Oh, yesterday was hard hard hard.  I'm not sure why...Mother's Day?  Even though David and I were not much on holidays?  Just another round of deep grief?  I find myself wishing I could just feel it all at once and get it over with.  At one point yesterday I was on my knees in the dirt of the garden, sobbing and crying, "I just can't do this anymore.  It's too hard."  Maybe it's the beauty of Spring, and the work of the garden and how I can't keep up.  Maybe it's just what it is.  I find myself begging him to just come back now.  Which step is that in the grief process?  Bargaining?  I hate that stupid grief process.  It's different from a breakup....with breakups the person is still in the world, there is still possibility, even when there isn't.  Folks don't come back from death.  Hope is a hard thing to hold on to in this case. 

I got myself to church, late.  And had to leave early, but I got there.  The rector spoke of what it must have been like for the followers of Jesus.  To be lost and confused and fearful, having lost the person they loved so much, the person who was leading them to something new and different and better.  And then he was back with them.  What joy that must have been.  But then ascension happens and they watch him leave them again.  Despair.  I can relate to all of this, what I wish, how I would feel, and I'm not sure I could stand the second loss.  David (the rector) said, "Ascension leads to Pentecost."  I haven't been able to let go of that phrase.  Pentecost is when the Holy Spirit blows through and cleans everything out, brings peace and purpose back into their lives. I could use some of that.  We never know when it will happen, but to go on, I have to believe it will. 

Bobby McFerrin does a version of the 23rd Psalm using the feminine pronoun and I love it, especially the part where he says "the mother, and the daughter, and the Holy of Holies."  So much better than, "the father, the son, and the Holy Ghost."  I am ready for the Holy of Holies to breathe some new life into my grief and fear and loss. 

Let's remake the world with words.
Not frivolously, nor
To hide from what we fear,
But with a purpose.

Let's,
As Wordsworth said, remove
"The dust of custom" so things
Shine again, each object arrayed
In its robe of original light.

And then we'll see the world
As if for the first time.
As once we gazed at the beloved
Who was gazing at us.

~ Gregory Orr ~

I seem to be back in a similar space that I was during the time David was in Solace.  I'm exhausted but can't really sleep.  I drift, my mind going in a thousand different directions, when I should be focused or better yet, sleeping.  When I was with him and he was dying, it made sense and felt almost normal.  Now it just gets in the way.  I am trying to find my way back to normal, I have to work and go to meetings and deal with life outside of the protected environment of the Solace Center.  This isn't really working.  But like so much else, I don't know what to do and I simply have to accept it and trust it and work with it.  There is a lot to be learned in this process, about control or the lack thereof. 

I had a meeting with the grief counselor today.  I am so very grateful for her.  Grief is what she DOES, everything I come out with seems to make perfect sense to her.  And she tells me the truth, which can be hard to come by.  "yeah, it sucks.  Yeah, it hurts, and it's gonna hurt for a long time.  Yep, this is some of the hardest work you will ever do."  And then she somehow helps me find something to hold onto.   

Today we were getting ready to do some difficult work and the begining of that process was to get in touch, as clearly as possible, with a "safe space."  You know, that place where you are calm, at peace, safe.  That magical place in your mind where  everything you need, you have.  For most of my life I have had a very specific place, I was on good terms with this space and could get there quickly and easily.  Today I noticed a great sadness in this space. Here is why: When I realized that even though I had told David, myself, everyone, that I had let him go, I really hadn't and I knew I was holding him back.  I had to find a way to let him go and the only way I could do it was to go to that place and mentally and emotionally keep myself there while I watched him walk away and into the light.  It was truly the hardest thing I have ever done and I had to leave the building after that or I would've taken it all back and held on as tightly as I could.  Two hours later he began actively dying and was gone four hours after that. 

That safe space made that possible, but it holds that moment for me and the pain of it.  I need to find a new place in my mind, my heart, my soul.  So many goodbyes and so many new beginings.  My heart breaks over and over again and I do not yet approach the new beginings with anticipation, only a weary sense of duty. 

Where is your safe space?  That place where your heart expands, your soul rests, and you are given the strength to face what needs to be faced? 

This was in my inbox today, from Carrie Newcomer:

There are several phrases that people say (with all good intention and desire to comfort) that have always troubled me. One of those phrases is "God never gives us more than we can bear." I really do understand that this phrase is meant to give courage and remind us of all the times we struggled, survived, and remained whole. It is good to remember that even when we are struggling or wounded, that we do have resources (our own spirit, our community and loved ones, The Light that walks with us even in the darkest times).
But to me how the phrase is constructed implies a god that would intentionally "give" us the worst sorrows of our lives. Implying a god that is either very cruel or very capricious. Secondly, it implies that we must not fail, or fall apart, or be wounded in ways that it takes a life time to try to heal - that terribly wounded person must be outside The Light.

... So I've come up with other things to say that hopefully convey my presence and the presence of something made wholly of Light. I usually say, "I am here for you, your loved ones and community are here for you-you are not a lone." Or " I know you are doing the best you can- what looks like help right now? " Many times just being present is enough- no words are necessary. A touch or a hug is all that is needed. 

(Painting by Julia Rogers based upon the song Three Women)

I have been surprised by who shows up and who doesn't, who is comfortable and who isn't, and how folks show their care for both me and David during this process.  It's not always the people I would've thought. 
 
I too struggle with those well meant phrases.  "At least it was short and quick", 'You're young you'll recover quickly", and the one I dislike the most right now:  "At least he's in a better place and looking down and caring for you."  I probably dislike it the most because I don't feel him looking down and caring for me, I feel particularly alone most of the time.  I don't feel his loving presence, I don't  have him coming to me in dreams or hear his voice or catch a whiff of his scent.  He is simply not here.  In my heart I think I believe that he did indeed go to some better place, he became one with the light and love that is at the core of this world.  And that is a good thing.  But why would he be interested in looking down on me?  He's simply gone on to a place of blazing light and love.  And I suspect the idea of me as a seperate being from him and all the rest of that light and love just isn't a reality any more.  Once we are there, this reality no longer exists.  Anyway, that's where I am these days.  So it's not very comforting to have folks tell me he is looking down sharing in my joys and sorrows.  I feel more as if I have been left behind until it is my time to return to the Source. 
 
And right now it often feels like getting through, day by day.  I believe that will change, but it's going to take some time.  And in the meantime the things that are really comforting and helpful are simple presence.  Get me up and out of the house, have a cup of coffee with me and talk about your life, give me a hug, take me on a hike, dance with me.  I don't need comforting words, I need comforting presence. 

I walked Lulu this morning down a ribbon of white sand road under a tunnel of Live Oaks hung with Spanish moss. We are in farm country, fields of watermelons on one side, cows on the other. I hear the Bobwhites in the fields and the mockingbird in the trees.  The pouring rains of the last three days have gone and blue skies and cool breezes have appeared in their place, a rarity for Florida this time of year.  It's wonderful.  I feel at peace here.

I find myself almost forgetting who I was with David.  He only came with me to Florida one time, so most of my experience of myself here is as someone other than a part of us.  I do find myself thinking at night that there is something I need to do and then I realize it's call home.  And it's sad not needing to do that.   I loved being married, being a part of a partnership, and I miss it. 

The wedding yesterday was sweet.  A crazy, chaotic, cacophony of Hope.  I keep thinking about how we humans live from hope, even if we don't think we do.  We have weddings and babies, we plant trees and gardens, we teach and learn and plan for the future.  All signs of hope.  We can't do without it, no matter how much we might like to believe we can.  I was full of mixed emotions yesterday.  happy for the young couple, remembering with both joy and sadness David's and my getting married, not sure where I fit in. I am not a single woman but I had no partner to dance with.  I am too young to be a widow, not ready and yet having no choice.  All I could think to tell these young people was to say I love you, every day...three times a day...even when you don't want to.  Tell him, tell her.  Often.  And hope and dream, you can't do anything else anyway so you might as well go with it.  Enjoy the hell out of it.  Every minute of it. 

A cacophony of hope....I like that phrase.  It is everywhere around and within us, it defines us.  It's everywhere we look, so loud that it becomes the background noise of life and we don't even realize anymore that it is there.

I stopped on my way into Florida today at my favorite "hello" and "Goodbye" spot, a side of the road access to the Sante Fe River.  The Sante Fe is a spring fed river and runs crystal clear except when there have been hard rains, then it runs brown with Tannin water from the deeper darker rivers of Florida.  There was no one there, it's a workday and raining.  Lulu and I hopped out and took a walk along the river, smelling that good Florida smell, watching the ospreys watch us, and greeted by an oddly out of place pair of white ducks who followed us along the bank.  Somehow I breathe deeper when I hit the Georgia lowcountry and the back roads of Florida. 

I bent down to run my hands through the water and was surprised by how warm it was.  I had momentarily forgotten that spring water is always 72 degrees.  When it's 98 outside it is icy cold but on days like today when it is only 65, it feels warm and welcoming.  I thought briefly about stopping at the local state park and taking a short tubing trip but the rains started again and we ran for the car. 

There is something wonderful about the constancy of the spring water.  Always the same while the world around it changes.  It is not the water that changes but our external experience of it.  Much like love.  The Love that created and sustains this universe is always present, unchanging, to be counted on.  It is us, me, who changes and moves.  I think I'm going to start thinking of the Sante Fe when I think about the Love that lives in this world.  That is something I can wrap my head and heart around.

Never, not once in the five and a half years we were together did I wonder if I would be happier with someone else, or alone.  This is kind of a record for me.  My previous "happy" record had been about six months.  With David, I never looked at anyone else and wondered what it might be like.  I never wondered what I was doing here and how the hell might I get out.  I didn't have an exit strategy.  In retrospect I find that extraordinary.  I always have an exit strategy.  I suspect this is monumentaly important.  Maybe not.  But I learned something important.  It is possible to be happy with another person.  Really happy.  That had never really occured to me as an option before.  Small gifts, great wonders. 

Walking the dog this morning I remembered a post I wrote on Caringbridge.com at the very begining of this journey.  I talked about how the landscape of the creek had changed recently and how much the landscape of our lives was changing.  Everything keeps coming round full circle.  Grief is not a forward movement but a series of upward spirals. 

The creek is still rushing with deep muddy water from heavy rains last weekend and once again the landscape has changed.  New sandbars have emerged, gravel beaches have formed and even large rocks have moved location.  It takes a long time for the water to settle into it's old familiar depth and color.  The landscape changes constantly in reaction to these spring rains.  Just when the creek seems to settle in again we get another big rain.  But yesterday I saw the jawbone of some animal, perhaps one of our local big cats, it had a large fang, too big for a domestic cat.  I was tempted to bring it home but somehow it felt like it needed to stay in it's new home.  At least for a while.  Nearby I also found a Columbine growing up out of the new mud.  What a beautiful gift!  I found myself hoping it would stay and flourish, but I know it probably won't.  It is right on the edge of the water and the next flooding rain will probably take it away.  I thought of moving it to higher ground, but wondered if my interfering would cause equal damage.  Birth, death, and rebirth.  Best to let it be, most likely.

Probably too much metaphor, but I was taken with it all.  My life feels very much like the life of the creek these days.  I find some sense of a new normal and then a flood changes everything.  I find small gifts and never know if they will stay and change the landscape or not.  I wait, wait, wait for the mud to settle and the clear blue water to return and I catch my breath when I think of the next big rain.  I am so tired of new landscapes, I would like to know what to expect each day.  To go to the place where I know the Columbine is flourishing, to see again where I found Fire Pinks last year, to sit on my favorite rock and watch the depths of the creek swirling with that amazing blue green that fades to clear near the shore.  It makes me tired to think that life will simply keep up this endless spiral.  I know it's good, I know it's right, I know it's the way of the world.  But it makes me tired.