I just published a draft written last spring. This was written during a time when I really didn't feel like communicating.
I'm not sure if I have something specific to say at this time either. Since I began this blog in October of 2011, I wanted to write something a year later. It will be two years November 20th since Ted died. Very difficult to grasp. This summer we sent his ashes adrift in Odell Creek that feeds Davis Lake - our favorite family vacation spot. We sprinkled our beloved dog Gwenny's ashes at the same time. She loved Davis Lake vacations as well, and she adored Ted.
I'm slowly learning to live my life relying on myself without my partner to share tasks and decisions. There is a definite learning curve. My confidence is returning and life continues to be an enriching experience. I hope to continue writing as time goes on and move toward the "creative transitions" aspect of my title.
Friday, November 9, 2012
From "Down in the Dumps" to "Creative Climbing"
Dark Night of the Soul.
Desperation.
Impatience.
Depression.
These are hardly creative sounding words (on the surface anyway.) I got help. Once a week I chat with a counselor that I worked with for 8 years beginning about 20 years after my baby died. She has been a godsend. Somedays I couldn't even talk I felt so confused about how I was feeling. She needed to come up with creative questions to find a way to get me to find my voice.
Slowly I'm starting to understand the scope of my loss and put names to specific feelings that I have. I'm grasping that one really can't climb to the top of the mountain in one giant step. It takes a long time. It takes care and sometimes planning. One can get so tired and long for relief from the arduous task ahead. Rests become a necessity. For me napping became my relief. Books have been a great escape. Escape what? His "goneness" was relentless.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Brief Reflection...
May 10th, 4 months since feeling adrift. I just reread my Jan 1st blog, "Adrift." In a way, it is an introduction to the 4 months to come. I have not felt compelled to write, even wondering if I would ever continue with the blog. We're talking "Creative Grief" here: creating anything is a process that ultimately brings a new creation out of nothing. Out of a void. Out of darkness. From flailing around with no "touch stones" to a new beginning that is clearly undefined.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
ADRIFT
I sit here in my living room next to a cozy fire in our wood stove. We never used the stove while Ted was alive because we were led to believe that it might malfunction. Craig has been lighting fires in it this past week and it has been so wonderful: providing a sense of comfort and warmth and coziness; everything that one would expect. I'm sad that Ted didn't get to experience this. He would have loved it.
Craig and I and Justine and Ollie have spent quite a bit of time in here this past week reading, working puzzles, chatting. Craig just left with the kids to take them back to their home with Kassidy. I feel adrift. When they are here Taylor Swift is calling the tunes along with many other artists that I don't recognize. The volume is fairly high and the beat is strong. (Of course, when I play Neil Diamond, I get the volume pretty cranked.) The house feels "alive."
Its the first day of the new year. I feel adrift with the kids gone, with Ted not here to share my feelings. Last night I went to a lovely gathering of friends and acquaintances at longtime friends of ours in their gorgeous home. The house is right out of Architectural Digest and filled with beautiful, tasteful art and decor. The ambience is terrific. But I felt adrift there too. And still feel a residual today. I sat "alone" by a beautiful fireplace much of my time there. Not that there weren't people around, but I wasn't drawn to them. Every time I got up to try to be more engaged with people, I ended up going back to where I had been sitting. Does "alone in a crowd" sound familiar? The host and hostess couldn't have been more loving and welcoming. When one is adrift, sometimes it is hard to "catch" them.
Adrift seems like a very gentle word and for me implies a very gentle sensation: Like floating. Like meandering. Like browsing. Like drowsing. Like doodling. Like strolling. Like wading. Feeling adrift isn't exactly unpleasant, but, at times, feels on the brink of being cast adrift. Adrift into emptiness, loneliness, space, darkness, aloneness. To be cast adrift is not pleasant: it is frightening.
Once, when I was about nine years old, I learned that my father had had a mild heart attack. I was very much a child then. I loved to draw and play and tell stories to the younger kids. I did a lot of drifting and dreaming. One of my favorite spots to sit and look out at a lovely view of our city was on the "landing" at the top of the stairs to the second floor of our house. I would sit on the three steps that took you from the landing to the open foyer that led to the bedrooms and gaze out the tall window. I was feeling frightened by the news about my father. For the first time, I became aware that my parents would leave me some day. Thats what it meant to die. My mind continued meandering through this thought. Suddenly (thats what it felt like) a powerful force seemed to knock me into blackness, into space. The reality that I, too would die, hit like a lightening bolt and was felt as a physical blow and I could "see" myself drifting in nothingness.
I was flailing around in space with nothing to hold on to, nothing to see, nothing reaching out to me. I had been cast adrift. For many years to follow, this image of "death" was like a truth to me. This is what I could expect when I die. Because my imagination had created this, it was very "real" and therefore very "true." And I was terrified. I don't recall telling anyone. I felt self-conscious and embarrassed and devastated.
Interesting: feeling adrift is not the same frightening experience. But not altogether comfortable either. Writing today almost felt compelling. A way to dissipate the uncomfortableness, the almost sense of desperation. The sadness. The sense of isolation. I long to be rescued from this sense of being invisible. At least the writing is like a mirror: I can look, really look deeply, at myself and "see" me. And there becomes more a lazy sense of being adrift and relaxing into the current, taking in my surroundings, sighing. Feeling less desperate and afraid; more trusting in my future. Still at loose ends but more willing to "go with the flow."
Craig and I and Justine and Ollie have spent quite a bit of time in here this past week reading, working puzzles, chatting. Craig just left with the kids to take them back to their home with Kassidy. I feel adrift. When they are here Taylor Swift is calling the tunes along with many other artists that I don't recognize. The volume is fairly high and the beat is strong. (Of course, when I play Neil Diamond, I get the volume pretty cranked.) The house feels "alive."
Its the first day of the new year. I feel adrift with the kids gone, with Ted not here to share my feelings. Last night I went to a lovely gathering of friends and acquaintances at longtime friends of ours in their gorgeous home. The house is right out of Architectural Digest and filled with beautiful, tasteful art and decor. The ambience is terrific. But I felt adrift there too. And still feel a residual today. I sat "alone" by a beautiful fireplace much of my time there. Not that there weren't people around, but I wasn't drawn to them. Every time I got up to try to be more engaged with people, I ended up going back to where I had been sitting. Does "alone in a crowd" sound familiar? The host and hostess couldn't have been more loving and welcoming. When one is adrift, sometimes it is hard to "catch" them.
Adrift seems like a very gentle word and for me implies a very gentle sensation: Like floating. Like meandering. Like browsing. Like drowsing. Like doodling. Like strolling. Like wading. Feeling adrift isn't exactly unpleasant, but, at times, feels on the brink of being cast adrift. Adrift into emptiness, loneliness, space, darkness, aloneness. To be cast adrift is not pleasant: it is frightening.
Once, when I was about nine years old, I learned that my father had had a mild heart attack. I was very much a child then. I loved to draw and play and tell stories to the younger kids. I did a lot of drifting and dreaming. One of my favorite spots to sit and look out at a lovely view of our city was on the "landing" at the top of the stairs to the second floor of our house. I would sit on the three steps that took you from the landing to the open foyer that led to the bedrooms and gaze out the tall window. I was feeling frightened by the news about my father. For the first time, I became aware that my parents would leave me some day. Thats what it meant to die. My mind continued meandering through this thought. Suddenly (thats what it felt like) a powerful force seemed to knock me into blackness, into space. The reality that I, too would die, hit like a lightening bolt and was felt as a physical blow and I could "see" myself drifting in nothingness.
I was flailing around in space with nothing to hold on to, nothing to see, nothing reaching out to me. I had been cast adrift. For many years to follow, this image of "death" was like a truth to me. This is what I could expect when I die. Because my imagination had created this, it was very "real" and therefore very "true." And I was terrified. I don't recall telling anyone. I felt self-conscious and embarrassed and devastated.
Interesting: feeling adrift is not the same frightening experience. But not altogether comfortable either. Writing today almost felt compelling. A way to dissipate the uncomfortableness, the almost sense of desperation. The sadness. The sense of isolation. I long to be rescued from this sense of being invisible. At least the writing is like a mirror: I can look, really look deeply, at myself and "see" me. And there becomes more a lazy sense of being adrift and relaxing into the current, taking in my surroundings, sighing. Feeling less desperate and afraid; more trusting in my future. Still at loose ends but more willing to "go with the flow."
Monday, December 12, 2011
THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY
I haven't written since November 12th, eight days before the Anniversary of Ted's death. I have been preoccupied a great deal during this time. I've muddled with lots of different thoughts and emotions. My judgmental self has decided to rear its head and make me wonder: am I doing all right? Should I still be feeling so sad at times? Why haven't I been writing my "blob?" Is it okay that I still would like to nap and bury myself in a book? Is it okay that I don't want to do things like decorate my house? Eat chocolate sundaes and cereal?
I can give myself lots of understanding and empathy and even knowledge about the grief process, the kind of time it takes, the individuality of it, the necessity for being kind to oneself, the self-indulgence, the tears, the frustration, the anger, the listlessness, and on and on. I "shouldn't" need to have an outsider tell me I'm "doing just fine." After all, I'm somewhat of an expert myself what with enduring the death of my father when I was seventeen (he was 49); the death of our first child Brian at the age of 13 months; the death of Ted's mother 2 years after that; the death of my father's identical twin brother when he was 60; 8 years of counseling trying to resolve my lingering grief and sadness; the many, many books I read on grief and loss.
My reality: Ted is gone and never coming back. I can't hold hands with him anymore. I can't hug him, kiss him, sing with him, share "a moment" of connection with him. I must accept those things that I regret. Whenever people say: "you can't do that; you can't have regrets," I bristle inside. I do have regrets and I must face them, put them in a perspective that allows for them. The "if onlys," the "I wishes," are just part of the grief process to be endured, to learn from, to forgive, to embrace as human.
The anniversary brings back the events of that week. The anniversary is a reminder of how quickly time goes by and is stunning in its truth that a year has passed and there will be many more. It is so difficult to grasp. There still is the fantasy of wanting to do it over and do it better. To say what I didn't say. To realize that he was dying and maybe, then, doing somethings differently. I feel I missed the chance for the two of us together to recognize that he was dying and be able to acknowledge and share a goodbye. Did he know that he was going to die? I wasn't with him when they put him on full life support. So I never got to see him awake again. I never knew what he thought before they put him "under." We never got to say one more time "I love you."
To face these uncomfortable thoughts and feelings by putting them in writing where I can "see" them and others can to, is cathartic and healing. Somehow knowing that this will be viewed and "witnessed" by others is comforting.
Thank you for your listening ears and your loving thoughts that you send my way.
I can give myself lots of understanding and empathy and even knowledge about the grief process, the kind of time it takes, the individuality of it, the necessity for being kind to oneself, the self-indulgence, the tears, the frustration, the anger, the listlessness, and on and on. I "shouldn't" need to have an outsider tell me I'm "doing just fine." After all, I'm somewhat of an expert myself what with enduring the death of my father when I was seventeen (he was 49); the death of our first child Brian at the age of 13 months; the death of Ted's mother 2 years after that; the death of my father's identical twin brother when he was 60; 8 years of counseling trying to resolve my lingering grief and sadness; the many, many books I read on grief and loss.
My reality: Ted is gone and never coming back. I can't hold hands with him anymore. I can't hug him, kiss him, sing with him, share "a moment" of connection with him. I must accept those things that I regret. Whenever people say: "you can't do that; you can't have regrets," I bristle inside. I do have regrets and I must face them, put them in a perspective that allows for them. The "if onlys," the "I wishes," are just part of the grief process to be endured, to learn from, to forgive, to embrace as human.
The anniversary brings back the events of that week. The anniversary is a reminder of how quickly time goes by and is stunning in its truth that a year has passed and there will be many more. It is so difficult to grasp. There still is the fantasy of wanting to do it over and do it better. To say what I didn't say. To realize that he was dying and maybe, then, doing somethings differently. I feel I missed the chance for the two of us together to recognize that he was dying and be able to acknowledge and share a goodbye. Did he know that he was going to die? I wasn't with him when they put him on full life support. So I never got to see him awake again. I never knew what he thought before they put him "under." We never got to say one more time "I love you."
To face these uncomfortable thoughts and feelings by putting them in writing where I can "see" them and others can to, is cathartic and healing. Somehow knowing that this will be viewed and "witnessed" by others is comforting.
Thank you for your listening ears and your loving thoughts that you send my way.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
The Brick Wall
 The Brick Wall The Brick Wall The Brick Wall This image has been with me for years. Since my baby Brian died. I kept running into it. Bang. Again and again. Over time and with much counseling I no longer bang into it. But it is still there. Since it is merely an image my mind created when my anguish and frustration was so intense and relentless, I wonder what would happen if I removed the image? I'm not bumping into it with rage like I did for years, but I know its there. I also know that bumping into it causes heightened pain and frustration and nothing changes. The wall remains. The brick wall appeared when nothing changed the Truth: my baby was gone. That truth was so painful that it felt like banging my head on a brick wall. Since Ted has died the brick wall remains, but more as a remembered image than an obstacle of anguish. When Brian died, I did not want to face the truth of that. But now, I want to move forward faster. I'm not young. I don't have years available to torment over my loss. I need to integrate memories into my life, but not let those memories rob me of my present. I look forward to replacing the image of the brick wall with many, many images of life with Ted and my life today: my family, my dear friends, my experiences, beautiful vistas and more to come. It should be easier to say goodbye to the brick wall and hello to images of my life. I would rather "see" those I loved than bang my head on a brick wall or even see that image and what it represented. I love you Ted. It was a year ago that you entered the hospital the last time. When I went to see you early the first morning, you wept. The inflammation in your lungs had spread. Even then I couldn't imagine you not getting better. One week later you left me forever. I have a wonderful imagination and many photos so my memories can provide joy and laughter and delight for years to come. I can see your face with tears in your eyes. Better than a brick wall. I can hear your voice and your laughter. Better that a brick wall. I can see the beautiful blue of your eyes. Better that a brick wall. I can see your hands. Better than a brick wall. I can see you with Gwennie (our doggie) snuggled together in your recliner. Better than a brick wall. So many more images. Better than a brick wall. Thank you for helping me find a way to remove the wall without denying the Truth. |
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