Life's Questions and Lessons

We think; we wonder why we’re here or why this or that happened in childhood. Every age challenges us to grow or decline. Pain, suffering, joy, and happiness color our lives.

Each unique journey weaves in and out with others creating the cacophony of our cultures. When life becomes too painful some reach for booze or drugs, some become mean, others turn to religion. We all have a personal solution; even helplessness is a way of dealing with harsh reality.

In one of the neighborhoods I lived in as a young adult, “Take it easy” or “Don’t work too hard,” people said frequently. Their mantra reflected how they limited themselves; from the south side of Chicago, many had never even ventured into the Loop.

Being a driven soul, I bristled at this advice; being young I argued for my opinion as a better way not yet realizing what mental masturbation means.

Over the years we’re exposed to an amazing amount of energy that we absorb and reflect or deflect; through personal choice, we create who we are. Looking back on a life, wondering how well it served my soul, I’m kinder about my mistakes than when I was young.

Not judging others, do we find that difficult? Come on, don’t add lying. Whether we find them wonderful or awful, we judge. Superior or inferior, we see ourselves in that linear way or safe versus frightening; we find valid reasons for judgment.

In my twenties, I doubted that God exists. If you created us couldn’t you take better care of your creations? Who are you kidding? You created everything; that means you created evil. That’s no kind of god I could wrap my head around, so one day for no reason there was this big bang.

Many nights under the stars with cold wind on my face put my thoughts in a different order to glimpse how complex life is and that order began with God. The understanding I have gives me respect for all life whether I like them or not.

How we live now creates our heaven or hell, so it’s not a stretch to think we’re creating our future (life) according to the law of karma.

So now I’m wondering, how do I best set myself up for my next existence? If this life could be a bank account of knowledge I could send to myself, what wisdom would I impart? What questions should a soul preparing for life ask?

Wouldn’t it be nice to know how we pick our families? How many misplaced zygotes are there? Why was I one? Or was I?

And thanks for this life; it’ been a trip.

My Angel

Dearest Sister,

Very happy you’re better. Please, be healthy! I need you in my life. We cling to each other as girls in a raft.

To be with you again soaking up your loving care, I can’t wait. Last I saw you was during the worse time of my life. I never could look at life without my husband; you made me feel safe and not alone. It felt like the first growth of life after devastation.

How many times in a lifetime do you recognize a soul mate across a room crowded or otherwise? And, yet, there we were.

Can we doubt God has a plan? You were the angel whose caring reminded me that God cares. Your presence united us; being mad with God doesn’t feel nice.

I miss our conversations and am eager to get to know your country better. Who am I kidding? I can’t wait to hear the jazz, while I hear music I visit my happy place.

Two lifelong dog lovers attending an international FCI dog show; I shiver with delight; can’t wait. To stay with you until the book expo in January would be unfair, so we’ll limit my stay; you say how long. Between now and then I’ll be budgeting.

An unscrupulous company has been burrowing into my checking account, almost caused a huge problem when I was in New Orleans. I bought something on the internet, a cosmetic company began sending and charging for cosmetics that went to my post office box. The purchase as understood by me was a one time deal and I’ll let you know if I want more.

On my trip to New Orleans I encountered difficulty, of course, I budget for some but stood at the counter with not enough in my account to work already done. By the grace of God, I had just enough cash on me to cover. I don’t normally carry more than a twenty or two. My heart beat crazy counting.

I’m too old for this stress. I’m going to the bank to find out how to stop this. Nothing I saw on the cosmetics company website lead me to believe we had an ongoing relationship. I’ll bet this happens frequently. This seems like a sharp business practice, huh!

I could have been so screwed because big business didn’t play fair again. I’ve had a hard time since my return home; health comes with nourishment and exercise. As long as my government doesn’t default on me, I can handle my life.

When you’re up for it please send the correct name of the dog show and dates, town, etc. And the same for the jazz fest. Costs.

Let’s pray we’re not too old for fun; huh, Sister! 

Happy Mother's Day to Moms of a Lesser Model

Mother, my mother, this drizzly May morning set aside to honor women, whose uterus has produced, calls me to ponder you.

The duty call made at eight on Saturday, not too late, just in time to say,

 “Happy mother’s day; enjoy your day. You sound tired; I’ll let you go.”

You must have done something right; after all, I still call.

Over the years and beyond the tears we know each other very little and love even less. One of the few stories you ever told me of your life was the one during the Great Depression about getting relief shoes, the girls at school teasing you, and how you would polish those shoes. You hated what you had because it wasn’t enough.

Your mother, my nana, a young widow, dragged her gimpy leg to work as a Walgreen’s waitress in Chicago’s Loop to support her five children. That had to be depressing.

Nana told me her childhood stories of cold Michigan winters, hanging noodles indoors on a clothes line attached at one end to a big stone fireplace in the center of the house, the dishes she learned to cook at her mother’s side.  Nana was the most fervent Catholic I have ever known; she gave definition to the word innocent. 

As the daughter of a deceased Chicago Detective Captain, my mother must have had many eyes on her behavior; until she went to San Francisco to meet the marine she married in WWII.

In all of my years I’ve never met another policeman’s wife as naïve as my nana, but during an emergency, like the time I cut my thumb on a butcher knife while drying dishes, she did what had to be done without histrionics, simply matter of fact. A family crisis with yelling and screaming she endured by sitting small and sweet with a dazed expression. Nana never talked about pain or suffering.

Mother never shared more than a detail here or there. She seemed to fear her older brother, Henry, but handsome younger brother, Bobby had her heart.

The Great Depression and World War II must own many screwed up lives; certainly, yours, my mother, is one. The Great Recession has gratuitously given me plenty to be pissed about, so mother I have more empathy than I ever cared to have.  

Because of you I’ve endured great physical and emotional pain, but I absorbed it; all of the family’s rage is dissolved. I let it go.

When you search your body for the pain of a daughter’s anger, mine won’t be there. I’ve struggled to understand and forgive you for most of my adult life. To say the least, you weren’t the mom they write sonnets for, but given your circumstances I believe; well, we do what we do.

To my Grandma, my dad’s mom, Happy Mother’s Day! You are the best!!

To Nana, I loved your stories; thanks for sharing about our family. You are so special.

Aunt Margaret, I know it comes as a shot we’re not as great as we think we are, but please know that you inspired me to greatness. You’ll always be great in my life.

Mom, you had a hard life; mine turned out so much better.

Thanks, I mean that.

God loves us all!! Hip-hip-hooray, have a good day!

      

Alive and Healing

Good morning!

After two years in the valley of the shadow of death, I’ve stepped on to the shore of my golden years. Hah, it’s good to be here.

The trick is to know you’ve arrived.  Grief isn’t over; I doubt that it will ever be over, but I’m strong again, so I can handle and enjoy life. Bad things happen daily; it’s proof of life, but sitting on the porch, listening to the birds, while the sun lights the valley I feel at home with nature, God, and my life.

Ever changing life, the beauty and the beast, happens whether you do anything or not; I’m back to planning. I told you I felt strong again.

In 1988 Kirt became disabled; I became super woman. I’m sure some woman reading this is nodding her head saying, “I know what you mean.”   When he died, so did super woman.

A vulnerability I hadn’t known since childhood hit me. I’ve worked to become the woman I wanted to be to have it pulled out from under me along with the loss of my best, best buddy.

Throughout my adulthood I’ve challenged myself with one goal after another; my husband would say, “What’s next for you; it’s always something.”

Next: The Dominican Jazz Festival 2016

Who’s coming?

   

The Flow

In the past two years I’ve been lazy, lacking motivation or self-discipline. Nothing really matters anymore, I hated being alive without my husband. When your life implodes, you’re left a shell, a Gregor, a big roach carcass.

My re-make began with who the hell cares, why am I bothering and, oh, screw it.

What did I still like? Or love?  Anything? ……..Not a lot…..

In my youth, I went through an agnostic phase, but it shocked me that I could be so angry with my creator. God, I was pissed.  Life challenged and punched us, but we made sweet lemonade. God gave me to love, someone, who loved me.

Why wasn’t I dead? I don’t know, but I believe God has plans. And since we’ve had a long term relationship, I’ve been going with the flow, as much as I accepted my loss.

  

Acceptance

     Mourning came in stages. The first six months tortured me with the greatest loss of my life; everything I ever did wrong during my marriage haunted me. A harsh look or loss of temper poked me in the middle of the night. Oh, how I wished I hadn’t done that. I was tired, lazy didn’t want to do the little things that would have meant so much to the man I miss so terribly.

     I lamented my mistakes. My darling, I am so sorry for all I didn’t do. My inadequacies plague me. It hurt so much to realize I’d never be with you again in this life. This loss grieved me beyond what I thought I could bear.

     The depth of who you are never came to me completely while you were alive. The beauty of you unfolded in a year of remembering. How being with you allowed me to become more fully the self I am supposed to be astonished me as I saw in retrospect. You had to be a strong man to put up with me all of those years. That you loved me as much as you did never failed to amaze me. I didn’t get why you loved me so much, but I’ve always been grateful.

     That your (Kirt’s) soul, spirit, or essence is intact became my overriding concern. I meditated on that until I realized it was a matter of faith that I must decide and give conviction to whatever belief I chose. In some moments my belief is firm, solid and then there are times… 

     If I believe that Kirt’s essence exists in a meaningful way then it’s my duty to live out my life with purpose. The law of karma guides my position on things. I may doubt most things given the chance to talk myself out of it; I may have been one of the early sophists, J but I have a perfect acceptance of karma; is not to say I have depth of understanding on anything.

     When I’m in harmony with my higher purpose, I’m in good spirit despite the troublesome items of life. This harmony eludes me since Kirt’s passing.

 

       

Second Anniversary

Second anniversary, how sweet, we celebrated with dinner, an alcoholic drink, and frolicking sex.  He bought flowers and a card; signed it with a love poem just for me.

We were only getting acquainted, who I was I hadn’t found out, yet. He was just this big, strong, handsome guy, who wanted me there, when he got home.

These first years, when I learned to live without fear flew past. Responsibilities and rituals replaced duck and hide in my life. Clean the house, wash clothes, make dinner; there you have my responsibility. No one yelled at me, or thought to hit me. Sweet.

Getting the feel for someone takes time, and being an older guy, he continued doing most of the stuff he did before; his wife had a whole world to explore.

Bars and cars, my hubby enjoyed; I got into it a bit, but live music did it for me.  My arms around him, cruising down the highway on his Triumph motorcycle gave us the green countryside of Illinois and neighboring states. We found our common ground.

Hugging, kissing, hand holding, and having sweaty sex bonded us physically. Even now my fingers tingle, nipples harden, and heart pumps harder, when images of us cross my mind.

What a paradox, how slowly and quickly two years go by. Two years ago the sky was cloudy, just as today. Today there’s no lightning or thunder, or crying and screaming. How quickly a lifetime is over.

We matured, learning to love each other with a depth I never thought those two could manage. Somehow, we created a life in which we thrived individually, and together; not bad for a couple of young dummies.

My second anniversary as a widow, without you, brings the reflection of a woman with her man beside her in spirit. After two years of torture, I can see and feel you again. Why did it take so long?  Why am I so thick?

Deadline Two Years Ago

The second anniversary of my honey’s death comes in six days. The enormity of who and what I’ve lost makes me shutter.  But as I calm down, I can feel his love around me.

Days, when I feel him traveling with me, please me; yesterday, at the mineral baths in Coamo, I felt him. The mountain vibes and aruvadic music relaxed me in the hot water to the point of experiencing his positive presence. Peace, how seldom I’ve felt it in a lifetime.

The trials of life buffet me as never before. It sucks to be old and alone, when you’ve been part of a happy couple. The car maintenance alone wipes me out. I hate doing that.

I trusted everything about my husband; he did what was best for us, no fooling. My other trusted inner circle passed after him.

People aren’t who you want them to be; who they are, takes time to discover. A new inner circle takes time.

For my love, I walked away from my business and life at home in Illinois to live two years with him on a tropical island. I’m not crazy about the part where he left me, but I wouldn’t miss the two years together for anything.

Alone on a tropical island isn’t for everyone; I’m not sure it’s for me. For now, I’m embracing the aloneness; hanging with my dogs, sleeping, watching movies, and trying to figure out how to help the Puerto Rican island dogs. Oh, and going to the gym, which I do three or four days a week.

MY friend, another widow, enjoys much the same things as I, so we go to festivals, ballet, the bath in Coamo, and beaches. The blue of the Atlantic Ocean mixed with the verdant green island touched by orange, purple, and rose softens my nerves. She’s fun.

My lonely life doesn’t hurt as much. That means I’m healing, but tears come without warning, some good, some bad.

He was so good to be with; I miss him.  

  

Widowed Twenty-three Months

On Sunday June 14^th Kirt will have been gone twenty-three months. Making peace with his loss little by little. I try to push start the process every chance I get, but it doesn’t work like that.

After a year and a half of steady crying, oppressive sadness came as a welcome relief; until that time at twenty months when I got sick and tired of hating life without Kirt, of wondering if I would be anyone without my husband.

Occasionally in this procession my heart strings would zing for some silly old thing, mostly for the dogs in play or full moon over the lake, a rainbow.

Long talks with my creator have replaced time listening to the flotsam of life, aka the news. I’m getting to peace with my loss, but this detent comes with temper tantrums the likes of which I’ve never, no seldom experienced. There’s a dark facet of me that wants to hold on to the anger, the hate this loss has opened me to. The first year I was absolutely pissed that God would take him from me. One of my life lessons is to learn how to let go; imagine that.

I’m learning to do some little something for myself and the dogs. We play ball as the sun goes down. Even my older hunters, who are no longer thrilled by the ball, mill around and chase each other. It’s our family time.

Going to the gym makes a big difference; after years of sitting around, pushing my muscles, getting them to hurt feels alive. I’m still a fatty, but not as much. I don’t care; the important thing is I can carry a fifty pound sack of dog food. The vote on that item’s importance in this house was unanimous.

Until today I’ve worn mostly black, not so much as a symbol of mourning, which it was, but the one color I’ve avoided most of my life became my color, as dark as my mood.

Today, when I met my friend for sushi lunch, my shorts were red, green, white, and blue plaid with a white tee shirt. I haven’t been able to stand wearing white, since Kirt died.

I wore white shorts on my birthday, which morning from hell describes the start of the day. Once calmed, the day blossomed into a nice lunch at the San Juan Harbor before dropping my friend on the big ferry.

It’s weird how the color of my clothes reflects my interior color. All my oranges, pinks, aquas have languished on the rack. They never looked or felt right. I wish to be ready to reclaim them and the hues of feeling they represent.

Pushing only gives me a rebound backslide, so I’m learning to be gentle with my expectations for myself. This sounds so f’ing bullshit, but I swear it’s not.

I’m seriously committed to having a happy, pleased with myself, contented life again. Who I am didn’t disappear; the context of my life has changed. Alone is the new game. Now, that it’s no longer strange, I can do this.

The emotional backslide I had on my birthday took me by surprise. I rushed through my morning chores, missed my leisurely coffee, didn’t play with the dogs, just fed them and threw them back in the house to hurry to my friend’s house, so we could make it to San Juan between twelve thirty and one to have lunch with another friend.

When I arrived at my friend’s house, my adrenaline flowed; I could not calm down. I rushed around her house huffing because she was so unhurried, while I felt all giddy-yap. I had to give myself a timeout in private to settle. I could see I bugged her and we were basically on time we were not going to be late unless something else happened, so I was too tightly wound up and I knew it; it was ugly.

My usual reaction to stress is I can do nothing; I’m useless. I hate that I can’t maintain focus; that was always a strength. Now, I just go brain dead, duh. Before Kirt died I was taking some classes on Coursera, which kept my mind healthy when his amputation challenges came along. I stayed up late in the night with my Coursera classes and now I just can’t get into them as much as I want to. It’s stuff like this that was never part of my life. The discipline I always brought fails me.

What keeps hitting me is that I need to be gentle with myself, patient, and God, don’t forbid kind. I am enjoying life again.

Time Marches, Change Happens

Working through the problems of the day may have opened my life to new possibilities. When the problem of the day is that somebody beat your dog in the middle of the night, probably on your property, that problem needs careful scrutiny.  

Sister of my heart, Adrienne has asked me to move in with her and her husband. My friends tell me I should go.

Jazz radio and the dogs to hang around with has become comfortable. I’m usually self-motivating, but since Kirt died my get up and go is a shadow on the horizon. My focus, lost to the lazy, hazy days of mourning, only spurts very other something or other.

My free ranging critters will need regular runs along the beach, if they are to live in small space. Playing with the dogs, that’s something I no longer do much. Play is good for the soul. I shall play again.

Darling Dominic, the new boy in my life, the brilliant Border Collie, took the position at my side. The other dogs and even the cat accepted him there. Training this love sponge will be fun. He’s rather willful, so lessons in manners are ongoing.

San Juan holds many options for entertainment. Live jazz in old San Juan on a sultry summer’s night, sitting down wind of a spouting fountain, those are the little things I could enjoy.

If I don’t strive for what I want, it will never happen. Here I’m not striving; I’m treading time.

Leaving the last home I shared with Kirt is unsettling. I don’t know if I can do it. For now, I’m going to look at it, as a change of scene short term. This is my home. I’ve never given up my home easily; not sure if that’s good or bad.

Chicken shit here is going to put her toes on the beach and in the world. God will take me, when it’s my time; meanwhile, I need to put on some big girl panties.

  

Widow Twenty-Two Months

Twenty-two months ago on a Sunday, my husband died.

Missing him is my biggest pastime; doing things to attend the here and now is my second biggest pastime.

Bitter, mean old ladies, all of whom widows, I now understand you. 

When you've lost the best in your life, self-pity toxicity burdens your behavior. God, I don’t want to be one of those.

Thanks to all my friends and acquaintances, who told me how lucky I was in my hour of loss. I never before realized how deprived and miserable you were. Yes, I've been blessed.

Now, that that’s over, picking up the facets left in my life, I've taken inventory of what remains. Just don’t give a shit is clear winner. On the positive is my love for animals, especially dogs. My days are blessed with nature’s beauty. God did good work in this valley.

Other than sorely missing my man and being bored, lonely; I have no complaints. Not giving a shit makes it easier, but that’s so out of character for me. It feels uncomfortable. Sometimes I scare myself.

The people who were closest to me in this life: Kirt, Darlene, and Aunt Margaret left me here. Alone. 

Tell me what the lesson is! I hate this guessing.

This is it, Act III, so how does it go? Anybody out there know?  

Acceptance

Going through a storage locker full of things we collected together, remembering the auction where we stood in below zero weather to purchase something we wanted enough to endure until we carried off our trophy; or how Kirt found his prized leather jacket. Finally, I smile instead of cry.

Twenty-one months ago Kirt, my husband died. I thought I’d never get to acceptance. Pervasive sadness, eased only by escape, now lightens on ordinary days.

circa 1985 working on our farm

Accepting that my husband lead a wonderful life, despite pain and suffering and it was time for his mother to take him, completes my grief cycle, but I still mourn his loss. That will never change; I have a feeling.

The day I left New Orleans to return home to Puerto Rico, a good friend sent pictures from circa 1985. Thank you, Gail. My heart skipped a beat. My nipples still get hard when I see those sinewy forearms.

For twenty-one months I’ve been useless; owning my life means having a purpose. All those, who know me exclaim with me. Dogs!

Since Kirt died, I haven’t been able to focus. It gives me a headache or makes me feel jittery. This requires me to take better care of myself.

Shortly after I retired Kirt began to deteriorate, first he lost a toe, then another, finally the leg; and then, he died. Nothing prepared me for the following hell, as life went on.

It’s time for me to stop hurting and embrace the life I have left. Kirt left me a better person, than I was when I met him. I hope it’s in God’s program for me to be with him again.

Best Advice

I’ve screamed and cried, and then languished for twenty months, sharing my pain in my blog and online in Daily Strength Widow/Widowers’ Support Group.

“I don’t know who I am without him,” was my big lament.

A widow in the group told me,

“Be kind to yourself; treat yourself well each day.”

Meditating on that opened a most pleasant way of thinking for me in my time of crisis.

Lavender soap and body oil replaced sales brands in my bath. Modest luxuries I used as part of daily rituals made me feel better about myself, when I really didn't give a shit about mush.

Movies were replaced by boat rides to restaurants overlooking a tropical lake,

and then I spent some extraordinary time in Louisiana with my Aunt Margaret before she died this last November. We bonded in ways I never expected; nor would her sister or my cousins believe.

If it’s meant for you, God stick’s it right in your arms. God gave me a sister of the heart in Cuba, who for three weeks treated me like precious cargo. She showed me what is felt like to be loved by a sister.

In one of God’s truly mysterious ways, I met another sister of the heart in New Orleans; how I met her is another story, but soon Lt. Linda and I will be paling around the Crescent City.

Thanks for the advice on Daily Strength! I need all the positive I can get in my life. Healing after losing the love of my life is hard.

Kirt had my heart; the pieces of my heart need to find places to love and be loved now that I am accepting his death. Yes, there’s still hesitation, but no longer raw pain. I’ll call that well improved.  

Balance and Purpose

A light morning shower cools the air, Puerto Rico before spring, mid-seventies and breezy. Winter, my official favorite season will end with spring, March 20^th, when night equals day.

Balance on the planet only comes twice a year. Balance of day and night, dark and light, only comes twice a year. Is that a metaphor?

I think it is for the pain-joy balance in my life. Kirt’s death put me in hell. Every day hurt so much that I didn’t really want to live.

A few months into this process I noticed that movies, working out at the gym, hanging with friends, or live music could distract me from my pain. I mean, you know shit like that in your brain, but living the moment is something else.

My brain still doesn’t work the way it did before the DKD, day Kirt died. I can’t concentrate too hard, or too long; it hurts my head. It’s like someone is giving me an electric shock. My memory sucks; I have to write things down. That happened to me before, after Kirt’s accident, I had similar trouble, but it went away for the most part. Age doesn’t help.

Planning my future became habit after I took a sales training course from Tommy Hopkins; thank you, Tommy. Things almost always go better when I have a plan.

I went to the baths in Coamo, a horseshow in Ponce, live jazz in Mayaquez, and the beach once a week. For a couple of hours the pain eased. Someone advised me to do something good for myself every day. Some days that meant I cooked myself a nice meal. I had no taste for food, dropped thirty pounds, but I focused on proper nutrition.

Distractions work only brief periods, so I repeated them more frequently as time progressed. When I didn't, depression visited with a vengeance. The many down periods could only be combated by reading. Early, after the DKD, I slept a lot.

Laying around, reading, my front line defense against depression, comes with a huge drawback; laying around begets laying around, I tried to maintain my workout schedule.

The love of my life died. I am alone, being miserable or distracting myself is not a long term solution. It reminds me of the alert code that played in American airports for years after nine-eleven. We are at yellow alert. This is a yellow alert. I can’t live in the alert.

I need to find a balance in my new reality where I’m not miserable, if I’m not distracting myself.

If what “they” say is correct, I have a purpose. Caroline Myss wrote that we have contracts with God/the Universe.

Twenty months after DKD, I can say that my healing is a work in progress. Carol Myss also wrote about “Woundology” wherein we hang on to our wounds. I don’t think that I’m hanging on to my wounds, but I may not be the best person to ask; who knows?

Long term goals need to be addressed. On my twentieth birthday day I entered into a contract with myself to work hard and contribute to society, and then, when I got old, I would travel.

In two months, I’ll be sixty-seven; suddenly, all I care to do is plan visiting different places. It feels like an alarm went off in my head, but is it really just providing escape, another distraction to prevent me for facing day to day life? 

All I can say is that if it gets me to a better place, “Thank you, God!”

  

My Soul Screamed

Mourning can become a way of life. When I picture myself as sad and lonely, the dark energy grows. How can I not remain focused on my loss, when the loss of my husband was the loss of the greatest gift of my life?

I’ve lost the best of everything in my life: my husband, my best friend from childhood, my best mother, my godmother. That doesn’t even include what I lost in the “great” recession. How do you come back from all that loss not a looser?

Loss felt like my spirit was being drained away, as my husband lost body parts to diabetes. I mended parts where my energy leaked on the hospital floor. My heart stopped when my darling looked where his leg was no longer. I watched his face as he internalized his loss. Being part of we, I felt his pain deeply.

Through it all, I never thought about losing him. I only thought about how we would handle the next problem. We were focused on his recovery. He exercised for the first time in years, so he could get ready for his new leg. Hell, I was getting him signed up for stem cell research to re-grow blood vessels in his legs.

The day he died I gave him mouth to mouth resuscitation, but it was as if every move I made to save him was being countered by God. The scream in my soul reverberated for well over a year. To say that every day in that time frame was torture does not exaggerate.

The question is will mourning become my way of life; or will I find my core wellbeing?

My niece, Rachel, put it on the line when she said, “It’s time for you to start a new chapter; start a new book.”

Before I can really heal this soul scream needs to stop.

Widow Journey

Screaming pain became sad and lonely.

Sad and lonely can become a way of life in widowhood. 

Just don’t care fits right in there.

End of last year all that grabbed me by the ass and grew roots to the sofa. 

Laying around on the sofa begets a weak, achy back, and more little aches than you can count.

This is the tunnel which leads to the exit sign.

Fighting the sad and lonely, I just don’t care blues; yeah, it’s fight or die.

I can’t crawl in the tomb with him. I had him cremated.

Time mutes the pain of loss.

Thank God!

Happy Birthday Honey

Good morning, my Honey, happy birthday!

Wherever you are, I hope you have both legs, all toes, and no backaches.

Remember, the year I bought you Tyr, our beautiful Rottweiler, the one that turned out to be my dog. I always had so much fun buying stuff for you on your birthday. The look on your face gave me great joy, my Honey.

After a lifetime shared with you, going it alone tends to be a bittersweet journey. Since this birthday fell on a Monday, I celebrated for us last night listening to music at the place that gives the trail rides.

The same couples, we watched bumping and grinding on the dance floor, were getting it on. A young woman looking like Latina Jessica Rabbit danced with a handsome, muscular guy, who had moves of his own. They won hot couple of the evening.

A spunky little woman from North Carolina danced with me. We won in the category of not a clue of how to dance salsa, but wiggling anyway. The merriment climaxed in a fish feast.

I enjoyed your birthday, which I will celebrate always. Thank your ma for the gift she gave me. Tell her I said she was right; I was wrong. She’ll know what I mean. Today I have the chores and errands of everyday life at my heels.

Dancing Ford Pick Up

My gift to you this year is that I can feel the ups and downs again; not just the flat line of death.

Happy birthday, my love, be blessed.

My Road Back to God

Every day I talk to my husband. After his death in July of 2013 I didn’t know how to go on without him. It’s a bit disconcerting when you’ve spent a lifetime as half of a we, and then it’s only me. If this has happened to you, you know the agony.

Wandering down the valley of the shadow of death the first year or so was the worse year of my life, ever. In that first year have you ever wondered how you were getting up in the morning? Moving could be torture; why didn’t I just die? Often I thought myself e real f’ing coward for not just “doing it.”

In less than five months Kirt will be dead two years. To say my life is different states the obvious, but the nuances of the change is the gift.

I can’t thank God enough for the gift of a life with a man, who loved me as much as I loved him. We made the best of everything life shot at us, and had fun doing it.

Pissed with God is not a good place for a creation to be. Kirt and I found happiness with each other, so how are you expected to feel towards the one doing the removing? Come on! Nightmares of the dark night of the soul are made up of angst like that.

I prayed to get over my mad with God. How could I realize how arrogant it is to be mad at the creator, and yet still be so pissed?

As a routine in my life I talk with God rather than pray as the form of communication. During the storm in which both God and my husband were lost to me, I prayed.

I talk to Kirt, the manifest of God I love the best, but best of all I’m talking to God again.

God will be happier, if I ever freakin learn to listen.

Y’all enjoy your day

Second Christmas Widowed

                                    Hi my Honey,

Our second Christmas apart is almost here

Has your spirit well spent this year?

Now, no longer as frantic over your demise

Precious moments can feel you near

What universe can be seen from your eyes?

Tropical isle, travel, dreams we shared

Meant so much more when we were paired

Did your soul unite with loved ones past?

Love, I’ve learned is not selfish, be happy

Always on a quest, I charged through life

You often wondered

What does it take to satisfy or make you happy?

Honey, the answer was just being your wife.

Mother Love Energy

Maternal energy abounds on the isle of Puerto Rico. It wraps around you like a warm hug. Mama, the core of the family earns her place with a loving vigilance. She touches and caresses, while suggesting what you should be doing.

Have something to eat. What can I get you to drink? Those are the tools of caring, that bring Puerto Rican hearts home. Daughters and sons sit at the table to tell mama all about it. She listens and asks questions. When she tells the hard truths, you know that she’s right.

In Mundelein, Illinois, I met a woman exuding the mother love energy. Her smile and make it right resolve captivated me. I had to have someone like that in my life. No matter what the universe threw at her, she handled it, believing that God would be there for her and her family.

Her dream of retiring on the island of her ancestors became reality. God blessed her with a beautiful home overlooking the ocean. When God blesses a friend in the circle, all in the circle are blessed, and so I visited my friend in Puerto Rico. Of all the places in the world I dreamed of visiting, this wasn’t one. This was my husband’s dream.

Her love and joy showing off her island infected us. Gracious rituals seduced us. The simple way a person passing your table in a restaurant says, “Buen probecho,” brings a dollop of love to the day.

Puerto Rico, the curve ball blessing of our lives came from the grace of my love for a wonderful wild woman of Puerto Rico.

Thank you for loving me and being in my life.