Camp Widow East: I sent a note to the sea

We did a ritual at Camp Widow East 2012, for the first time. A secular, all ages, all stages participatory event that was like nothing I'd ever seen. This is after two full days of being among ONLY widowed people, learning, bonding, sharing, belonging. The ritual was late, transcendent, deep and full of surprises, an expression of love shared.

Here's how it worked: Everyone received a glass heart, a piece of rice paper, and a short bit of green raffia. At some point during our day we each wrote a message to our late partner on the paper and wrapped up the heart. Spit was better at holding the package together than raffia, but whatever. (Love always binds.) All day Saturday we thought about it, or held on to it, written.

Saturday night was a banquet, a super fancy meal with a crazy photo booth where we all took on new identities and some (many) felt like dancing with their new friends. I wrote my note nearly at the last minute:

• I forgive you and I forgive myself.

1999. Notice glow necklaces in hair.

This meant a lot because I wrote a similar note in 1999, when Gavin had a traumatic near-death event in our kitchen. I went to Burning Man that year and sent that note into the fire.

That was a big one, too. We could have broken up that year. Somehow, that year, "we" survived.

Now it's just me.

Last week, at Camp Widow East, late at night, in our fancy clothes, we all walked out, a bit uncertain, onto the short boardwalk ... yes, we left our shoes. There was a drizzle of rain, and, as we approached the shoreline, salt spray. We were each handed a glow necklace so that "no one would get lost." (Not the most confidence inspiring message when we are shoeless...)

In clusters, hand in hand, one at a time, in gaggles and lines, 100 widowed people walked into the edge of the foam, or deeper, and sent off our heart-message-raffia packets. Our words, our hearts. I've never understood so much about the word "release" till the moment before mine left my hand.

Self portrait by Tamara Hadji

Some of us fell in, or jumped (@Chris_NC took a bet and ruined a perfectly good necktie). Nearly everyone was crying or smiling huge smiles. We watched, re-clustered, and gave genuine hugs, deep ones, raising each other up or regrounding as we each needed. There were a few words... we thanked each other for being part of the amazing day. Exhausted and fulfilled, we said whatever we needed to say, silently, alone, and together. Our sequins, glow necklaces, wet ankles sparkled in the moonlight.

Then we found our shoes and regathered, party hairdo's damped down, smiling and refreshed, outside the tired ballroom, plotting one last party or too tired, perhaps to share any more, or taking what was almost the last picture of the weekend.  

It was gorgeous and we were all emptied out and yet very very full. This was what makes a good ritual and we need so many more of those in our lives after loss. How much of our time do we spend sharing via computer? What kind of "secrets" are we really telling in our blogs? The ocean can't read. We need to be alone together sometimes. We needed this. I was proud to be part of it and happy (and surprised) to participate with all my, yes!, heart.

Facebook, you can't beat the sea. 

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* I shot 30 minutes of video but I don't know if anything came out because the camera owner is in Turkey till this weekend ...

Sh*t People Say to Widows (Video) is DONE!

Here, at last, is the video we created together: "Shit People Say to Widows." Guaranteed 100% authentic quotes from (mostly) well meaning friends, family, and colleagues. Featuring comments submitted by a few dozen widowed people from my community, WidowedVillage.org.

Share it as much as you like... please! It was a lot of work and many, many people contributed.

Thank you!

Very superstitious: one more omen, manmade

There was one more omen, and it was fairly early: after the second surgery, but before the failure of the first miracle drug, which was when I really started to ignore the drumbeat.

Gavin was a lot older than I was, and this ball was leftover from his childhood. Handpainted, blown glass, so fragile -- what glorious colors. It broke as I unwrapped it this last Christmas of his. Short Stack was nearly 2, so I don't know what I was thinking to hang this most precious of relics on our wobbly real tree. The last few pictures I have of Gavin are at this holiday, showing her his favorite wind up toys on top of a photography book, a gift that weighed as much as our little girl did. Little dear, she greeted our Christmas tree with joy as "apple doo!," for what reason, we never figured out (though it might have had one red ball on it).

He wasn't attached to this ornament, but it was one of my favorites, including from my history, and you may remember that I am a nutball about Christmas. And we had our eye intent on other round things, the pills that were promised after the new year, a long awaited investigational drug, just after approval, and in the nick of time: O holiday miracle medical.

I might have never forgiven myself for breaking it, but it's only a "thing," and I was sure, at this point, that I had even thrown out the photo.

But here it is. Isn't it lovely?

Very superstitious: domestic omens toward the end

Almost from the moment Gavin was diagnosed, I was more superstitious than usual. Perhaps it's the absence of any formal religion in my history, perhaps it's just a safer way to "admit" what I could see but not say: the writing on the wall, that he would die. A way to externalize the stresses, and pretend that the rational observations I made (a medical establishment without solutions for his cancer, a man running out of 2nd choice options, a husband under 100 lbs) were actually spooky, perhaps even a bit silly and therefore somehow less real.

Is superstition a sign that your rational mind is falling apart, or manifestation of uneasiness, or a way to really know what's true?

The first sign was domestic. Setting up my studio, above his studio, Gavin wrestled with reinstalling my Ikea shelves. "Ivar," he said. "They should call it Beelzebub. Damn thing tried to kill me again today." I'd installed it once already, inside what was now the baby's room, and it wasn't easy, but he was not very handy. I was 8 months pregnant and had given up on moving big pieces of wood, no mattter how bad he was going to be at it, he'd own all the heavy work from this point out.

One day an Ivar upright smacked him in the shin for a bruise that lasted weeks. It was only January, but when he was diagnosed in September I felt sure, somehow, that this injury had led to either the cancer (no one dared guess for us how long it had been growing in him) or its metastasis (which happened before we found it out).

Why? I needed something. LIke the what-if's of a widow whose lost someone to a car accident, I had to have alternatives, objects, other parties to place in my story, whether or not they could hold blame well or be held to account.

Then there were his careless placements of aesthetic objects that might be good or bad, depending. The first was a Bolivian devil mask I'd purchased for him one Christmas as an apotropaia.  (I think I felt entitled to buy one solely because I alone knew what the word meant.) I wanted it hung facing our busy front door to keep bad spirits out, but he thought that was corny, and hung it in his office. It was staring down his neck.

After diagnosis when he wasn't looking I unmounted it and hid it in the attic, then after he died, exiled it farther to his vacant studio, where the oil smells settled, cold. I wrapped it in silk to keep it from hurting anyone else. 


Another was a drawing of his own, one of my favorites, beautiful and striking but: one in a series of 5 illustrating Yukio Mishima's The Decay of the Angel. The drawing is called "The body ceases to give off light," and he hung it, again in his office, looking down on his right shoulder. What could be more wrong? He could not see the problem.

I let him stare at just the picture hanger for the rest of the year, till he'd gone so far downhill that he was never in his office.

To compensate, I placed two works of his that I'd sort of considered "too good" for us: his two lamps. I think he had to frame them himself, displacing lesser works and cutting mats, to get them to me, and unsell one that had been promised, for a pittance. But they were my favorites, and I hung them above the bed. The light that swelled from the paper in these drawings at least let me know we were doing our best, even if he didn't see the difference between one and another.

I've written about these lamps before -- they were a great comfort to me for a long time in that bed after he was gone.




(Now you, too, can see why he hated the way his work looked in photographs: they look gray, dim. These lamps are absolutely glowing, silencing more than one viewer with a gleam that comes from inside the paper).

Nature gave us one more sign, just awful in every single way, but that's a story for tomorrow.

Pictureless Wednesday: Spring will come.

Mommy, why are the trees all pink?

I wouldn't call it a storm, but peculiar precipitation last night,  neither sleet nor hail, and strange conditions all morning, had left a quarter inch of ice balls fused into a layer on every tree branch. As we drove, the trees bending down in front of us, arching into our airspace, were iced with the gentlest brownish-grayish-pink. This in addition to the light dusting of sugar on everything else around, and a specially gray day.

It was a somehow natural color. Behind the pink clouds, suspended water and sunlight, itself barely visible, brought out the variety of browns in the wood: reddish brown, yellowish brown for some grasses, deep greenish on some trunks, pale brown and white on the paulownias. And an infinite variety of shades in between.

Why? Because those are buds, dear. Thanks -- I wouldn't have noticed! The red buds of some kinds of trees, invisible a few days before, were magnified by their ice shields. A tiny bit of color, invisible yesterday, was made brighter in the light refracted by water.

The small ones are cherries, the large, red maples. A few tiny Japanese maple-types in yards, usually standing sentry over a rock.

They were all around us as we drove. And then, on the way out of the play date, it was too late. The ice bits, millions, had melted off or fallen. No special effect. No photograph. Nature is always ephemeral, but it's not worth risking my life to take a picture on the road. I'm going to hang on to this place.

I kept my eyes open. A few errands later, some maples looked like they were fatter now: swollen with water as the day warmed.

I missed the picture, but I can spread the words: Spring will come. Look up outside. It's a promise.

Wordless Wednesday: Our Day of the Dead ofrenda

The whole shebang

Gavin and his mother, Frances.

My Grandmother, who, at 103.5, outlived my husband.

Day of the Dead: Video, Making Paper Marigolds (Zempasuchil)

UPDATE: Ignore my instructions. Even though I've been making them this way for years, I found an easier way. Same materials.

Steps:

1. Fold your loop of crepe paper into a piece about 3 or 4 inches long. Snip through the loops at the ends so that you have a small stack of 3-4 inch long pieces of crepe paper, little rectangles that aren't connected to each other.
2. Cut through BOTH short ends several times, not all the way through. It should look like this picture at right.



Step 2, revised.

3. Holding the crepe paper bundle together, wrap the wire around the middle (the uncut area). Cinch it and push the paper upwards. If you like, you can also fold the bundle the long way.
4. Wrap around the base of the flower with masking tape and color it with your marker, or wrap with green tape.
5. Fluff the petals out and twist them around so it doesn't look like a folded rectangular clump of paper any more. It should look random and scrappy. If you want, use two bundles of paper, cut and folded the same way. Twist them in the wire stem just ONCE, together. 
6. You'll now have double wires for your stem, which is actually easier to handle when you make the bouquets, too.
Also? Sorry. I swear that's how we always made them, but maybe my hands have gotten old. This method is MUCH EASIER.

Thanks to the magic of video, you will need this extra information to make your own marigolds (zempasuchil) from crepe paper. Marigolds are traditional, and lovely, and orange – and the fragrance, which has been bred out of many varieties available here, is supposed to call souls especially well. But they can be hard to find if you didn’t plant them back in June.

But watch the little video and then refer here for un-clarification:

Supplies:

1. Petals: Roll of crepe paper streamer, yellow, orange, or (best) golden yellow-orange.
2. Stems: wire or pipecleaner (do not cut with scissors. Use an old nail clipper or buy a cheap one). Green is ideal, but color isn’t important. 
3. Tape, either masking tape or dark green floral tape. 
4. A magic marker (black or green) to color plain masking tape if you use that. 

Directions:

Step 2: the folded,                
cut strip of crepe paper.       

1. Pull out 3 or 4 feet of crepe paper.  Fold it 6 or 8 times. 
2. Cut into the strip (through the layers) as shown – don’t go much more than halfway through. Notch the ends similarly. Carefully, slowly, gently unfold the crepe paper. 
3. Bend a loop in the edge of your “stem” to create a flat area that’s easier to grip. Bend a loop at the other end to avoid poking your eye out. 
4. With the wire in one hand and the crepe paper strip in the other, wrap the SOLID (uncut) edge of crepe paper around the end of the stem. 
5. After 6 or 8 turns of crepe paper, start using tape to adhere the crepe paper to the stem. It’s okay to scrunch it up. 
6. Start scrunching up the crepe paper to add extra material in to the taped area – you want to be pleating or folding it as you go. You’ll find you can be pretty sloppy because the paper and the tape both scrunch easily. Do this until you’ve used up your strip of cut paper. -- finish up your tape, too, with extra twists around if necessary. 
7. If you used masking tape, now is your time to color it with the marker. 
8. Empuffen the flower: starting at the outside and working around and around, gently pull on the petals to add body to your marigold. It will not be completely regular: marigolds are scrappy little informal flowers. Kids are good at this and they have small fingers, but it can be delicate work. You won’t probably be able to go to the center – smoosh the tight center petals with your fingers if you like the effect. 

If you want fuller flowers, use two strips of cut paper. If you want super-marigolds-on-gamma-rays, use three.

Photo by Batty aka Photobat via Flickr

It’s traditional to make a trail to the ofrenda or a pattern on the floor with marigold petals, too. If you like, you can save the little bits you cut out (above), but it will get pretty messy, especially if you have pets or kids or a breeze. And remember, the fragrance will be missing. But if you are really committed to not wasting one bit, or just adore the effect... knock yourself out!

Day of the Dead 2010: My ofrenda, Day 1

It doesn't look like much, does it? This corner of the sun room is where we're going to build our ofrenda, or offering (commonly known as a "shrine"), for the Day of the Dead this year. I'll stack up some furniture or sturdy boxes, cover them with cloth, add holy objects, and at the last minute, on Nov. 2, put out some food and drink for the souls of loved ones who have passed.

I'm spending lots of time sorting through 6 boxes labeled "holy objects," for precious things to recall my life with Gavin and his life before me. As I do so, and as I spend time remembering, I recall other losses: should there be an area for my father, dead 17 years now? Or my sister's fiance, gone now for 13 years? For my grandmother, who passed less than a year after Gavin at age 103 and a half? How about for Frances, Gavin's mother, my burden, my savior?

And what deity will preside over this sacred assortment? The Lord Ganesh and our Lady of Guadalupe, at the very least. That's who I can bring - we'll see who else shows up.

This week, in preparation, I'm going to BREAK and CREATE. The break will be, to not do what's easy and what I'm used to - ensconced in my new world of widowed people and my new husband. I've decided to invite some people I haven't seen in years - who were close to Gavin, and who I've been bitter or conflicted about - to join us as I raise a Rolling Rock in Gavin's memory. I won't let the world move on and think it's all over when you die, when you break, when you find new love. I'll share, and I'll try to stay open and listen, and what is harder than that?

And I'm going to create, because being back in the time when we were together reminds me of some dreams I've dropped. How great it feels, how natural, to stretch my eyes on bright colors, to make things, to find parts and figure it out and work it through with my own fingers. I've twisted up marigolds, smushed Celluclay into skulls, and repurchased a basic palette of acrylics.

As the weather cools, I can feel my pulse warming up... exercising those old art muscles. But that's just what rocks my boat... anyone can join us in our virtual online Day of the Dead celebration: will you?

The Day of the Dead: Top Ten Items to Include in your Offering

Photo by Batty aka Photobat via Flickr

It's not difficult to create an offering for the Day of the Dead. While we have a habit of calling these dedicated religious areas "shrines," the Mexican artist, Felipe Ehrenberg, who taught me the Day of the Dead as an artistic and healing tradition in 1992, insisted: shrines and altars are for Gods, offerings are for the ancestors, and this tradition calls the ancestors. It looks the same, anyway.

Your offering can take any form. The elements that you must include are love and intention, everything else can vary, and you needn't buy anything new. Decide on an area of your home that would be appropriate, and think about what you would like to include, how this activity fits in with your religious beliefs and your ways of grieving. Where will you be able to see it? How childproof does it need to be?

Some suggestions for what you might be offering:

1. A picture or icon representing a deity (or more than one) as appropriate for your household or the deceased one.
2. A photo or other image of your deceased loved one. (No need to restrict it to one person - you remember them all).
3. Mementos of your loved one or of your life together.
4. Flowers (fresh or fake).
5. Crafts or images of saints, angels, hearts (You don't need to have Mexican stuff, or Day of the Dead stuff: whatever is true to you).
6. Things that will "call" the loved one: food, drink. You might also play music that they liked or that remind you of them on the event.
7. Fancy or colorful fabric or paper. A scarf, a scrap or special piece of clothing?
8. Source of light: candles or holiday lights. PLEASE be safe with paper, fabric, and hanging things around!
9. Something orange - you can select a few other colors if you like, or just go Mexican and mix it all together, choosing as bright as possible.
10. Something that smells good (incense, candles or fresh flowers, or the food or drink).

Join in our blog carnival as you prepare and celebrate. Share your thoughts and your pictures with others, online or offline. Sign up your blog on our Mr. Linky. Spread this idea: that you want others to share stories, and not just now.

Think about what you'd like to do for a small event on Nov. 2. Would you really prefer to do something private and have your warm thoughts to yourself? Can you invite someone you haven't spoken to in a long time? A family member who's hurting? Can you reach out to someone else who's scrambling through loss?

(One thing I've found lately is the importance of personal contact. If I send out a big group email, I usually end up feeling rejected - but a phone call (not even leaving a message) is very intimate after months of Facebooking and brings an earnestness and commitment to my request that makes people respond differently. Try it.)

Set your mind, above all, on a dream of what you'd like to eat and drink in the honor of your loved one. What would you share with them if they dropped by for a moment? What smells and tastes would call them, and what would they be holding to tell you?

Day of the Dead 2010: MASTER POST with Linky

This is the HOME POST for the Day of the Dead 2010. This post will be updated every day or two with new participants, new activities, photos, and other sharing as part of our individual rituals and memories.

We got started, you can catch up EASY

Join us! (Call to action)

This post (wait, you didn't miss it!) which includes the badge for your blog! Pick up the badge here: <a href=" http://freshwidow.blogspot.com/2010/10/day-of-dead-2010-master-post-with-linky.html"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie2H-blWIbMvQbsEmQ7ogEhv3M8v5slIy8NUMqYe5we1HfACRdBDr_tLVx2cBEQ7nhq21jdkptpewXEELnjA57EiK14wCIcBm8mTHEgsvis4tfIPl2tNa4p6Ug2Sltt4ktq7D7sJGXaN4/s1600/FINALDOTD.jpg" width="150" /></a>

Example: Ofrenda for my daughter.... (Alive and Mortal blog)

Book review: Rosita and Conchita (for kids)(Alive and Mortal blog)

Top 10 items to include in an offering.

It’s not Halloween! (Cultural overview)

Craft project: create marigolds, the traditional Mexican flower, from crepe paper. No skills required!

NEW Craft project: Skeleton flags for kids (easy peasy!) (Alive and mortal blog)

What’s coming up

10/25 – Gather objects that will call all souls.

More examples of work in progress or thoughts...  including YOURS?

11/2 (Tuesday) – night of the festival – join us on chat or Twitter, or gather a few friends or family members to share memories of your loved one(s).

Sign up and visit the others who are participating! (If you aren't sure how to participate or don't have a blog, write to me at Supa DOT Dupa DOT Fresh AT gmail DOT com and we'll figure it out together. I GA-RON-TEE it!)

Obligatory Post Titled "Hey Jealousy"

(Let’s just get all this out of the way.) I’m jealous of widows who had life insurance, or whose husbands had good jobs with automatic coverage despite preexisting conditions. I’m jealous of those who got to be married longer. I’m jealous of those whose marriages were the most happy they’d ever been. I’m jealous of those who were still falling in love when their partners died.

I’m jealous of anyone who has more than one kid. I’m jealous of parents who didn’t have to pay thousands of dollars to get pregnant. I’m jealous of Moms who have time to work out. I’m jealous of women with good skin and no back fat.

I’m jealous of folks with real careers and who have found the answer to their life’s meaning and the world’s need early in their lives. I’m jealous of folks who are happy just doing their job, or who have pushed through to have real power at my age. I’m jealous of many people who made different choices than I did.

I’m jealous of celebrities with book contracts, and I’m jealous of stupid products that make a lot of money (like Katy Perry and the Baby Einstein videos).

I’m jealous of people with wonderfully supportive extended families that are not neurotic or abusive, and those with independent income. I’m jealous of people who live in inarguably gorgeous places like San Diego.

I’m not jealous of widowed people who “had a chance to say goodbye,” even though hearing this prickles me, because based on living side by side with a dying husband for two years, I think it very rarely happens and I don’t begrudge the few people who may have had this fulfillment.

I’m only a little jealous of those who have faith, the universe holds many ambiguities I can live with, since I believe they are true. I’m not someone who needs answers. I am, however, jealous of people who believe in affirmations and Louise Hay. I crave seeking and process but prefer it when it’s accompanied by genuine original insight. Talk about asking for the world!

I’m a little jealous of people who have good digital SLRs.

I’m not jealous of anyone’s problems, I believe the old adage that if we all put our problems into a giant hat, we’d each take back our own. With pleasure. That’s probably why I hold onto mine so hard.

I’m not jealous of people who’ve had really easy lives, because I think they are often bored and boring. But I am jealous if they seem to be satisfied with that all.

I’m not jealous of anyone’s sense of humor, mine is as good as it’s going to get.
I’m not jealous of anyone’s education or innate smarts.
I’m not jealous of anyone’s kid, mine is perfect.
I’m not jealous of anyone’s creativity, mine exceeds almost anyone’s.
I’m not jealous of anyone’s garden, mine is growing.

I'm not jealous of anyone's entire life, or of this moment, anywhere, anyhow. 


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Camp Widow: Your chance to hear witness

Peer support saved my life when I was widowed with a young child. And while the internet is great for “cybergrieving,” there are many advantages to seeing other folks on similar journeys in the flesh, or, as we’ve come to call it, “in real life.”

Young widows (under 55) tend to be rare enough that most of us don’t have someone nearby or even access to a support group. We’re usually left with our websites, bulletin boards, blogs, and Facebook. While there are invaluable, you shouldn’t forego a chance to see – hug – exist together in a room with dozens of others like you. And actually -- even with those of different ages, different paths of life, different parenting statuses: the connection of losing a partner overcomes the differences between us.

It’s odd to me, an agnostic, that I must use religious language to describe this: I say “witness,” “testimony.” The first time I met a young widow – before Gavin died – I was in awe simply that she existed. This was hope to me, and healing: to SEE someone ALIVE after a similar ordeal, including the next bits, which I couldn’t imagine, and would surely be much worse: her husband was not just ill but had DIED. I was still in denial, but meeting her helped me see that his death was possible and my life after was likely. Why? I don’t know, it’s magic. But there is more powerful to touch than to read: even though sometimes we find a friend, sister or twin from reading the words of a widow we can be changed being faced with a real widow who you can hug or ask a question (“are you real?”). Maybe it's more "real." Whatever makes it so, presence matters.

So Camp Widow is a unique chance to witness the hope and healing of a hundred people like me, like you, each different – but with similar challenges and a commitment to get through them. This is the second year of this exceptional event, which will be held August 6-8 in San Diego. Camp Widow is hosted by the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation, a non-profit, non-sectarian organization which publishes the exceptional blog, Widow's Voice.

This year I’ll be presenting a session about how we share online. But it wasn’t my online friends that got me out of my rut: real widowed people in a real-life peer support group were my rock and my energy drink, combined. So I have been talking about Camp Widow a LOT on Facebook and Twitter, where I connect with a few thousand bereaved people and those who love and support them.

And you know, I hear objections, obstacles, and problems. Like:

I don’t want to be in a room full of strangers.
That’s funny, because some of the people who attended last year said it was one of the few times they felt they were NOT alone:

“Last year I went on my own. Hadn't talked to any other widows online that were attending, no faces to look for, no previous connections. As soon as I walked in the room I no longer felt alone.” (Jerilynn)

“Everyone was on the same page. It was as if there was an unwritten code that we could talk freely with one another without fear of being judged or criticized. Everyone was so supportive. Nothing was ‘off limits.’ The weekend wasn’t a pity party, but one of support, validation, and laughter…I felt comfortable. I felt understood. I felt accepted....” (Mary)

This year it will be even easier to fit in. A cadre of extroverts will serve as “ambassadors” and make sure no one is hanging back. If you need an introduction, a hand to guide you, or some help choosing from the 24 amazing workshops, an ambassador will be there for you!

The last thing I need is to be around a bunch of weepy depressing old ladies.
YOU have obviously never been around a group of bereaved people in their natural settings.

“Widows know how to party. … It was powerful to be with 150 people who have at one time cried like I cried, curled on the floor in desperation, and believed that we would never stand again. … What connected us was not death, but it was having had to consciously decide to live.” (Melodie)

“You probably would not picture a whole bunch of crazy ladies at a Pops-in-the-park concert getting shushed and then ignoring the shushes by jumping up in seats, screaming, dancing and waving their arms wildly to the music … Such aliveness you never did see.” (Abby)

All right, I’m fun. But there will be no one else like me.
There will be: Men. Women. Widowed people of ALL AGES. LGBT widowed people. People who are actively parents, and those who are childless. Americans. Canadians. Married, umarried, partners of all legal status, and REMARRIED widowed people AND their partners. People of color. Writers, bloggers, artists. People who want the world to change. People who are grateful for today. We’re all different, but we can ALL learn from each other.



“It took about 10 seconds meeting widows at the first Widows Conference last summer in San Diego to get that we do get it; we get each other; we understand the journey; the diversity of the stuff and oh how we wished each other the most authentic of all good stuff to happen.......” (Sandra)

“The bottom line is we all fit into each others shoes. That was the magic.” (Carole)

I’m doing just fine… dammit!
I’m sure you are, honey. But you know? You don’t have to say that around us. We’ve been there… or as close as it gets. You’re an extraordinary person with inner strength and a really supportive community and a freezer full of casseroles. You can do it all on your own.

Grief is not an illness. It can’t be “fixed.” But it’s a lot easier to get through with energy, ideas, and the kinship of others who’ve been there. Yes, each path is different and there are parts where you must walk alone: but we need all the help we can get – and when that help is fun, who can say no?

“Words can't begin to describe what a wonderful time I had in San Diego this past weekend! I learned and healed more than I have in the last 1 1/2 years, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate the opportunity to go and be a part of this experience.” (Deborah)

“I have made some close connections that I know will stand the test of time. The other thing I saw happening is that women in the throes of grief were able to see, feel, and touch hope.” (Mie)

Fine! I’ll come. But I hate hugs!
No problem, dude/ette. We’re making a special badge for you. It smells really bad and should keep away unwanted physical affection. We’ll still be happy to see you – just stand over there, please!

But I don’t want to be a widow. Maybe I’ll come next year. Wait, next year I hope I really won’t feel like a widow.
The last word is from Melodie: “I felt... normal. I love these people now, because over these years we shared the most intimate and profound of life experiences. …Who would have guessed that it would take a widows' conference to enable me to stop feeling like a widow?” (Melodie)

Camp Widow details
Registration
Workshops
Questions
Twitter
Facebook

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Open House

So I went to an open house at the Divinity School one evening a few weeks ago. Over a meal, we introduced ourselves. I started off the third table of prospective seminarians:

“Hi, I’m Supa Dupa Fresh, I live nearby with my husband and young daughter. I’m an agnostic, but I am evangelical about three things: 1) Unitarian Universalism, my chosen religion; 2) technology and its power to connect people, especially small communities who would otherwise be dispersed; and 3) the incredible ability we each have to recover from loss, which I lived through when I was widowed nearly four years ago, when my daughter was a toddler.

“Unlike the rest of you, I have to say I’m not really sure WHO it was that called me… [pauses for laughter… hears crickets] but I’ve received a call to ministry very similar to what several of you have described and I think in a lot of ways it would be a terrific direction for me. I’m fortunate have the opportunity to explore new options at this stage of my life, and I thank all of you here tonight with me for being part of my journey.”

I told Mr. Fresh how my joke fell flat and how that, in itself, was funny to me. He tends to be very realpolitik about social interactions, which is a very gentle way, I think, to say that he thinks about war more than warmth.

“You have it all wrong,” he said (I expected that.) “First of all, they don’t know what a Unitarian is. I doubt many of them even know what you meant by ‘agnostic,’ and if they did, all they thought when they heard you was about the points they would get by converting you after dinner. You were just FRESH MEAT.”

As sweet as these future peer seminarians were (every single one an earnest Christian), I kind of think he has a point. But if I do go to Divinity School, I won’t be at all afraid: I know what I believe and that it’s a journey. I’m not attached to agnosticism – if anything, I’d like to be certain once in a while and maybe right a small percentage of those times.

At least around my husband.


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A Prayer for Califmom from an agnostic UU Mom also widowed by cancer

(Read Califmom's blog and tweetstream)

Once upon a time, it was considered “profane” to invoke a deity if you didn’t have faith. These names should only be issued when you really mean it. A non-believer doesn’t own both “sacred” and “profane” expressions, whether he says “J*sus” or “f*ck,” he’s using profanity. (This is without even going into more complicated theological constructions such as “Holy shit.”)

But our everyday cuss is uttered casually, in rage, in shock. We might use a curse word to provoke, to insult, to demonstrate contempt, or to avoid saying something much more serious. We curse when we’re together, aroused, and when we feel most alone, in awe or completely confused: “WTF?” Hence the double meaning of “swearing” or using an “oath,” archaic terms which have given way to the definitely negative “cursing.”

So any prayer for Califmom, who has been helping her husband “fuck cancer in the ass,” from me, an agnostic contemplating seminary, is by definition profane. She deserves no less.


My prayer for Califmom

Here is what I wish for you, inspiring woman, true voice, brave Momma, hilarious warrior, sister widow, friend I’ve never met:

May you find peace
(#fuckcancer)
May those who love you allow you room
(#fuckcancer)
May your children continue to teach you
(#fuckcancer)
May your “before” world remain bright and clear
(#fuckcancer)
May your friends listen and hear your needs
(#fuckcancer)
May you find company and not conflict in your grief
(#fuckcancer)
May you keep your lovely world close and your kids well
(#fuckcancer)
May you keep first things first, and fun things fun
(#fuckcancer)
May you listen to your grieving body
(#fuckcancer)
May someone else be willing and able to handle the paperwork, hereafter to be known as the Dreaded Bureaucracy of Death (DBoD)
(#fuckcancer)
May you be kind, generous, and patient with yourself
(#fuckcancer)
May you find righteousness and a bitchin’ great story in Chapter Two
(#fuckcancer)
May you find peace.
May you find peace.
May you find peace.

(Also? Did you ever notice that "refrain" means both the phrase you repeat after every verse AND "stop it?")

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The Widow's Mite = the Widow's Might

The parable of the widow’s “mite” (a small, rough-cut, nearly worthless coin) from the Gospels tells is usually mentioned in the context of fundraising and commitment. The story is that after all the wealthy and middle-class members of the church donate gold and silver from some portion of their income, perhaps even the glorious tithe (10%!), a destitute widow at the end of the line hands over two tiny pennies – all that she has. In this interpretation, it’s the person who has nothing who is generous, giving literally her last coin. (The story’s also interpreted lots of different ways, including as a justification for anti-Semitism ... hey, not everyone chooses to play nice with the Bible).

I've seen this happen, and I've done it myself. Folks who are poor often have no trouble giving – those who have, understand how to “spend” some on one thing, some on another, building a reasonable budget from categories. Those who have nothing know that things and categories are irrelevant. They’re grateful, and they have, literally, nothing to lose.

And so, a few weeks ago as I consulted with my own minister about the call I heard to serve in Unitarian Universalist ministry, to lend my skills and gifts to the church which has given me so much, and to which I’ve given fairly substantial financial gifts (when I was facing bankruptcy and radical economic straits myself), I found that she and I had come to a fork in the road.

She mentioned she was stunned to see three young widows in her own flock who’d gotten as far as I had. One was ordained last year, the first from our congregation to complete her training and don her own mantle; another enters seminary this fall, and I was at that moment sitting with her in a restaurant trying to find whether this direction is the one that speaks to me most clearly, the one where I can have the biggest impact.

My beloved minister marveled at the phenomenon. Of how many people called under her gaze? -- not dozens -- three have been women, widowed young. She wants to get us all together for a lunch or something, so she can observe, what is it that unites us? What is it about the three of us that makes us all think this next journey should be the one to develop us? Because ministry is a very difficult path. In a recent sermon, she called ministry hard, thankless, unremunerative work that asks us for our strongest effort, for sacrifice, for stretch and reach and flexibility.

But see, I don’t find us three remarkable at all. Because the young widows and widowers I know are extraordinary, unlike anyone other group of people I've ever met. Not only are we deep and hilarious, we have perspective, we’re tough, and like all mothers, we’re tender and warm at the drop of a hat. We expect hats to drop, and the second shoe, too. We love fiercely, we’ve learned what works for us, and we brush off difficulties more easily than we did when we were young. We’re hopeful and we are pretty sure things will never be as bad as they were. We’re always moving forward, even when we’re nursing injuries. I think of young widows as momma wolves.

I know the other two widows in this clutch and we’re all quite different in most other ways. We’re united only by loss, and thus by our stage of life.

Of course, I’ll plan the lunch, it will be fun, and I’m sure I’ll learn something. But I’m not surprised at all to find widows on this road.

With this emptying of her pocket, the widow’s mite becomes the widow’s Might. When she has nothing left, still she digs deep. She's already given her all, and found out there’s more. Something that’s been there, all along, that she can see once there’s no more static. We each find something different, but we’re all changed radically after loss.

Maybe breaking has helped us to tune in to the pain of all the world. Maybe we learned to rise back up, singing. Some find they have the power to lead others to light. The widow is sure she can hold her child through a dark night and laugh as the dawn comes. Grief has forged us and we burned until we began to shine.

A widow has found the riches within her, invisible to others. And sometimes, she may be moved to share, knowing that if others haven’t been tested yet, they might need to see that penny as proof. (And fortunately, they can buy one on QVC...)


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My Response to the Today Show, Part 2: An Open Letter to Kathie Lee Gifford

(Read part 1 and see a video of the encounter I'm responding to.)

Dear Kathie Lee,

I watched your show on Friday, February 4, and you were laughing an awful lot when that young widow, my friend Brenda, called in. I recognized it, that discomfort, that laugh. See, I’ve been there, and I got stung. Death is way scary, but if it’s happening to someone you love, you – yourself, alone – will yet end up okay.

Now if I were married to Frank Gifford – but of course! I forgot, I can’t be, because you are. But if I were married to a man much older than I – oh wait! I was! But I’m not anymore because – oh yeah, you know what? HE DIED. So if I were a talk show host with a terrific national platform, and an avowed woman of Christ, I might use my pulpit a little differently.

And if I were – still – married to a much older man (Gavin and I had 20 years between us; looks like you and Frank have 23? Correct my math: 1930-1953 = 23, right?) I would probably laugh in a pretty uncomfortable way when the topic is raised, too.

But I wouldn’t be stupid enough to be married to him and reproduce without a solid life insurance portfolio behind me.

Which – I did. Once.

So see, I know what it’s like, and I know how to act at parties. I “get” polite society. I understand that sometimes you might just, oh, pretend, that you don’t know what V!agra is. You don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable or anything.

But when someone who’s 25 and who’s lost their helpmeet, their love, their partner, their Christian-married husband, someone without a trace of botox or need for a lotion of any kind, calls in asking for help?

I’d try not to laugh too hard. Because I know it hurts. I know it’s a threat to open your heart. You might actually hear something, and words, they can make magic, they make things happen. If you don’t hear it, he could live forever. (I know he’ll always love you.)

I’m not saying anything will happen. But you said your vows, and you said the old ones, didn’t you: one of you will go while the other one stays. It could easily be you first. But statistically, it’s far more likely that Frank will be the one who goes first.

Hey, don’t look at me. It’s not me who created these rules. I’m not even the messenger. The ancients said death will part us and you both repeated it, willingly, smiling even, I bet. (Gavin and I did.) I’m not wise enough to scribe that in stone for everyone to use every day and mean it.

So if I were you, and I didn’t listen so well the first time, I might try to make amends. I might think about what my giggles were hiding. I might open my ears and my heart. I might talk to others. I’d apologize to Brenda, give the panel of men a good talking to about how women like men who listen and are sensitive, and how widows are the best deal in the dating market, and maybe start listening to some human stories from situations that scare you.

I can’t tell you to lay off the vino. I’m not the one who placed the glass there at 9 a.m. That’s not your fault, and hell, I’m a thirsty girl.

And Kathie Lee, I ain’t saying you need to own the word “widow” yet. Fact is, I saw myself in your nervous tittering, in your dashing to the explanation: “Maybe she’s not really ready to date yet!!!”

And yeah, when I had an older husband, I’d spend the energy ingratiating myself to the younger men sitting next to me, too. I might laugh at their dumb jokes. But I wouldn’t be proud of it.

I’d like you to be prepared better than I was. You won’t be poor, and you won’t have a kid in diapers, or responsibility for his senile mother, so you’ll already be way ahead of me.

But you can do better than you did on Friday. You can listen. You can let that big heart of yours, big enough for loving your man and your family, open to hear the stories of loss AND of loving again that are out there in the world beyond the studio, the people who make you look good and the ones who say "yes" to everything.

What do you think Frank wants? He wants you to be happy. He'd want you to be out there dating again someday, with full respect for the love you two shared. (Wouldn't you want the same for him?) It'll be an act of courage to love again, but we don't compare. We're women of action, we who grieve.

Lady, you've got a platform, and I know you like to work on making the world a better place. Let’s work together to increase understanding for young people living with loss, struggling to raise children alone, and help prepare folks for the death that, if we are human, and if we love God, we know will come for all of us. Tell me what you’d like to do, there’s more than enough work for us all.

C’mon, woman. I know you can do it.

Love,

Supa Dupa Fresh
The Freshwidow

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The Epiphany

Last night right after we’d eaten, our Russian orthodox neighbor stopped by to spontaneously invite us to a feast dinner. At the bus stop just now I asked her husband, Peter, which feast were they celebrating?

“Epiphany,” he said.

“Oh, I thought it was a week after ours? Except that we don’t celebrate the Epiphany anyway,” I looked up, trying to calculate. Everything I know about the Orthodox religion I learned from David Sedaris. His mother always complained that her in-laws’ faith celebrated late just so they could buy Easter candy for half-price. But a blogging friend, Alicia, is enthusiastic about the religion, so I’m curious to know more. Any religion that much into gold leaf has virtues greater than half-price Russell Stovers.

“No, it’s the same date, but Julian calendar is 13 days later.”

Multicultural me said, as we walked back towards our split-levels, “Maybe not later, just different.” I’m not sure he noticed.

A flock of robins was peeping wildly outside my house. What the hell do they know? Can spring really be on its way?

What would I give for midwinter depression to roll into some sort of epiphany, an exalted realization of the oneness of everything? A flash of understanding, deep in my soul, of what’s wrong with me?

I’ve had enough of them, lucky me, to know what it’s like to have the bleak grey cloud fall away. It’s not divine, it’s got to be neurological, and I’m sure I always suffer in all the Freudian ways before I get there. But dammit, I want someone to hand me the frickin’ key.

I should be bright, but I'm dull.

Tell me why I’m always behind. Tell me why I frustrate those I love. Why I pick fights and miss deadlines. Why I don’t take care of myself. What did they do to crush me? How I adjusted and survived, why I’m afraid to thrive. These situations I’ve worked out from hardened muscles over the years. But why am I still falling for it? "Tell me?" Do I really want to know?

A few days ago I read Jen Lemen’s Mondo Beyondo ‘zine to my daughter. The new agey language didn’t faze her a bit (Jen, you’re brilliant, it’s just an old thing of mine. Resistance.). Shortie’s wide eyes made my voice earnest. I followed Jen’s process a bit, thinking, maybe this year will be all about forgiveness. Maybe that’s the one thing I’m ready for, that I need, that I can actually pull off.

It’s a big idea. Maybe today it’s manifest in my urgent desire for oranges. "Late coffee and oranges in a sunny chair," it ain't. I’d rather be back in bed right now.

It’s never easy, but it never gets done any other way than One. Step. At a time.

One goddamn step at a time.


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After Life: Ashes to Ashes

I really didn’t know what to do with Gavin’s ashes, or “cremains” as they are economically, usefully, strangely called. It sounds like something you put on a salad in hell, or a teen pewtersmith in the Revolutionary War, or something French.

But poking around his studio musing on it for just a little while I knew what would work, at least for temporary. Until some redwood tree would show up requiring fertilizer. It was around the first anniversary of his death, almost exactly one month before his second birthday dead.

(Our Francophile foodie friend Shale has always joked that he wants his ashes sent to some special cremerie in France where it can be incorporated into a cheese, then sent back here to be eaten by his friends at a special event. Accompanied by some perfect wine. I’m sure he hasn’t given thought to the playlist, but I bet 3 courses are planned out.)

Gavin had lived, with his mother and grandmother, in Albuquerque for a few years as a baby and toddler. His mother taught at the Indian school there and purchased a few souvenirs on her trips to see the reservations.

There was a special Acoma pot. Gavin used to point it out to me saying that it was the one valuable Indian piece his family had, but it had probably been ruined because of Nana. His grandmother used to burn palm leaves in it during thunderstorms and it was lined with soot.

I took the heavy plastic bag with its twist tie from the solemn cheap plastic box the crematory sent. The whole bag went into the pot and I placed this reliquary next to the Buddha's head in his studio, which had barely been touched.

Six months later I’d hold my Day of the Dead event in his honor and the ashes would quietly preside as we took the hi fi and speakers out onto the lawn for the show.

But it rests there now, nearly four years in total, two and a half years since its filling, looking over the drawing table where he spent most of his energy.

I can’t help but think he’d be pleased with this solution, at least for now.

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After Life: His Decision and Mine

Not only did I betray my husband’s beliefs by telling my daughter his soul had done what I wanted it to do – but I also couldn’t obey his last wishes. To my credit, I asked his permission two days before he died.

Gavin was in a Hospice facility. We were just beginning to open conversations about his final wishes, although we’d had similar talks ten years before, when he’d had another health scare. It made sense to firm things up. We talked about it in “someday” terms, though the staff felt he couldn’t hold out more than a few weeks.

Honey, you’ve always said you didn’t want to be cremated, that you liked the idea of being buried in a simple pine box. You said it sounded restful.
It doesn’t really matter to me.
What about the plot in Pittsburgh… where your grandmother is. With a spot for your Mom.
I don’t have that much connection there anymore. It’s not important to me. It would be inconvenient for you.
But what do you really want?
When I die, I’m not going to be there to know about it anyway. None of this stuff matters.
Well, I remember you didn’t like the idea of being cremated…
What I would like doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be there anymore.
So how strongly do you feel about not being cremated?
Do whatever you want. It’s not important to me. (He turned away).

I know. A harpie. A nag. I couldn’t even let him alone when he was getting close to the place where everyone goes, at last, completely alone.

I didn’t want him to leave, even then.

But also. We’d checked his meager life insurance right after diagnosis. Although it was purchased when he went off to college, doubtless as a bad deal, surely from a door-to-door salesman, it was his only coverage because sometime in the next few years he was diagnosed with a heart valve defect. Small as the policy was, it was a lot for us. $16,000. The amount stuck in my mind, it was the only thing static during the two years he was ill. Enough to live half a year, maybe more without extraordinary medical bills.

I knew any funeral with a body would run $15 - $30K minimum. I hate open caskets anyway, tradition be damned. I detest paying funeral homes their professional fees and markup. Viewings with disgusting gladiola and cousins pretending to care. And none of those places or events is the right place for a 2.5 year old child. *

(Do funeral homes even offer babysitting?)

I know, I’m a wicked heartless bitch. I wanted to cremate him, and I probably would have, anyway. I cared enough to ask, even if not enough to listen.

Would he have minded that I cared more about our life after than his wishes about something he didn’t care much about? After he left, wasn’t it my primary job to be sure his child and I (and his mother – story TK) were taken care of? He’d made it clear that dead people don’t matter, but living people do.

It was a pretty minimal existence we were armoring up for, anyway. A successful regional artist does about as well, most years, as a barista. I hadn’t been working to my full potential, or even half, for a long time. When he started this hospitalization, a week earlier, I’d taken indefinite leave from work. I held the equity in our home, and a good brain.

Gavin never really took money seriously. He felt rich with me, because my job paid the same amount every year, more than he’d ever made selling paintings. When he was ill, he got angry because I found a way to get more life insurance coverage. (We never followed through). He’d refused to apply for SSDI, which we were told he’d quality for automatically, based on having a diagnosis that generally means “one year or less.” He felt his signature on the form would be admitting it.

So I thought I’d definitely cremate. Much more economical and environmental. We’d have a big service, a joyful party, a bunch of art. He wanted that and we did it. To appease him, I’d bury some of the ashes. To fulfill my vision of what’s right, I’d scatter some, somewhere important to us but not necessarily his hometown of Pittsburgh, where I’d never even been.

Marriage is all about compromise. Even when one partner is on the way out. Maybe even when one partner is gone.


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From the Bible to Tila Tequila

Bereaved women have never been pretty. (Hot, maybe, but not easy to look at).

I’ve been hearing these outrageous stories about the public trainwreck that Tila Tequila, the reality TV player (it’s not fair to say “star,” is it?), has become after the death of her fiancée, storied lost heiress Casey Johnson. (Johnson mixed diabetes with drugs and alcohol, a detail that is shamefully being left out of much coverage. Furthering the idea that something is "wrong" when someone young dies. ~buzzer~ FALSE!)

And Tequila (nee Nguyen)'s behavior has been pretty wild. Sixty tweets. Whoo hoo.

She’s showing off her grief so vividly. And I thought: she’s not that different from others I’ve known. Sorta, actually, like me.

It goes back to ancient days: the Hebrew traditions ask you to rend your garments, beat your breast, and tear at your skin. It’s supposed to hurt. And the skin is nothing when your soul has broken so wide open.

In the Bible, Tamar dresses like a whore after her loss and deceives Judah into fathering her child. Stealing sperm is turning some kind of trick! (What was she wearing?) Who would break all these rules? And why? Only a woman whose pain can’t be spoken loudly enough. And by this strange, horrific act of sluttiness Tamar mothers the race of David and Solomon. (Has anyone in a reality show done anything that freaky?)

In grief, I, too, wanted to look the way I felt. BAD. I wanted the world to see how I felt inside. I could never say it well enough, and no one seemed to hear.

Mourners seek to demonstrate, represent, and manifest these intense feelings. And grief is not just sorrow: we’re plagued by emotions without reason or apparent connection. Laughing hysterically one moment, smashing a favorite vase the next. Sometimes I felt like I wanted to disappear and break along with my world, a few hours later I’d be sure I’d never seen a more beautiful raindrop on a blade of grass.

Widowhood escalates our lives, and widows use their standing to make public statements. As others mourn the one who’s left, we often want to assert our own place in the world, whatever that place is. In grief, we sometimes becomes exhibitionist and often feel extremely sexual.

Tila Tequila is a widowed woman. If she’s different from how many of us would behave (and have!) in the same circumstances, it’s a difference of degree, not of kind.

Attention whore? Trainwreck? Loudmouth? Obsessed with fashion and Twitter? Yes, yes, yes, yes.

But isn’t that who she was before? She’s just more so in grief.

Widowhood is a journey, and she may come out stronger. I have, and so have countless others. Tila Tequila wouldn’t be the first to effect a radical change in her life.

In fact, her story sounds like one of the lives of the early Saints. Many of them were outcasts, pains in the ass, shallow and materialistic. I’m sure there was at least one, er, provocative dresser aside from Mary Magdalene.

So keep your eyes on this girl, she may yet have greatness in her. Try to keep your judgment to yourself if you haven’t been there. Mourners feel so alone, but maybe there's a Heisenberg Principle of Grief: letting Tila Tequila know she is heard, you might change what she does.

If you have lost a partner or a child, what do you think? Do you see any echo of your experiences in Tila Tequila’s behavior?


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