Cleaning my car today - more thoroughly than ever in the time it has been mine - getting ready to sell it. Cleaning out the inside, scrubbing off old dirt, I was imagining the kind of ad I might place:
Sweet, much loved car for sale. Most of its miles were earned on adventure: crossing the country from east to west and north to south, piling down dirt roads in search of quiet fishing spots or unmapped hikes. It got a number of its dings going places it wasn't ~quite~ designed to go, whether down steep river plains in the red lands of Utah, or trying to make a three point turn at the edge of the deep woods.
It has barreled down long farm roads, and pulled over to watch pronghorn antelope. It has sheltered its owners on surprise sub-zero nights when they were supposed to be sleeping in tents. From out of its trunk, it's offered the makings for tea on the side of the road at sunrise, even when not far from home. It's safely transported birthday cakes shaped like castles, and trains, and unicorns. It's carried groceries and seedlings, held countless cups of tea, heard many, many songs belted out by both drivers and passengers. It has heard so much.
This car has seen more births than deaths, though it has seen them both. It has carried its fair share of raucous laughter, peaceful silence, and screaming cries. It has held it all. And then some: wet dogs, kids being taken to prom, unhappy cats (in carriers). Mundane and ordinary, unique and beautiful.
What I wouldn't add - what I wouldn't add:
That I began to cry as I erased your fingerprints and the scuffs from your shoes. I know they're in there. I've never cleaned the car like this, so you are still in there. I found greasy smudges from the dog on the head of the seatbelt cover, and a flood of words and images came back to me: how Boris always wedged his head between the driver's side headrest and the window when you were driving, wanting to be as close to you as he could, how he'd done this that day, before settling down in the backseat. You said he knew where we were going, and was content to lie down a bit.
He does this now, still - his head between the headrest and the window, but not as much. He is more likely to climb into the passenger seat, laying his head in my lap.
We took this car so many places, you and I. Had countless - and not enough - adventures and road-side tea. We. We. We lived so much in this car, had so much life in here. I can still feel your hand slip under my thigh as you drive, even though I am the only driver now. You drove us to the river that day. Someone else had to drive me home. This car. This car has seen so much.
And it's okay to let it go. It doesn't work for driving cross-country with one big dog and two unhappy cats. Like so many things, once the practical news occurred to me, it became okay to let it go.
But still. But still. Today, at first filled with love for my car I don't think I've ever felt, giggling at how I might write the ad that sells it, adventure story and all, and then filled with so much longing, so much pain and melancholy. It isn't just a car. I find myself saying - if you were here, this wouldn't bother me at all. If you were here, this car would've been sold long ago, in favor of your truck and my alleged Vespa. But a car is not a car, and it is not just dirt I wipe away.
Anyway. This car has a few more adventures left for me, and I must get to them.
.
.
Showing posts with label trauma. Show all posts
Showing posts with label trauma. Show all posts
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Friday, March 22, 2013
water
Cheryl Strayed wrote a review of the book "Wave" by Sonali Deraniyagala. The power of Cheryl Strayed to influence decision making... after quite literally years now of avoiding all sorts of water imagery, it's pretty strange that I found myself wanting to read this book. Not only is she (Sonali, not Cheryl) a water widow, but her children and her parents were also killed. Yes. I am maybe crazy, and I probably won't actually read it. But I read the review, sat here perched on the couch crying, and also kind of laughing in that maniacal way, thinking - I can never escape water. That I did, then, that day, that I got out, is immaterial. Somehow, today, it seems - not exactly a blessing, but a relief that water will always be with me, grief, Matt, that day, the days Before, the days since.
It's a measure of growth maybe, or maybe just a simple measure of change. But what's also weird or interesting to me, and the reason I won't likely read the actual book, is that I could deal with her images of her family dying. (that's probably b.s., but this was my thought train...) But I do not want to read about her experience in that water. I do not want to see me. I do not want to see myself, to be brought back to myself in the water. Even now, I want to run away from that. I forget, sometimes, if that is odd, that I was in there too - like the lens is never, ever turned on me, not in that same way. There are things I cannot withstand yet, and might not ever. So while in a theoretical moment, I felt drawn to read the story of her entire family drowning, and what the world has been since then, there is no way I can withstand her words like mine, to hear myself back there again. It's not fear. I was not ever afraid, not like that. It is love for me. It is sheer love for me, that I do not want to turn and see the full force of my own pain, not that day, not there in that place. The places I can go do not include a view of myself there.
This is the second time within a few days that I have had a sudden view swing into place, seeing myself as someone who loves me might see. I am so accustomed to my normal grief, it's like there is a haze of normalcy around it. This view is different, more raw; new and intense: to feel the weight of what is broken, to feel so much pain, love, compassion, grief for who I see, even though who I see is me. Schizophrenic love perhaps, to be both the one in pain and the one outside of it, looking in.
.
It's a measure of growth maybe, or maybe just a simple measure of change. But what's also weird or interesting to me, and the reason I won't likely read the actual book, is that I could deal with her images of her family dying. (that's probably b.s., but this was my thought train...) But I do not want to read about her experience in that water. I do not want to see me. I do not want to see myself, to be brought back to myself in the water. Even now, I want to run away from that. I forget, sometimes, if that is odd, that I was in there too - like the lens is never, ever turned on me, not in that same way. There are things I cannot withstand yet, and might not ever. So while in a theoretical moment, I felt drawn to read the story of her entire family drowning, and what the world has been since then, there is no way I can withstand her words like mine, to hear myself back there again. It's not fear. I was not ever afraid, not like that. It is love for me. It is sheer love for me, that I do not want to turn and see the full force of my own pain, not that day, not there in that place. The places I can go do not include a view of myself there.
This is the second time within a few days that I have had a sudden view swing into place, seeing myself as someone who loves me might see. I am so accustomed to my normal grief, it's like there is a haze of normalcy around it. This view is different, more raw; new and intense: to feel the weight of what is broken, to feel so much pain, love, compassion, grief for who I see, even though who I see is me. Schizophrenic love perhaps, to be both the one in pain and the one outside of it, looking in.
.
Thursday, March 7, 2013
paper trails
I'm not sure if I should be concerned. About myself. I am taking a break right now, having just cleaned out the big closet (the only closet, really) in this house - the one full of books and photographs, documents I haven't looked at in years, boxes that made the last move with me and probably the one before, without my opening them. It's not those I care about. I mean, I opened. I sorted. I discarded a whole lot. That's nice.
It's the paper trail, and my non-reaction. My sort-of reaction. My ~ acknowledge and keep going ~ reaction. To the paper trails. I didn't even know I still had the entire folder of receipts from our trip cross-country years ago. Each receipt initialed MD or MP, depending on who paid. I nod in acknowledgment, curt in my response. I keep them, but do not look through.
Later, going through evidence of my younger self, a much earlier life - well before Us. I see the photographs of then. I remember, but feel nothing - it's all so far away, a different life, a different time. I remember these times of my life, but feel nothing for the people involved. Our lives have gone different ways; it is all eons ago. That's a pretty normal response for me; it is the way I am. I leave things when they're done.
And what - bothers - me is this: that our life becomes that. A different life, a different time. People in a photograph. That our life is in a box (even as literally, your ashes are in a box, on another shelf, for another day). That our life, the evidence of our life, comes with a film over it. A curt nod, a small breath, I move on. Sort, discard, collect.
I don't seem to feel much these days. I feel disconnected. A weird, unexpected break in my writing work also keeps me from being in this. Maybe it's a gift, a weird gift. To plow through with no feeling, a dark blank place, like a scar, disconnected and distant. Holding my breath perhaps. No idea. On one hand, it feels good to just plow through, no sentiment for older things. I'm pretty good at that. Maybe it's just determined focus. Meh. Who knows. There is sh*t to be done and there is nothing to do but do it. My sharp edge bothers me, but it is also cutting through. So there is that.
.
It's the paper trail, and my non-reaction. My sort-of reaction. My ~ acknowledge and keep going ~ reaction. To the paper trails. I didn't even know I still had the entire folder of receipts from our trip cross-country years ago. Each receipt initialed MD or MP, depending on who paid. I nod in acknowledgment, curt in my response. I keep them, but do not look through.
Later, going through evidence of my younger self, a much earlier life - well before Us. I see the photographs of then. I remember, but feel nothing - it's all so far away, a different life, a different time. I remember these times of my life, but feel nothing for the people involved. Our lives have gone different ways; it is all eons ago. That's a pretty normal response for me; it is the way I am. I leave things when they're done.
And what - bothers - me is this: that our life becomes that. A different life, a different time. People in a photograph. That our life is in a box (even as literally, your ashes are in a box, on another shelf, for another day). That our life, the evidence of our life, comes with a film over it. A curt nod, a small breath, I move on. Sort, discard, collect.
I don't seem to feel much these days. I feel disconnected. A weird, unexpected break in my writing work also keeps me from being in this. Maybe it's a gift, a weird gift. To plow through with no feeling, a dark blank place, like a scar, disconnected and distant. Holding my breath perhaps. No idea. On one hand, it feels good to just plow through, no sentiment for older things. I'm pretty good at that. Maybe it's just determined focus. Meh. Who knows. There is sh*t to be done and there is nothing to do but do it. My sharp edge bothers me, but it is also cutting through. So there is that.
.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
evidence and odd bits
So last week. Second week of a rather large cold. Coming off of travel and challenges particular to that. Blah blah. Anyway. Tired and missing and sore, I left home to do some errands. Along the way, I asked for evidence: show me it's really you, okay? Parking outside the library, thinking this again - actual evidence would be nice. Inside the library, I picked up a book I had ordered. The library attendant brought me two books: the one I ordered, plus one I ordered and meant to cancel, because it wasn't the one I meant to order. Surprise book number two, at the hold desk that morning?
Proof of Heaven.
I stood there at the check-out counter, giggling. Nice one, babe. Just as I started to dismiss it as "a stretch," I walked outside and found a discarded tissue on the sidewalk, clearly in the shape of a large heart. A big tissue heart on the sidewalk next to - Matt's truck. Not the same truck (though it is in town sometimes), but the same model and uncommon color. Ha.
Back in the car now, heading to the post office, I am chuckling at this "evidence," wondering if it really is evidence, or if I am searching. Thinking how frequently these things happened so soon After, how I never questioned them: their random precision so precise. Parking the car, getting out, walking to the post office, I am thinking these things, wondering, asking in my mind - where are you now babe? Is there a you here? Can you even give me evidence from where and when you are?
I got the mail from my box. On the counter is a current copy of Harper's magazine, left behind by someone. I glanced at it. Start to laugh again. On the cover, a male face is filled with galaxies, stars and planets. On his finger rests another man, a small human. The star-man peers at the human on his fingertip. The two titles in bold-face beneath this illustration are:
Proof of Heaven.
I stood there at the check-out counter, giggling. Nice one, babe. Just as I started to dismiss it as "a stretch," I walked outside and found a discarded tissue on the sidewalk, clearly in the shape of a large heart. A big tissue heart on the sidewalk next to - Matt's truck. Not the same truck (though it is in town sometimes), but the same model and uncommon color. Ha.
Back in the car now, heading to the post office, I am chuckling at this "evidence," wondering if it really is evidence, or if I am searching. Thinking how frequently these things happened so soon After, how I never questioned them: their random precision so precise. Parking the car, getting out, walking to the post office, I am thinking these things, wondering, asking in my mind - where are you now babe? Is there a you here? Can you even give me evidence from where and when you are?
I got the mail from my box. On the counter is a current copy of Harper's magazine, left behind by someone. I glanced at it. Start to laugh again. On the cover, a male face is filled with galaxies, stars and planets. On his finger rests another man, a small human. The star-man peers at the human on his fingertip. The two titles in bold-face beneath this illustration are:
Our place in the universe
I am your conscious, I am love.
That was a really nice trifecta.
Even with the slightly odd grammar up there - I just looked up "conscious," to see if it can ever make sense with that usage. Not really, no. But the definition of "conscious" is really lovely here, too. You are in my sense of myself. You are in my sense and sensing of this world. Our place in this Universe is love, is sense, is awareness. Our place is conscious.
Well now I am crying, and hadn't meant to be. But there it is.
I will take this. I will take this as evidence
and carry it around with me.
I carry your heart with me.
Conscious.
.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
ahhhh
.
A better day. Thank goodness. Ever.so.tired.of.contraction. Just acknowledging the truth of what was "up" helped a lot, as did a low-key day of rest, reading, being out in the woods with the dog. Have been up since 4 today, reading, writing. Good. About to go for a run and then hit the road to parts north, hoping to hold the intention of ~less reactive, more skillful~.
For those acknowledging/enduring/celebrating a holiday today, and for everyone else acknowledging/celebrating/enduring a regular day of life - I wish you some goodness, some peace, and a welling up of love right underneath you, where you are.
.
A better day. Thank goodness. Ever.so.tired.of.contraction. Just acknowledging the truth of what was "up" helped a lot, as did a low-key day of rest, reading, being out in the woods with the dog. Have been up since 4 today, reading, writing. Good. About to go for a run and then hit the road to parts north, hoping to hold the intention of ~less reactive, more skillful~.
For those acknowledging/enduring/celebrating a holiday today, and for everyone else acknowledging/celebrating/enduring a regular day of life - I wish you some goodness, some peace, and a welling up of love right underneath you, where you are.
.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
wills and things
I have a diagnostic thing coming up next week. I have no concerns at all for the actual procedure, or for test results. What completely unglues me, or has, is that matt is not here, which means I have to go out and find someone else to drive me to the appointment, someone to be there to hear the doctor's instructions while I am too fuzzy to hear. Arrange for someone to come and walk the dog that night so I can sleep. That matt is gone is why I'm getting the full-on knock out, rather than the local, awake-but-not routine.
The other thing that freaks me out is the thought of saying goodbye to our dog. None of us are strangers to sudden random death, and I know full well I could not come back. But honestly, because I am me, the thing that calms me down is (1) remembering that I am not in control of death, and it will all happen when and how it wants: mine, and anyone I care about; and (2), that if I do happen to die during an ordinary procedure, at least people know about it, and my animals will not be here home alone. That is such a fear of mine, that I'd die and no one would know, and my animals would suffer. Bleh. I hate that one. I remind myself: see item #1 and just calm down.
Anyway. Somewhere on my computer, I already have a will written out, such as it is. But I've also written out a list of "helpful things." Matt didn't have a will. Not only did he plan to just walk off into the woods to die when he was 111, he'd also said, "I don't need a will - everything would go to my son anyway."
A will is not just "what should happen to my stuff." I mean, legally, yeah. But what I'm thinking is how great it would have been, when everyone went crazy in the first days After, to have had a written list: organ donation, cremation, no I do not care what happens to my ashes, and they can be split up however you want. If there are any questions, my love, my son, and my father are the ones who get to think these through. It would have saved so much time, and negated any argument before it even reached my ears.
In my own list, labeled "in case of sudden death or vegetative state," I specify all my preferences. I also include passwords to my on-line accounts, directions for accessing this blog and how to post on it, names and contact information of people who need to be told, my social security number, and instructions to please not attempt to pay off my student loans (because I know my father would try). Seriously - no one cares one bit about my credit rating now. I do have a short list of where my possessions go, but really, it doesn't matter much to me - and that is clarified as well.
Having a list would not have made matt suddenly dying any better. Having this list will not make anything better for anyone who cares about me, either. But having this list is a way to love and protect my people now, for the eventual and guaranteed later. In the crazy that comes up in the aftermath of death, no one is thinking straight. Everyone thinks they know what you would want, and they are too distraught to realize they are shrieking for what they want. So there is that - make your wishes clear so that the ones you love do not need to battle anyone, even if you think no one will argue. Especially if you think no one will argue. As for the other things, the passwords and contact lists, sure - they can be found. But I think if Matt could do it again, he would want to give me the slightest bit of ease, would want to show his love by making my way easier, in any way he could.
So this is what I said to my friend, the one driving me to the appointment next week, the one who knows I am freaked out about leaving our dog behind. She asked for my wishes about Boris should I happen to suddenly die; I told her I have left her a list, with instructions and requests. This morning, she sent me a text, saying how she and her husband need to do this too. And all of this just made me think - how preparing for something you never want to happen to the people you love is actually a gigantic gift of love for them. It says that you love them enough to face the reality that you have no control over your death. It says even in this, I will give you evidence of love.
__________________________________________________________________
An evidence addendum: I finished up this post, got in the car, clicked on the radio, and just as I hit the highway half a minute later, this song came on. Never heard it before. Nice one universe.
.
The other thing that freaks me out is the thought of saying goodbye to our dog. None of us are strangers to sudden random death, and I know full well I could not come back. But honestly, because I am me, the thing that calms me down is (1) remembering that I am not in control of death, and it will all happen when and how it wants: mine, and anyone I care about; and (2), that if I do happen to die during an ordinary procedure, at least people know about it, and my animals will not be here home alone. That is such a fear of mine, that I'd die and no one would know, and my animals would suffer. Bleh. I hate that one. I remind myself: see item #1 and just calm down.
Anyway. Somewhere on my computer, I already have a will written out, such as it is. But I've also written out a list of "helpful things." Matt didn't have a will. Not only did he plan to just walk off into the woods to die when he was 111, he'd also said, "I don't need a will - everything would go to my son anyway."
A will is not just "what should happen to my stuff." I mean, legally, yeah. But what I'm thinking is how great it would have been, when everyone went crazy in the first days After, to have had a written list: organ donation, cremation, no I do not care what happens to my ashes, and they can be split up however you want. If there are any questions, my love, my son, and my father are the ones who get to think these through. It would have saved so much time, and negated any argument before it even reached my ears.
In my own list, labeled "in case of sudden death or vegetative state," I specify all my preferences. I also include passwords to my on-line accounts, directions for accessing this blog and how to post on it, names and contact information of people who need to be told, my social security number, and instructions to please not attempt to pay off my student loans (because I know my father would try). Seriously - no one cares one bit about my credit rating now. I do have a short list of where my possessions go, but really, it doesn't matter much to me - and that is clarified as well.
Having a list would not have made matt suddenly dying any better. Having this list will not make anything better for anyone who cares about me, either. But having this list is a way to love and protect my people now, for the eventual and guaranteed later. In the crazy that comes up in the aftermath of death, no one is thinking straight. Everyone thinks they know what you would want, and they are too distraught to realize they are shrieking for what they want. So there is that - make your wishes clear so that the ones you love do not need to battle anyone, even if you think no one will argue. Especially if you think no one will argue. As for the other things, the passwords and contact lists, sure - they can be found. But I think if Matt could do it again, he would want to give me the slightest bit of ease, would want to show his love by making my way easier, in any way he could.
So this is what I said to my friend, the one driving me to the appointment next week, the one who knows I am freaked out about leaving our dog behind. She asked for my wishes about Boris should I happen to suddenly die; I told her I have left her a list, with instructions and requests. This morning, she sent me a text, saying how she and her husband need to do this too. And all of this just made me think - how preparing for something you never want to happen to the people you love is actually a gigantic gift of love for them. It says that you love them enough to face the reality that you have no control over your death. It says even in this, I will give you evidence of love.
__________________________________________________________________
An evidence addendum: I finished up this post, got in the car, clicked on the radio, and just as I hit the highway half a minute later, this song came on. Never heard it before. Nice one universe.
.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
another
...
Another person drowned. Not in my life, no. But the news got me anyway. Another woman watched her love die, thinking he was fine. Another woman was doing something they had done a million times before, not giving it a second thought. It all seemed normal, except that he was dying and she didn't know. I didn't know. Neither of us had any reason to even think it. It is inconceivable that someone so experienced would be in any danger at all.
And it smashes me so hard, brings it all slamming back to me. Maybe even more because I have been there not realizing what was happening, been there looking for help when it is too late. I have been there. And it's my reaction I can tell here; her story isn't mine to share. I'm both surprised and not surprised by how it knocks the wind out of me. I know I am helpless in the face of it, both for her and for me. All I can do is send love, to her now, to me then. And even that hurts a f-load to do.
Man.
...
Another person drowned. Not in my life, no. But the news got me anyway. Another woman watched her love die, thinking he was fine. Another woman was doing something they had done a million times before, not giving it a second thought. It all seemed normal, except that he was dying and she didn't know. I didn't know. Neither of us had any reason to even think it. It is inconceivable that someone so experienced would be in any danger at all.
And it smashes me so hard, brings it all slamming back to me. Maybe even more because I have been there not realizing what was happening, been there looking for help when it is too late. I have been there. And it's my reaction I can tell here; her story isn't mine to share. I'm both surprised and not surprised by how it knocks the wind out of me. I know I am helpless in the face of it, both for her and for me. All I can do is send love, to her now, to me then. And even that hurts a f-load to do.
Man.
...
Sunday, June 3, 2012
151
It is sunday. Duh.
Have spent all day reading Grieving: A Love Story.
It was good. Too good. What is different now, at the end of week 151, is I have time to check the driveway to see if my neighbor is home before I go to the bedroom to scream.
I was at the library yesterday. Crouched in front of the stacks of books on grief, looking for a new-to-me book, the title I found somewhere I don't remember now. Crouched there, I remembered I had been there before. I know I have been there before. I know I have read lots of these books. But I don't remember. Where is the one I read, just weeks After, sitting in the walled garden by the library, tears everywhere, not giving a damn about the people there trying to enjoy their lunch. What book was that? When was that? And how could I forget? How is it that I could forget?
How is it that all of that intensity - could fade. That I can not remember anymore. That I am surprised by the memory of certain days, of places I have been and places I have cried. That they stun me, when they creep up on me, when I remember. That I look at me as though I am someone else. As though this happened to someone else. I am in someone elses' memories, although I live in this reality all the time. I am never apart from it, and still it comes as a surprise.
---
And now, I listen to voicemail and find my parents are coming through town and want to go to lunch. Want to stop by, with 30 minutes notice, and take me out into this world to eat, to make small talk, to pretend that I am fine. I am dressed in stay-home bag lady clothes. I have been reading grief all day. I am in no state to pretend that I do, in fact, have someone elses' life.
.
Have spent all day reading Grieving: A Love Story.
It was good. Too good. What is different now, at the end of week 151, is I have time to check the driveway to see if my neighbor is home before I go to the bedroom to scream.
I was at the library yesterday. Crouched in front of the stacks of books on grief, looking for a new-to-me book, the title I found somewhere I don't remember now. Crouched there, I remembered I had been there before. I know I have been there before. I know I have read lots of these books. But I don't remember. Where is the one I read, just weeks After, sitting in the walled garden by the library, tears everywhere, not giving a damn about the people there trying to enjoy their lunch. What book was that? When was that? And how could I forget? How is it that I could forget?
How is it that all of that intensity - could fade. That I can not remember anymore. That I am surprised by the memory of certain days, of places I have been and places I have cried. That they stun me, when they creep up on me, when I remember. That I look at me as though I am someone else. As though this happened to someone else. I am in someone elses' memories, although I live in this reality all the time. I am never apart from it, and still it comes as a surprise.
---
And now, I listen to voicemail and find my parents are coming through town and want to go to lunch. Want to stop by, with 30 minutes notice, and take me out into this world to eat, to make small talk, to pretend that I am fine. I am dressed in stay-home bag lady clothes. I have been reading grief all day. I am in no state to pretend that I do, in fact, have someone elses' life.
.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
other
http://www.glowinthewoods.com/home/2012/5/30/the-meaning-of-a-life.html
different loss, but these words are so good.
.
different loss, but these words are so good.
.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
dass
This morning, I was thinking of the movie Fierce Grace. It's the story of Ram Dass in his post-stroke life. I was thinking of the a-hole behavior he showed in one of the scenes, what a jerk he showed himself to be. But then I remembered a letter he wrote that was also part of that film. I saw this a couple of years ago and had rather forgotten about this part. Oh how I needed this today. Awesomeness.
http://www.kotapress.com/section_articles/healingArts/altTherapies/rachel_ramDass.htm
Hope it helps for you today too.
.
http://www.kotapress.com/section_articles/healingArts/altTherapies/rachel_ramDass.htm
Hope it helps for you today too.
.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
!
Today has been a pretty darn good day.
First, I posted some old writing of mine (see below), and it felt nice. I miss writing. I mean, writing about things other than this.
I quit my job. Finally. It went well. I will need to reiterate it most likely, but that is nothing. No problem. It's the initial "I quit" that was tough. Clarifying the whole "I'm done now, which means I won't be coming in after next week" thing I can say a hundred times a day if need be.
I also got in touch with the licensing board to see about getting my clinical license back. I have no interest at all in sitting with clients again, and frankly, I don't know that I could even do it. But if I have to do something for income, it is going to be well paid and not destroy my body or suck up all my time.
The demo cd is done, delivered, and I have just now heard that round one is completed - I got an "I like this a lot, and would like to share it with my team." It has now gone on to phase two. I am so freaking excited about that. And, massively massively proud of myself.
And. And.
And I so much wish you were here my love. I so much wish you were here.
.
First, I posted some old writing of mine (see below), and it felt nice. I miss writing. I mean, writing about things other than this.
I quit my job. Finally. It went well. I will need to reiterate it most likely, but that is nothing. No problem. It's the initial "I quit" that was tough. Clarifying the whole "I'm done now, which means I won't be coming in after next week" thing I can say a hundred times a day if need be.
I also got in touch with the licensing board to see about getting my clinical license back. I have no interest at all in sitting with clients again, and frankly, I don't know that I could even do it. But if I have to do something for income, it is going to be well paid and not destroy my body or suck up all my time.
The demo cd is done, delivered, and I have just now heard that round one is completed - I got an "I like this a lot, and would like to share it with my team." It has now gone on to phase two. I am so freaking excited about that. And, massively massively proud of myself.
And. And.
And I so much wish you were here my love. I so much wish you were here.
.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
back
.
Noticing this morning how it feels like I have you back. I mean, not literally, though I would love to wake up and find this was all just a dream. But I mean - and there aren't really words for it - but I feel like I used to with us. Lighter. Goofier. And being that, I feel like I know and feel and remember You. You as you were. Our life. Somehow, you don't feel so removed from me.
Walking our dog in the rain this morning, I was singing the zombie love song we were working on. It's a good song. Thought - ha. It would have been a great song to sing at your funeral; very fitting and funny. But then the thought on the heels of that one: I couldn't have done it, of course. I think my comment about being invited to your death was the better one. A sucker punch today, but I keep on singing anyway.
Progress, change, differentness. That I can feel humor and light, and that it brings me even closer to you.
.
Noticing this morning how it feels like I have you back. I mean, not literally, though I would love to wake up and find this was all just a dream. But I mean - and there aren't really words for it - but I feel like I used to with us. Lighter. Goofier. And being that, I feel like I know and feel and remember You. You as you were. Our life. Somehow, you don't feel so removed from me.
Walking our dog in the rain this morning, I was singing the zombie love song we were working on. It's a good song. Thought - ha. It would have been a great song to sing at your funeral; very fitting and funny. But then the thought on the heels of that one: I couldn't have done it, of course. I think my comment about being invited to your death was the better one. A sucker punch today, but I keep on singing anyway.
Progress, change, differentness. That I can feel humor and light, and that it brings me even closer to you.
.
Monday, April 30, 2012
restraint
Just beginning week three
of the new job
Was already looking for escape by the second day
Last week
I screamed in the car all the way home
and seriously considered checking into kidney donation
as a source of income
rather than this
I could not hate it more and still be there
What is rather funny to me though
is the bizarre macabre nearly
delirious
feeling
while I'm there
realizing the restraint it takes
to not actually start laughing maniacally
pointing and laughing
cackling at how seriously people take things
Dutiful, though
I am trying to not be reactive
wondering if I can make it long enough
to rack up the money to buy a couple months of freedom
though that might be insanity,
not restraint.
.
of the new job
Was already looking for escape by the second day
Last week
I screamed in the car all the way home
and seriously considered checking into kidney donation
as a source of income
rather than this
I could not hate it more and still be there
What is rather funny to me though
is the bizarre macabre nearly
delirious
feeling
while I'm there
realizing the restraint it takes
to not actually start laughing maniacally
pointing and laughing
cackling at how seriously people take things
Dutiful, though
I am trying to not be reactive
wondering if I can make it long enough
to rack up the money to buy a couple months of freedom
though that might be insanity,
not restraint.
.
Monday, April 23, 2012
exerpt
from donald hall's book of poetry, "Without," written about the death of his wife:
...when they prayed, "grace was evident / but not the comfort of mercy or reprieve /
The embodied figure / on the cross still twisted under the sun."
Just matching the thoughts in my mind today.
.
...when they prayed, "grace was evident / but not the comfort of mercy or reprieve /
The embodied figure / on the cross still twisted under the sun."
Just matching the thoughts in my mind today.
.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
show up
(pre-emptively - I'm trying to figure out why some people aren't able to comment here. On your end, try logging out and see if you can post as anon. It may or may not work. I will keep poking around on this end and see what the dealio is.)
Last night was bad. Awful. In the vicinity of exit strategy. Fortunately, instead of sounding like a good idea, the idea of needing an exit strategy just annoyed me. I'm also aware that the physical pain I have going on lately is making things worse, so I try to just ignore me sometimes. Anyway.
So, I woke up this morning thinking - what good does it do to tell me that godd (in whatever form) is walking with me? It's not like it's tangible. It's not like it's anything practical or useful. You can't prove it. The day was not starting out well.
I took boris for our walk. Along the way, I found a folded up, slightly damaged, 5 dollar bill. Nice. I stretched the symbol and thought, okay well, a random five dollar gift is maybe a nudge that the financial stuff will be okay. It's probably just a regular old dropped five dollar bill that has been under the winter leaves, but maybe it is also just a little love. Breathe. Tiny bit of space.
Rounded a corner, walking just a few steps, and there on the slope was a book. The title:
Last night was bad. Awful. In the vicinity of exit strategy. Fortunately, instead of sounding like a good idea, the idea of needing an exit strategy just annoyed me. I'm also aware that the physical pain I have going on lately is making things worse, so I try to just ignore me sometimes. Anyway.
So, I woke up this morning thinking - what good does it do to tell me that godd (in whatever form) is walking with me? It's not like it's tangible. It's not like it's anything practical or useful. You can't prove it. The day was not starting out well.
I took boris for our walk. Along the way, I found a folded up, slightly damaged, 5 dollar bill. Nice. I stretched the symbol and thought, okay well, a random five dollar gift is maybe a nudge that the financial stuff will be okay. It's probably just a regular old dropped five dollar bill that has been under the winter leaves, but maybe it is also just a little love. Breathe. Tiny bit of space.
Rounded a corner, walking just a few steps, and there on the slope was a book. The title:
You'll Never Walk Alone: God is Always With You.
It's been over an hour now since I've been home. The book is sitting on the kitchen table. It's been a long time since something so concrete has arrived.
.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
sleep and tenderness
ahhh sleep. In bed by 7 last night, awake at my usual 5, but lounged there instead of getting up. It's not just the sleep that eased me a little. It was - oddly or not - sitting there in bed reliving that day. How beautiful the sky was. How much we loved, and needed, that place. I looked at dog-wash island. I saw us there on other trips, soaping boris up, and I saw us there on our last trip, you trying to hold on to the top of a tree, yelling out, letting go. You died just off of dog-wash island, trying to hold on to a tree, yelling out, disappearing. Oh my god.
And in that oh my god I felt such fierce tenderness and love for myself. How hard this is, how lonely, how scary and how sad. How hard this is. Hard.
And I think this morning how I get to the same place: refusal to do things I do not want to do, unwillingness to suffer through annoying situations, a desire to do whatever brings me any goodness at all and fighting for it if need be ~ I get to the same place I get to when the rage has control of me. I still kick over stupid things, wasteful things, but - in this moment, anyway, I want to kick them over because I love me. Because you died just off of dog-wash island on a beautiful sunny day in July. Because I couldn't stop it, even when I ran into the water and fought those currents myself. Because of all the things I had to do, all the phone calls, all the "arrangements," all of everything.
It is so much nicer on me to feel tenderness rather than rage. I think this is the goal for me, the direction to lean - not that life can be good, or that life can be anything, but finding ways to access, maybe even eventually sustain, this tenderness. A fierceness for myself that isn't so much the raging Kali stomping out the world.
.
And in that oh my god I felt such fierce tenderness and love for myself. How hard this is, how lonely, how scary and how sad. How hard this is. Hard.
And I think this morning how I get to the same place: refusal to do things I do not want to do, unwillingness to suffer through annoying situations, a desire to do whatever brings me any goodness at all and fighting for it if need be ~ I get to the same place I get to when the rage has control of me. I still kick over stupid things, wasteful things, but - in this moment, anyway, I want to kick them over because I love me. Because you died just off of dog-wash island on a beautiful sunny day in July. Because I couldn't stop it, even when I ran into the water and fought those currents myself. Because of all the things I had to do, all the phone calls, all the "arrangements," all of everything.
It is so much nicer on me to feel tenderness rather than rage. I think this is the goal for me, the direction to lean - not that life can be good, or that life can be anything, but finding ways to access, maybe even eventually sustain, this tenderness. A fierceness for myself that isn't so much the raging Kali stomping out the world.
Friday, March 23, 2012
irked
Is it horrible that this annoyed me:
http://www.ananda.org/community/blog/kristy/4036/gods-grace-and-the-healing-power-of-prayer/
Okay, annoyed maybe isn't the right word. Wait. Yes it is. Their story isn't my story, and while I am glad that their son lived, I can't deny my reaction. I don't want to know how prayers and meditations miraculously healed someone. I want to know how someone who has lived their life with prayers and meditations, with practices and trust, lives with the fact that the one they love DID NOT SURVIVE. Nine million prayers for his survival that day would have not done a thing if he was not meant to live. I don't think that focused meditation can change an outcome. Nine trillion people praying and focusing while the wardens searched for matt would not have made that outcome different than it was.
It is so easy to say that god was by your side when things work out. It is so easy to say that your prayers and meditation made the shift. It is so easy to trust in divine goodness, in the reassurances of the Mother when difficult things turn out right. Turn out - right. When things turn out wrong, does that mean your prayers weren't enough? That only if your practice had been stronger, this would be alright? Such hubris. That equation isn't even wrong.
I need the stories of how you live, with smashed and broken faith, knowing that your prayers for certain outcomes are misplaced. The stories that I need to hear are the ones where you find a way to live in a world that isn't right, and no amount of prayers or meditations can make it right. Where you find a way to live without turning bitter and angry or just lost; without manufacturing a meaning that isn't there, without becoming a falseness to yourself. Everything does not always Turn Out Alright. I need to hear some people with deep faith show me how you live with that.
.
http://www.ananda.org/community/blog/kristy/4036/gods-grace-and-the-healing-power-of-prayer/
Okay, annoyed maybe isn't the right word. Wait. Yes it is. Their story isn't my story, and while I am glad that their son lived, I can't deny my reaction. I don't want to know how prayers and meditations miraculously healed someone. I want to know how someone who has lived their life with prayers and meditations, with practices and trust, lives with the fact that the one they love DID NOT SURVIVE. Nine million prayers for his survival that day would have not done a thing if he was not meant to live. I don't think that focused meditation can change an outcome. Nine trillion people praying and focusing while the wardens searched for matt would not have made that outcome different than it was.
It is so easy to say that god was by your side when things work out. It is so easy to say that your prayers and meditation made the shift. It is so easy to trust in divine goodness, in the reassurances of the Mother when difficult things turn out right. Turn out - right. When things turn out wrong, does that mean your prayers weren't enough? That only if your practice had been stronger, this would be alright? Such hubris. That equation isn't even wrong.
I need the stories of how you live, with smashed and broken faith, knowing that your prayers for certain outcomes are misplaced. The stories that I need to hear are the ones where you find a way to live in a world that isn't right, and no amount of prayers or meditations can make it right. Where you find a way to live without turning bitter and angry or just lost; without manufacturing a meaning that isn't there, without becoming a falseness to yourself. Everything does not always Turn Out Alright. I need to hear some people with deep faith show me how you live with that.
.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
out of character
I have been reading "the four hour work week," by - oh, I don't remember now and I don't feel like getting up to check. Anyway. It's largely creepy, if I think too much about it: the general gist is your business should both dupe and use people so that you can go about your merry way cheating, drinking, and carousing while making loads of money. However, there are concepts in this book that have been really striking me. Odd ways of looking at old practices. New ways of thinking. The concept, for me, of divorcing what I do for income and what I do as daily work - that's a big one.
One of the phrases I've taken from this book is "analysis paralysis." In my work life, I am and have been such a Thinker: Consider.Every.Single.Possible.Angle.and.its.ramifications before making any movement at all. I've done a few things since reading that that are completely out of character, saying no to some things and pushing for some others. It's a little bit cavalier, this current attitude of mine. Ultimately, I think it's useful. As I used to tell clients who were too accomodating and polite: if you feel like you are being rude, you are probably right on target: "too rude" in your mind is actually well-boundaried and appropriate.
Hearing other peoples' ideas and plans for me, I almost constantly tell myself I am not doing that, and later need to extricate myself from something I knew from the outset I didn't want. Matt was fantastic at telling people Out Loud, right from the very start, sweetly and with such true gentleness, "I am not going to do that with you." It's out of character for me to start using my inside voice as an outside voice.
I think it is widowhood-related irritation: a definite "who the (*&! cares what they think," a brusqueness I do not typically have. If I have to live here, if this is the life I have, then I am not doing things I do not want to do, and I am not tiptoeing around. If I want something, I am going to ask for it without thinking too hard about it. A real sense of - seriously? With what you have lived and are living, you are worried about, well, anything? Just do it, don't think. It feels pretty brazen to me, which means I am probably right on target.
.
One of the phrases I've taken from this book is "analysis paralysis." In my work life, I am and have been such a Thinker: Consider.Every.Single.Possible.Angle.and.its.ramifications before making any movement at all. I've done a few things since reading that that are completely out of character, saying no to some things and pushing for some others. It's a little bit cavalier, this current attitude of mine. Ultimately, I think it's useful. As I used to tell clients who were too accomodating and polite: if you feel like you are being rude, you are probably right on target: "too rude" in your mind is actually well-boundaried and appropriate.
Hearing other peoples' ideas and plans for me, I almost constantly tell myself I am not doing that, and later need to extricate myself from something I knew from the outset I didn't want. Matt was fantastic at telling people Out Loud, right from the very start, sweetly and with such true gentleness, "I am not going to do that with you." It's out of character for me to start using my inside voice as an outside voice.
I think it is widowhood-related irritation: a definite "who the (*&! cares what they think," a brusqueness I do not typically have. If I have to live here, if this is the life I have, then I am not doing things I do not want to do, and I am not tiptoeing around. If I want something, I am going to ask for it without thinking too hard about it. A real sense of - seriously? With what you have lived and are living, you are worried about, well, anything? Just do it, don't think. It feels pretty brazen to me, which means I am probably right on target.
.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
comes around
I really did not expect this one.
Yesterday, a friend of mine had daughter #2. Her first child was born 3 weeks after matt died. I pretty much missed it. Daughter #1 turned 2 years, 7 months, and one week two days ago. I know this because I gauge her age by the age of this After of mine.
So yesterday, I went to see said friend in the hospital, met the newest member of her clan. Getting home, I suddenly felt exhausted. Depleted. Just Wrong. I laid down on the couch, smelled the coming-rain air, the windows open to warm wind. Laid down contemplating a meeting I want to schedule with my former boss. As I fell asleep I realized - it could be July. It could be July 2009 right now, with all these things. And I will wake up and he will be here. All of this has been a dream. All of this has been a coma I have been in, some incorrect and parallel world I fell into and now I am coming out. The elements are here - the new baby, the warm wind, the coming rain, the same work-place. E's first baby shower was July 12th, so clearly it has come around again, like Groundhog Day. I even woke up wondering, testing it out. With my eyes closed, I listened for his voice, waited to hear the truck in the driveway, or hear him singing under his breath somewhere close-by. I waited for the silence to be disturbed by a teenage boy bursting in to tackle his father. None of these things happened. None of these things happened.
The grief train roared into this house and I had no idea it was coming. I am dropped.
I am down. It is early again, like the last time a baby was born.
.
Yesterday, a friend of mine had daughter #2. Her first child was born 3 weeks after matt died. I pretty much missed it. Daughter #1 turned 2 years, 7 months, and one week two days ago. I know this because I gauge her age by the age of this After of mine.
So yesterday, I went to see said friend in the hospital, met the newest member of her clan. Getting home, I suddenly felt exhausted. Depleted. Just Wrong. I laid down on the couch, smelled the coming-rain air, the windows open to warm wind. Laid down contemplating a meeting I want to schedule with my former boss. As I fell asleep I realized - it could be July. It could be July 2009 right now, with all these things. And I will wake up and he will be here. All of this has been a dream. All of this has been a coma I have been in, some incorrect and parallel world I fell into and now I am coming out. The elements are here - the new baby, the warm wind, the coming rain, the same work-place. E's first baby shower was July 12th, so clearly it has come around again, like Groundhog Day. I even woke up wondering, testing it out. With my eyes closed, I listened for his voice, waited to hear the truck in the driveway, or hear him singing under his breath somewhere close-by. I waited for the silence to be disturbed by a teenage boy bursting in to tackle his father. None of these things happened. None of these things happened.
The grief train roared into this house and I had no idea it was coming. I am dropped.
I am down. It is early again, like the last time a baby was born.
.
Monday, March 5, 2012
donation
.
I rang the doorbell
as requested
for your assistance with my donation
I am going back to the car to get more bags
you do not need to yell at me to stop
you do not need to yell
that this better be something you can sell
Do you treat everyone this way?
Even as I bring you more
you keep yelling.
Even after I am crying
and ask you to please stop giving me
a hard time right now
I understand that people often leave you trash.
Do you know what is in these bags?
My husband's shoes.
The shawl I wore to his funeral
Four days after he drowned.
I do not think you need to yell at me
today.
.
I rang the doorbell
as requested
for your assistance with my donation
I am going back to the car to get more bags
you do not need to yell at me to stop
you do not need to yell
that this better be something you can sell
Do you treat everyone this way?
Even as I bring you more
you keep yelling.
Even after I am crying
and ask you to please stop giving me
a hard time right now
I understand that people often leave you trash.
Do you know what is in these bags?
My husband's shoes.
The shawl I wore to his funeral
Four days after he drowned.
I do not think you need to yell at me
today.
.
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