Who Loves Me

Ever wonder, how many people care about me? It’s not always the same as those I care about. All other things being equal it seems like a fair barometer. With a cadre of intimates who love me, I have been blessed.

My dearest Aunt Margaret, my confidant, my mentor, my god mother passed away this month. Kirt, Darlene and Margaret were my inner circle.

These wonderful spirits graced my life. Their physical presence sadly missed. How much of my confidence came from who I was in their eyes? My life feels deflated.   

Each morning while making the coffee I say, “Good morning, God. Good morning, Kirt. Good morning, Darlene.” And now I add, “Good morning, Aunt Margaret.

Blondie, Chi-Ping, Lucky and Robert Redford greet me with the exuberance of the living to keep me balanced in this world. Some days it doesn't work as well as others.

This weekend was made possible by dvd movies. Inner circle, my core people are on the other side. My embrace of the day is pretty half ass lately.

Margaret was the adult I could be a child with. She loved me even when she was angry with me. She listened to me, really listened, the way my Kirt did.

Aunt Margaret was the adult I wanted to become. She earned her own income, married Uncle Lou, the coolest man in New Orleans, showed horses and dogs among other outdoorsy activities.

She had the best dog. Staunch could read my mind. When I felt all alone that dog was there for me. Aunt Margaret told me in order to understand Staunch I needed to learn to speak dog.

 Thanks to Margaret and many dog friends my dog is way better than my Spanish. 

Half of We is Who? Me?

Silly, sweet, sometimes stupid, seldom mean, never wicked, lately sad and self-absorbed, smart upon occasion describes me, so does smart ass once in a while.

Self-discovery! Shit, I remember taking that trip many years ago. I liked the adult I became as a result of the journey. Easy had nothing to do with my life. Whacking at it, sooner or later, got me where I wanted to go. I worked hard, and had the life I wanted.

They tell you to visualize what you want, to stay focused. We had retirement plans for winters in Puerto Rico and a few summers in Europe. Many nights in Illinois we sat before a blazing fire discussing whether we wanted to live in Tuscany or The Netherlands first.

The Big Recession obviated any further thought on that, so winter in Puerto Rico and summers in New Orleans staying at my sister, Darlene’s became our back up plan with touring the states in a camper as sub plan. We had a new plan.

Sister and husband took off without me last year. With the most important person in my life gone; I wanted to die with him. My Darlene gone three months later; how do I picture my life with no one in it?

Their deaths are birthing a new life for me, a painful delivery, my essential identity; proving once again you’re never too old to be scared shitless.

The Widowhood Who am I Now Blues

Identity, when I have a firm grasp of who I am, dealing with others becomes easier.

I picture a young woman reading this and saying, “Well, duh!”

The complex facets of identity on a superficial level change with the mask we put on for each other.

I’m not a diamond; I’m more like coal under pressure, so who I am has changed from when Kirt was alive. We were diamonds in the rough.

Demoted to coal under pressure, but I still know what it feels like to be part of diamonds in the rough, so happy wants to be part of my identity.

We had real love. We put each other first; that’s real love. I know what love is; it’s a part of me.

  Dealing with facets of humanity not always pleasant, I feel the barbs of my defenses grow.

Demoted from having money to head above water, the one per cent still piss me off with their shallow behavior. My crusader heart is still on my sleeve.

I’m a lonely old woman, no gently aged like a good burgundy, full bodied and lingers on the tongue.

Having read that, you, now, know I am still a positive thinker, which was hard won after Kirt’s death. I stared bitterness in the eye. My sister, Darlene, turned bitter. She became mean and spiteful. I am not that.

There’s so much more about being a single woman of age. The single part looms large because thanks to my husband; I really like men.

Identity is all I own. I need to know what's in the vault. My view of myself affects how I deal with other people and everything else. 

Who

Who are you?

Who, not what, like wife, dog trainer, etc.

For almost a year and a half I've been screaming that I don’t know who I am without my husband. Being alone with a stranger sucks!

Who, as in one who stops to soak in sunsets; that’s a facet falling under nature lover, a big fan of God’s handiwork.

Accepting the bad which always goes with good is the lesson. It’s the bitch slap to get my attention before the lesson can begin. Ouch!

The need to make it better part of my makeup kicks in constantly, saving had become my specialty. How many times do I have to stuff a sock in my mouth? Bromides spewed without a wanting ear falls like spittle. I need a sign on my forehead. Smile. Shut the fuck will do for me and you.

Who I am is a heterosexual woman without her man. We hugged and kissed liberally during the day. He pinched my breast and smacked my ass. Love lit his eyes when he looked at me. Sad.

Honor and value, the depth of relationship possible between two flawed human beings. He and I did so well; now, no one knows me and few care.

 Left on my own, my lesson to be learned is, duh, what?

Be strong, hang in there because this feels like an essential lesson.

Kirt, my honey, had a tattoo of a duck pointing to itself saying,

“Who, me?”

I miss my smartass little duck.

Sorting It Out, I Hope

Good morning,
      Today won’t be another spent hugging the sofa; not that I’m complaining about days with the World Wide Web in my lap. It’s just that leaving the house feels like a great hassle.

     Days padding around the house replaced last year’s spent in bed bawling my eyes out. Healing from the worse experience in your life is like healing from disease; duh, I just figured that out.

     My life, our life was never easy.  It’s funny; we knew some very fortunate people who complained constantly. As long as I knew Kirt Carr he never was a complainer, and God gave him much to complain about.

     Fear, pain, and sorrow tie me to negative energy. Letting go of my yesterday will come when today becomes a reasonable substitute. How morose can I sound?

     This is not me! I’m the adventurer. I fascinated my husband because I was always getting into something. In later years Kirt was not only content to endorse my quests; he actively participated. He was one of the best dog show husbands ever!

     Not to digress, but 90.3 FM has the best jazz in Puerto Rico. A tremendous trumpet and a bawling sax make it impossible to not be kind of positive. My Honey’s head would be bobbing while his eyes searched the lake for fresh activity. This morning’s jazz offerings have been perfect.

     Actually, the jazz energy has motivated me to want to go out to tonight for a trumpet and a sax.

     

What To Do

Lonely, but not in abject horror like last year, still wondering what the hell am I going to do now.

My way is to stroke for what I want, stroke hard and keep stroking away. It serves me well. We, my husband and I, had a fine life.

Floundering, the byproduct of not knowing where you want to go, is better than last year, but who likes it?

Detours feel like normal changes in course, but going round in circles sucks.

Yes, I know Kirt wouldn't want me to:

Be unhappy

Feel lost

Not give a shit.

Until I find new purpose, that’s the way it is. Only I can find my purpose. So far nothing seems to be working out.

Filling my life with the pleasures of parties, shopping, beaches, and jazz is poor substitute for what I've lost. I’d feel embarrassed about whining, if I wasn't so serious.

Passion for pursuits, causes or just interests ruled my adult life after a childhood of be quiet and stay out of the way, try not to get hit. On balance feeling blessed about life, I am not complaining; no, I just lost my husband. I am complaining.

Being open to the universe is one thing, but sitting on the mountainside waiting for it to happen is hard; or is it foolish?

As my honey used to say, “Do something, even if it is wrong.”

Figuring out what that is will be better, if I didn’t feel desperate. Let me just take a deep breath and enjoy the rain. 

November Reflections

God, the Universe laid out an interesting odyssey for my life, the details of which sometimes amaze me.

Looking out my window at lush green fields with the wind whipping through the valley I am contemplating this year’s events, the first year after my honey, my husband Kirt died.

Who would have thought I’d be spending a couple of months on some guys couch; yeah, no shit, who would have thought that?

The advantage of accepting an offer of a sofa at my age is I can be fairly certain nobody is going to lose his mind in the middle of the night and pounce. The guy was a dear to share what he had and proved to be a huge distraction from my sorrow.

Only the wind and a rooster crowing bring my mind back to my island home and now. November brings reflection, time tempered my pain to find me sad, but resilient.

I slept in a kitchen-living room combo in a one bedroom, one bath, cozy apartment. My desperation for returning to New Orleans outweighed any fear, until the night he flipped the kitchen light switch on, followed by fumbling with pans. Awake and alert beyond belief, I sat up.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he said with a bemused smile. “Would you mind listening to the poem I just wrote?’  

At one in the morning I listened to poetry and stories of the man’s life.

My dogs return home barking and wagging their tails. It’s time to go rub some tummies.

God, I promise to enjoy each day you give me as best I can. I realize the day is your gift to me; I pray to use it wisely.