Ch, Ch, Changes

I opened the closet door to bury my nose in my husband’s shirts, but he’s no longer here. Pictures of his beloved face look long ago.

Now, the time I live alone fills my days; my life is the merit of my actions. Perhaps that thought shouldn’t overwhelm as it does.

Goals have always been important to me. Lately, my goals are puny. 1) Enjoy the day. 2) Work out. 3) Travel. 4) Go to jazz festivals.

These are lovely goals for a retiree, but light weight. I always have had a cause or two aside from personal or professional goals. Contributing to the greater good, the rent we pay for our space here, have I paid my dues?

I fight for what I believe in; I’ve been part of many causes. The dog problem on the island has held my attention for ten years, but now I feel apathetic.

Malaise, melancholy smolder my life away. Missing you can’t be allowed to diminish my future. For each one of us, our life is our work of art. If I have ten or twenty years left, what do I want them to say?

Motivated, hard driving described me for decades. People frequently called me an over achiever. I identified with that; it was me. And now zip like my husband’s scent in the house.

Life After Loss

Thirty-eight months after my love passed, like a sleepwalker I open my eyes to a world without you. Each day collecting experiences, a memory without you is what I have. Nightmare of the first year eased into the sadness of the second year. Even in the third year depression owned more days than not, but I soldiered on.

Date people say; meet a new man. It will heal your heart, but I fear it only would cover the hole with Play Dough.

Besides, where in the hell does a fat old lady go to meet a man worthy of a good conversation let alone love or companionship? By this age we all come with luggage a new person could get lost in. Who needs it?

Frequently I feel that I’ve joined some old ladies club where my opinion or worth receives little value. Middle age men cut in front of old ladies in line and have the nerve to look at us like where do you have to go. The worse part is clerks will take care of them first because they look important to the clerk. Balls to that I tell you.

When your life is a struggle between I’m chicken shit and what’s a painless way to kill yourself, that’s when the vultures hit. In my case a mechanic referred to me by a friend stole all the air bags out of my SUV. A handyman hired to replace the washers in all the faucets charged me for replacement parts he returned after he turned the old washers over gaining about six weeks before I had the same problem.

These things aren’t end of the earth bad, but I was already at the end of the earth. I’ve heard similar stories of people preyed upon in their darkest hours, so at least I’m not taking it personally.

They say that the colors of our auras reflect the energies we possess. Hurt and loss are a couple of ways even a normally happy, person loses positive energy. I knew a kind hearted, good woman, who after the loss of both of her parents got lost in the valley of the shadow of death. Her energy became so dark that the dogs in the neighborhood raised their hackles and barked at her.

Until I met her I’d always thought of negative and positive in simple terms of good and bad.

Since I’ve been in this dark place dogs react to me differently. That saddens me so; I must do something about it.

My exercise program is an apt metaphor for my life: hurts like hell, demands consistency, but little by little, poco a poco, improvement. I must be patient with myself.

Choices

Cheer up; is it as easy as a pill? Or is it the same as filling your day with beauty and pleasure, only to return home to sad and lonely?

Am I just a melancholy person?  Is that my new normal? No, that can’t be me! I see beauty in the day.

Perhaps I need more respect for my feelings; the shadow of my loss looms large even after three years. What did the Beatles song say? Filling the hole where the rain came in; was that it?

Someone told me that to strive for contentment is the best I can hope for at this stage of life. In his letters I met an educated man with the perks of life whose sadness rivaled my own, but I don’t accept contentment as my ultimate for the present.

My life will never be the same without my darling, but I’d like my joy of life back. To take pleasure in the day without an immediate return to sadness would signal my next stage of healing. I yearn for it.

Daily problems, the proof of life that screws with each day don’t impact me, except sometimes to punctuate Kirt’s absence. I’m just so tired of feeling sad. To add to my burdened feelings, is guilt because I am so blessed. I’ m healthy, living on a warm island with God’s beauty in my face.

Life is always problematic; I faced challenges finding joy in the doing. How do I get back to that, when loss is beating the snot out of me?

Guidance, I pray to recognize it. Ending on a high note with hope!!

Stormy Weather

Puerto Rico is under a tropical storm; the rain beats a steady rhythm. At three o’clock on a Sunday my darling died. My throat feels ragged from screams three years old. It rained that day as well.

The scent of wet humus wafts in the window on the cool, moist air. A chill feels good to me as thunder rolls through the hills. Nothing like a lazy, rainy day, I just finished reading See How They Run by James Patterson; no wonder why I’m feeling moody.

Times of feeling alone, separated from loved ones are the most difficult to deal with; don’t you agree?

We confronted our problems admirably; dare I say with dignity. We were strong.

Alone, I’m becoming a strong woman again, but there’s little heart in it. The biggest freaking irony is that I’ve lived in my head more than my heart. My life’s process has been to learn to live more in my heart. I wanted to feel things more acutely. I had to want that! The tight rein I held over my feelings didn’t suit me.  Goodie.

At every point in my life I believed what I was doing was preparing me for my life’s purpose, which I thought to be as a dog trainer. But I’m still here, so I have further purpose, but the thought of fulfilling my destiny no longer sparks my imagination.

We had goals and dreams that we worked hard to achieve. We were always going somewhere or doing something. Things at first seldom worked out, but how sweet it is when they do. We made a nice life, but then things happened and now I’m alone.

My life partner, my best friend from grammar school, and my closest family member all died within two years. That’s more alone than I’ve ever felt.

Depression parked it’s behind on my shoulders and rides like a cowboy, but bit by bit a new woman emerges, who likes to go and do. She’s finding her strength, and hope for a meaningful life apparently springs eternal.

The rain has passed; the air is still, only a single coqui sings. I’d better go do something.

My best to you!

The Woman of My Dreams

Do you feel it; the negative energy on our planet rises with the temperature. Every individual interaction creates energy. The more hate we throw around; the more is coming our way. It’s a snowball of karma aimed at us.

We want to be positive, loving people, but somebody has an asshole moment in your direction, so now, we’re pissed. This was your friend; how could they?

Discussing it only brings on more bull in the form of lies and excuses, so why bother?

At an age where you’ve seen it all before, the games become instantly recognized; you see how people advance themselves with others. You try to be careful of new people, but when you have nobody, you really must give it a try.

Here’s the thing; in the last few years, I’ve been burned so much that I’m beginning to relish my alone time. My favorite time is alone in public places where people delight me. I am the friendly older woman smiling or perhaps observing what a fine family you have. Our exchange creates a spark of positive energy.

This may be a shame, but I don’t care to get to know people well enough for them to have an opinion on how I live, call me a bitch, or tell me what I should do.

I respect your choices; be who you are, but show me the same respect. Don’t be duplicitous with me; my forgiveness is not a forgone conclusion. Once you lose my respect, we’re over no matter what else you have to offer.

The inevitable choice to be an asshole back or to walk away discharging as little negative energy as possible; flip a freaking coin, I can go either way; I am not the woman of my dreams.

  

The Woman of My Dreams

Do you feel it; the negative energy on our planet rises with the temperature. Every individual interaction creates energy. The more hate we throw around; the more is coming our way. It’s a snowball of karma aimed at us.

We want to be positive, loving people, but somebody has an asshole moment in your direction, so now, we’re pissed. This was your friend; how could they?

Discussing it only brings on more bull in the form of lies and excuses, so why bother?

At an age where you’ve seen it all before, the games become instantly recognized; you see how people advance themselves with others. You try to be careful of new people, but when you have nobody, you really must give it a try.

Here’s the thing; in the last few years, I’ve been burned so much that I’m beginning to relish my alone time. My favorite time is alone in public places where people delight me. I am the friendly older woman smiling or perhaps observing what a fine family you have. Our exchange creates a spark of positive energy.

This may be a shame, but I don’t care to get to know people well enough for them to have an opinion on how I live, call me a bitch, or tell me what I should do.

I respect your choices; be who you are, but show me the same respect. Don’t be duplicitous with me; my forgiveness is not a forgone conclusion. Once you lose my respect, we’re over no matter what else you have to offer.

The inevitable choice to be an asshole back or to walk away discharging as little negative energy as possible; flip a freaking coin, I can go either way; I am not the woman of my dreams.

  

New Normal

Somebody once told me that whatever your reality for the last six months, that is your new normal. WTF!

In the last three years I’ve ranged from completely f’ed up to pretty much half assed presently.

Losing eighty per cent of the good things in life hits hard; just think about it, 80%: a job, a business that was a passion, our beautiful home in the shade of a forest reserve, a husband with whom life was happy, family, and friends. All were lost within a few years.

Giving myself credit for twenty per cent to the good may be generous, but if you can’t tell by now, I’m generous. To the good I’m: healthy, only a tad or so forgetful, my house on a tropical island is easy to clean, the gym I inhabit four days a week costs less than thirty dollars a month.

When you’re mourning the best of your life, who gives a shit? For a long time very little mattered. It’s hard to be nice when you hurt; that’s my new normal.

Some people say, “Life’s a bitch, and then, you die.”

I couldn’t disagree more; life is certainly hard, but gratitude for the person who could have done you wrong and didn’t is a good place to start. For all those, who have been kind or loving to me, thank you.

 My honey and I found beauty on our rocky path; we gave back and felt good for it. Have you ever just loved being with someone? Couldn’t wait to be with that person again? We could fight, oh, my, we could argue. I could stay pissed, too. We were never perfect, but what a lovely fit!  Our time together was a gift.  

With his death I lost my rock; I am alone and adrift, since my BFF from childhood and Aunt Margaret died. A woman I know lost her mom eight months after her husband died. They were the major receptacles of her love. She’s drinking herself to death.  

So, three years later trying to give a shit about the present and still lost is my new normal. Fortunately trying is still part of it. It gives me hope for a better normal.

Morning Rituals

The morning sun screams brightly on my little white house, heating the air, which begins to stir. Each day has its demands; get up, get up.

No, no, I don’t want to; it feels good to be here in my bed. A quick inventory tells me no headache, hips aren’t sore, no backache. Moderately aging bones complain often and loudly, so what could motivate me to alter this perfect peace?

That lovely morning sun shining on my bed and the need to go to the bano demanded I do something; where’s a Depends when you need one?

Once up, coffee must be made, so I shuffle down the hall thinking how lovely I am in the morning; someone should be here to see this.

Crap!! I didn’t fill the water reservoir in the coffee maker last night. Doing that in the morning messes with the flow of the day. I just want to head back to bed while the coffee brews. Oh, God, why am I up? Needless to say I didn’t put the beans in the coffee grind either. I refuse to judge the day this early. Yeah, it’s going to be a winner.

On the way back to bed I catch my profile in the bathroom mirror. Hell, I promised myself I’d do something about that, so I grab the broom handle leaned against the wall for just this occasion. Eighty bendovers with the broom across my shoulders and sixty twists later I smell coffee. The aroma pulls me to the pot, I shuffle fast.

Rich is the morning air with expresso blend. Thank you, God, for this day. A sip before toddling back to bed; oh, that’s so good. On  the way, I wonder: why waste time, and head back to the kitchen to make toast. With coffee refilled by the time the cream cheese and avocado is on the toast, I’m ready to wake; let the morning begin!