listened to his even snoring, our bodies fitting perfectly together and soon we were both asleep.

Jerry's passing at the end of October allowed me a few months to prepare for the sometimes brutal impact of a New England winter especially on the coast.  Towns have been shut down for weeks with no electricity and roads impassable-a glare of ice.  Winds can gust to hurricane force.  Access to food, gas and medical services under these conditions can be a challenge.  Jerry loved storms.  He prepared as much as he would prepare for a storm. He knew where the shovel was, the candle and matches sat on the counter and a jugs of water either for flushing or for drinking was handy.  I never worried about salting the steps, clearing the steps, paths or our long bumpy driveway.  During storms, I read or knitted.  He did all the work.  So an approximate six weeks lapse between fall and winter helped me to ease into all the responsibilities that come with winter. I now do the work of two and all the while think of all that Jerry did to make life easy for me.  I do the laundry, dishes, meals, clean up and take care of the dogs and cats. I tend to the wood stove, finances and shopping.  I run from about 5:30 am until 11 pm. I am exhausted despite help too from family and friends.

Tonight, it is just after 8, my eyes close, my chin touches my chest and the book nearly drops out of my hand.  I think back to our early evening, winter cuddles.   I never imagined that this would be his last winter; the last winter of fending off his wife's cold feet and finally relenting-warming them, his body a furnace. How glorious it would be to return, if only for a few seconds;to feel the curve of his shoulders, run my fingers through his hair, and to inhale his familiar scent. I would like to sleep too.

Instead, now I play multi-roles.  You understand.  I am grateful.  And I am plain exhausted.

Him

The escapes come often and frequently.  I sit in my wing back chair poised to watch a film.  The slab of chocolate and broken pieces lay on the opened wrapper, my toes touch the floor pointed, raising my knees to  intentionally cradle the contents in my lap.  Birthday chocolate. Precious cargo. These days, I avoid buying chocolate for myself because I have no control.

I guess you could say that we balanced each other out.  This wasn't always the perfect in paradise kind of love.  He loved to eat meat, while I prefer plant based proteins.  He liked the bedroom cold, while I preferred heat.  A soft hearted soul whose kids could talk him into just about anything, especially if it was adventurous and a bit risky, my husband was always full of surprises.  I, on the other hand am more practical and I'd like to think more controlled and logical.  An impulsive, fly by the seat of your pants kind of guy versus a planner, a list maker. We pretty much kept to our roles through over 36 years of marriage, until this summer.

My husband, Jerry never missed a day of work except a few days here and there during hospitalization or following surgery.  This summer, despite lingering unexplained fatigue and pain, he worked through it. Some days it took all of his will to get out of bed, but he made it to work.  In the late afternoon, he would drag himself to the bedroom and lay down.   This summer, work required all of him so by the time he got home, he was spent.

Nearly, everyday for three years, we played Parcheesi.  He was a competitor.  The captain of his football team, a state champion pole vaulter, my husband was tenacious.  These competitive tendencies worked to his benefit while playing board games, too.  Despite feeling rotten, most days this summer he played parcheesi.  He held a stash of Dove Chocolate in the freezer, in a yogurt container labeled, "Frozen Corn."  We were both as serious about our ration of chocolate, as we were about our game. Some nights it was hard to discern whether we played to play or we played to eat chocolate.  In unusual restraint, he allowed us two bits of candy. No more. Both of my candies were unwrapped and devoured before he took his first bite. I always begged for more.  "Can I have one more, please?  Please?  Just one?  Then no more, I promise."

In an unusual stance, he refused my request, " No, save it for later.  We each get two." He wasn't a guy that said no.

I looked at the board and thought about swiping off the smears of chocolate with a sponge after the game.  Seconds later, thinking he might relent. "Chocolate, please?"

Again, I heard, "No."  Strangely, the back and forth resembled an exchange with one of our teenagers.
Night after night played out in a similar fashion.  He held me to two pieces, despite my protests and attempts to wear him down.

Now, I sit in my wing back chair, shoving thick pieces of European chocolate into my mouth.  The first chunk barely melted in my mouth before I shove more in.  I have lost interest in the movie, and  I am not really aware of the quantity of chocolate I have consumed, that is until I look down in my lap and see there are two little pieces left.  Carefully the remaining pieces are wrapped and tucked away for another time.

Everything reminds me of him.  I eat.  I eat.  It does little to fill me up. Vignettes of our life, of him settle in my head replaying. I thought it was the chocolate, but really, I can't get enough...of him.

All Will Be Well

After, we walked in silence back to his work place, so he could finish the day.  There was nothing much to say, that we couldn't say without words. I think that is what happens when you have waited so long to hear good news.  His hand in mine, we stopped and listened to the cardinals and scanned the tree tops for scarlet.   The song was from all directions.  We stood.  He bent down and kissed me on the lips gently.  "I love you, beautiful."  Overcome, the tears came and he wrapped his arms around me kissing the top of my head.

I had heard the cardinal song several times on the day of his cancer diagnosis, six weeks earlier.  It was as if they were following me from Bucksport, through Orland, Ellsworth and finally Bar Harbor.  I heard their song and felt a rush of peace and thought, Don't worry, all will be well.

True Love

My husband built me a bridge to span
Across rushing water
Barren and silent in summer,
Thinning ice in spring,
The stream swells
To overflowing.


He strung a hand hold of
Ropes up the muddy banking
So I could scramble
Alone
Up
And scale
Down
Without a slip.


This walk
Gave us both peace
Any season,
Roots twist like veins
Along the path
Leading to the wide open field,
Where Rex
His ears lay flat
Runs at full tilt.
Woods edge the field
Rex leads the way,
Through the forest,
Blueberry barrens and blow-downs.

A remembrance of true love,
A wooden bridge
Spans a stream,
Waiting for me to cross.

It's Just Messy

Yesterday I couldn't get past stepping out of the shower dripping wet and feeling assaulted by the 22 degree below temperatures that sneak through the cracks in the doors and windows of my house. I seldom skip a daily shower. Today, I couldn't get past the fact that I didn't take a shower yesterday and felt just plain grimy, so I reached in the shower and stuck my hand under the spray to test it.  It had to be hot.

I stepped in and started to rub the soap onto the nylon mesh ball.  Jerry had a stockpile of his favorite French milled soap.  I ordered it every month for him two or three bars at a time.  During this phase of showering I always think of him.  He never used a washcloth or a mesh ball, instead he held the bar and kind of rolled it around both hands to gather a lather.

Days after he died, I took the sliver of soap that he last used, dried it and tucked it in the top drawer with my underwear and passport.  I can't explain why.  Maybe in time of grief no explanation is necessary.  I often act on a need; a deep unexplained need and I just go with it. This is a strange time in my life; a mishmash of emotion that cannot be fully understood.  I feel like one with multiple personalities, often confused by the swirl of opposing emotions.  One moment I feel intense joy, while in seconds waves of sorrow overcome me.  There are times of clarity and times of uncertainty.   Sometimes fear wraps me and strangles, while later I may feel the excitement of opportunity and freedom. None of it makes sense.

I run my fingers over the top of the smooth oval, the soap showing signs of wear through the vein-like lines that run through it.  I bring it to my nose, inhale and tuck it back in the drawer for safe-keeping. Mango scent, one of his favorites.

Each day following prayer, I am quiet if only for a few minutes,  listening to what I need. It may be simple like skipping a shower on a cold day or saving my husband's soap and handling it like an artifact of the MFA. I don't always have to have a logical reason for what I do.  I just do it, act on my intuition. Grief is messy.  Grief is complex and sometimes the wave of varying emotions are confusing and make no sense.  It just is-what it is.

Grounded

On a warm day in early fall, I walked into a metal smithing studio.  I knew nothing.  It was like stepping into a foreign land with strange-sounding tools, implements and labels for procedures with hammers and torches.  Even after six months, I  still approximate the language.

My teacher, my mentor reminds me that muscle memory has a lot to do with her ease in completing a job in mere two minutes, when after 45 minutes of struggle, I ask for help.  That being said, I have learned that I have not completely shed perfectionism.  If the muscles in my hands or fingers fatigue or the solder does not stick to the flux and falls off after 55 tries; I may just give up-frustrated.  I look for fast, speedy results.  This seldom happens in the studio.  Sometimes "gluing" metal pieces together with fire has disastrous results.

"Oh prongs are easy," my teacher said looking at a piece of fossilized coral.  That was weeks ago.  After tedious steps and having to take it apart several times with more filing, sanding and soldering; last night I was able to walk out of the studio with my first pronged piece on my finger.

Walking to my car it was dark.  I had no light.  With trusty Bean boots on my feet, I opted to venture through the muddy edge of driveway to my car.  This seemed the more sensible route rather than swim through the depths of puddles or slip on ice.  Nearing the road, I remembered that delicate shoots of green were popping up in the owner's garden at the corner of the driveway.  Last I knew they were submerged in water.  Despite the cold temperatures the mud still provided a slippery footing.  It was troubling when my left foot splashed in deep water. I was certain I was crushing plant life, someone's prized daffodils or something.  Quickly lifting my foot out of the puddle to save the flowers, I took a sharp turn away from the bed and found myself lying face down in the cold gravelly mud.  Realizing my left foot was stuck in the mud, I tried to release it hearing a sucking noise.  I got up quickly, but only as high as my knees when I was knocked to the ground again.  My left hand (the one with my ring) plunged into the cold, muddy dirt.  My bones could have shattered, but after all that work I was  concerned about my ring.  Once I was upright, I sloshed a few steps into the road and  lifted my left hand closer to my eyes.  It was too dark to see.   For the five minute drippy ride home I realized that there was not much I could do about my situation.   It is likely that my car is muddy.  It is also likely that my ring was crushed with the blow my left hand and wrist took to catch myself.  There is a lesson in everything.  The lesson here is patience, persistence and detachment.  It all became so very clear when I was grounded in the mud.

my girl

Determination and grit:  the twin essentials of life. She has it. Today was my girl's last meet of her elementary career.  I am so grateful to the coaches who gently nurtured the athlete within with encouragement and acceptance.  I am so excited of the possibilities that come with high school.

Wondrous and Mysterious

Ever-changing,
Life is arranged
In ways
Wondrous and mysterious.

This oxymoron
Keeps
Our attention.

Facing the Changes

Lowering my head into the gusts of wind and driving rain, I cradle the stack of books in front of me; tightly pulling my jacket around them to protect from the elements.  Instinctively, I looked at my feet as prepare for the stairs. My protruding front is all I can see. Not quite trusting my footing because I can’t see my feet I gingerly make my way down the granite steps.   Suddenly, I remember times that I waddled here and there not being able to tie my shoes nor see my feet. Now instead of carrying the weight of a baby, I swaddle books; huge stacks of books from the library, from bookstores and borrowed from friends.  They are all through the house.  Books.  My children are mostly 

grown now, while the others are finding their way in the world through athletics and friends.  Meanwhile, I sit and contemplate how quickly all this change seems to have transpired.  The house is quiet.   There is a big chicken roasting and turkey soup simmering. This rain makes a perfect day for slowing down and savoring the quiet.  My books are stacked beside me, ready for devouring during the quiet serene; that is now often my life.

This Time

Every time I do it, I start with the notion that this time will be different.  

****************************

I was about eight sitting in the back yard in shorts.  I grabbed the inside of my thigh. Fat I thought.

*****************************************

Where did my convoluted self perception originate? And most importantly, why has it been perpetuated into middle age?

***************************************

I loved climbing trees and found the perfect set of branches to nail a few boards across.  Perched high above the world, I would stand and gaze in all directions; imagining that I could see all the way to the White Mountains.  With books piled high, I would sit and read.

Not all the neighborhood boys bullied me, but a pair of brothers did.  A large shed stood at the corner of their property. They liked to climb up on the flat roof.  They wouldn’t let me up because, “The roof will cave in.  Too fat,” they said laughing and snickering. I walked away and retreated to my own high place and dreamed.

********************************************************

Over the years, I have lost a few hundred pounds.  Losing weight has been easy.  I never starve myself, but begin determined to make lasting changes.  It just never sticks.

Now it will be different. I am working on accepting my imperfections and loving myself bits at a time.

 

i Write Sometimes

I shift in the chair.

Lean forward.

Backward.

Eyes opened.

Closed.

Hoping to

Dislodge

The words packed in my head,

No such

Luck.

Discovery

So perhaps we write toward what we will become from where we are. -May Sarton

I have often asked myself why I write. It sounds like a simple question, but it is not an easy one to answer.  Recently I read May Sarton’s, Journal of a Solitude and was taken by the above quote.  I think it gives a partial explanation of why I am driven to write.  A born perfectionist, I am awfully hard on myself. Self-centered or co-dependent I blame myself for more than is necessary.  Constantly I strive and reach for more.  The chatter in my head defines my next tasks to work on.  Exercise.  Meditation.  Yoga.  Positive persona.  Fake it….you’ll make it.  Too much.  Too fast.  I realize I am not that perfect mother, that perfect wife that I dreamed I would be.  I cry.  I complain. And I notice all the dust bunnies on the floor and I am too tired to bother.   Sometimes I write to escape, but mostly I write to understand.   Who am I and who will I become?

Empty

She walked in the room.  It was stripped of everything that belonged to him.  No note.  No explanation. Nothing.  It left her empty.  Sad.

Was she responsible? She may never know.

She stood in the room.  Alone in the silence.  

A Shift

Flood warnings for the entire state, the radio blared. I look around, the piles of snow linger only in the shelter of dense woods.  “No danger here,” I think to myself, “All safe.”

Later, in the evening while I sit quietly reflecting on my day, I’m embarrassed by my casual reaction to the warning. In reality, lives and property are at risk and considering the extended winter we endured, the snow melt could create some long lasting issues for Maine folks.  

When I was growing up, I never got used to houses regularly being swept out to sea.  Undaunted owners would rebuild in the same spot and certainly face recurring losses.  Many years ago geologist built a jetty that created problems that no one could imagine.  The little seaside village where my grandfather built a family home has been disappearing bit by bit.  No one seems to know how to fix it.

Place.  It is important.  Through the years houses change hands, landscape shifts or is altered due to weather or man.   Yet memories are framed by place.  The tiny strawberries I picked in the lot next door where a house now sits, I can still taste. Bringing my once stained fingers to my nose, I can smell the sweetness.  I hear the rattle of the windows in the first house that my husband and I shared in Otter Creek; we began our lives together there.  Place evokes memory.

Flood warnings for the entire state. I will always pray that our memories of place remain intact.