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.

Love Hurts Pain Real

People do horrible things because not being loved hurts so much; not being able to express or change the pain of the void inside makes us do wicked things. Some days I hurt so much that a wicked behavior just hops right out of me.

I’m at a level of awareness so I recognize it and then, of course, get upset with myself. My tendency to beat myself up over the smallest infraction of behavior has diminished thanks to a thoughtful God, who has given me so much to want to beat myself up over that I’ve almost quite given up on it. What do they call it in psychological terms? Flooding?

Drowning in sorrow, but not actually dying has given me a new perspective, lucky me. Caroline Myss talks about seeing our archetypes. I read the book, have the playing cards and worked on understanding the mess with little success. There should be a dummy card with a girl in the corner with the dunce hat on for one of my archetypes.

When I was a married, fat and happy lady, I looked at the prostitute card and wondered if under a different set of circumstances it would apply to me. Little did I know the need for another new card, the occasional asshole, which applies way more than the prostitute.

The people who have loved me the best are passed. I have time to remember why I miss them, to absorb the love bonds we created together. Knowing that never again in this lifetime will I have the joy of time spent in their love hurts.

I would rather endure the beatings of my childhood all over again, to feel every physical pain I ever had than suffer the feeling of love lost; that’s how painful this has been.

Healing, holding on, letting go, growing are the bad with the good. This is the part where what doesn’t kill me will make me stronger for the task of my life. The conscious me is still in “Duh” mode on whatever that is. What surprises me is that I am actually learning to go with the flow. Who says you can’t train an old control freak?

My next story will be about true love and surprise, surprise; it’s not about me.  

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.