Five Years

Holy crap. Today it's five years. He was a handsome guy and a wonderful artist and I loved him, and he loved me.

The Day of the Dead 2010: Join us!

Otilia y sus muertitos, originally uploaded by lacho.flores.

Join us as we remember those who’ve died. The Day of the Dead is a Mexican festival of remembrance that dates back thousands of years. Similar to All Soul’s Day, it is believed to be a special time when the veil between the worlds grows thin and our loved ones visit us. The week before the holiday is spent in a fury of gathering mementos, creating crafts, cooking and cleaning, and sharing memories with friends and family.

I believe that grieving people today need this ancient festival that brings together the living and the dead with love and joy. It’s a safe time to share memories and may turn into a new family tradition that is more harmonious with our real experiences of grief than any celebrations or rituals we share in the U.S. today. Day of the Dead rituals and crafts can be adapted to suit nearly any household’s skills, interests, and can include every generation.

How can you participate? Simple!:

• Follow along with us every few days as we walk you through creating an offering to your loved ones. You can pick and choose the activities that work for you.
• Plan an event (small or large) on Nov. 2, the night of the festival. We’ll also have a chat room open that evening for sharing.
• Display the badge (coming soon) for our shared virtual festival on your blog or website.
• Create a craft, cooking something your loved one enjoyed, or otherwise sharing traditions, new or old, with family and/or friends. Nothing will be difficult, everything will be adaptable, and it shouldn't be expensive, either.
• Share your experience, process, and memories on your own blog and Facebook and updating this post (coming soon) with links.

The next post here (coming soon) will be updated every day with new participants, new activities, photos, and other sharing as part of our individual rituals and memories.

This will be FUN, easy, and satisfying! Questions?

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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I Heart Camp Widow

Of course I had to redo my Powerpoint at the last minute. Friday evening
in the hotel bar I told Andrea how I derived the name "Supa Dupa Fresh"
and she nearly fell asleep. "Fine, we'll say I took that name
because 'I like soup,'" I conceded. And so, a legend was killed.

Camp Widow, a weekend of events in San Diego hosted by the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation, was the highlight of my year. I spent many months preparing my presentation on widows in social media, “Grief? There’s No App for That!,” and helping promote the event to my widowed friends and followers on Twitter and Facebook. I relished the chance to meet in person many folks who’ve become close friends online over the past few years. And I was honored (and totally shocked) to receive an award from SSLF for connecting so many people with resources with each other.

Even though I started with a serious lead, I can’t make this into a comprehensive article about this outstanding weekend. There are so many other perspectives – Candice has listed most of the blog posts, and others are here and here (and more here, here, here, here, here and here -- Holy crap this list is getting ridiculous!), along with two articles in USA Today, including one in which I was quoted.

Instead I’d like to share a few observations. First, the connections are so wonderful to see. If you are widowed, you already know the tremendous power of meeting others who’ve “been there,” how liberating it is to not have to explain yourself, to find those who understand your dark jokes. For many of the 200 attendees this was their first time close enough to hug someone their own age who’d lived with loss. Before Camp, I'd already met scores of my peers in person, and hundreds online, and I know I’ve been exceptionally lucky. This kinship is so validating, such a source of encouragement and conviction – I was a little envious of those discovering this place in themselves, this feeling of not being alone. I was moved to say something new agey: “All these hearts opening up – it’s lighting up the room.” (And then, strangely enough, there were actual fireworks over the harbor.)

And then, through the weekend, I felt a little distant. While I’m still in transition in my life, my emotional needs are much simpler, much less urgent, and not so much about grieving. As my friend Ellen Gerst said, this is a good sign for the rest of you. The weekend was not without pangs: it’s shocking to me, though I know so many of them online, to see in person widowed parents younger than me, some MUCH younger (one with a baby in attendance). And I was inspired by the courage of those who showed up in a strange place, knowing not a soul, in the early days after their loss – many with “0-6 months” on their nametags (each guest selected their own).

Second, the role of social media in making the connections. I loved witnessing the rich and dense web of friendships that had started online, many through my own Facebook activity. One woman told me, “when you friended me you were the only widow I knew other than my great aunt, and now half of my friends list is people like us.” Others toasted (with mashed-potato cocktails) the real faces of people they’d grown to love as sisters from tiny avatars.

Aside from a posse from Widows Wear Stilettos, the largest contingency (23 people) was definitely bloggers: not just the seven from SSLF’s flagship Widow’s Voice, who appeared on stage in a group, but also Candice, Abby, Matt, Andrea, Sarah, Chelsea, Mel, Dan, Boo, Deb, Wendy, Jennifer, WnS, my dear sister Hyla, and the hilarious, stunning Carol, who had the second-most beautiful shoes in the room.

My presentation on social media went “fine” (as we perfectionists say). It had to, given the number of cocktails I passed up throughout the weekend in order to “finish it.” I was trying to be analytical and high-level when people were looking for support and laughs: which you can get online, but perhaps not talk about.

Like so many other aspects of the weekend, the proof was in the pudding: I could see evidence of social media’s value in the connections all around me (and in the award and the attention of USA Today reporter Sharon Jayson), so the Powerpoint was almost beside the point.

Third, the ordinariness of our group: how, when you take away the “drama” the rest of the world invests our “stories” with (to paraphrase Matt, that’s no story, that’s my life!), when you remove yourself from the people Alicia calls “civilians,” the sadness and surprise of our youth and existence and laughter – all the reactions – we’re free. Black or white, fresh or seasoned, young or old, gay or straight, widowed people look like any other group of people: some shy, some giggling with roommates, most with a deep bond to at least one other here, all learning. As I walked back to the elevator after the gala, the “fresh widow” label on my wool shawl invisible as it protected my lucite award, I looked at the gaggles of conversation groups on square beige couches in the hotel lobby: it wasn’t easy to tell who was with our group, and I might have fit in to any of them, too.

I didn’t have a scarlet "W" on my forehead, after all. The role I play was put into relief: I have been widowed, and I can offer hope and share with those in the depths of it, but as a sister and an advocate I’m a handhold* for others.

* To understand this reference and also to be human and delighted you must read or preferably listen to Michele Neff Hernandez’s keynote.


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Camp Widow: All Packed

Yes, I spent the last minute finishing up badges (pictured) for each and every Camp Widow attendee. What's funny is that the last time I did a manic art project like this as "gifts" for attendees was my wedding to Gavin in 1996. Same number, too: 150. I only realized it as I glued the fifth batch of little felt circles (the 1996 ones looked pretty different, but there was still lots of glue on the kitchen table, like now).

Yes, I am very excited about speaking on on widows and social media this Saturday at 2:45 p.m. Pacific time. Yes, we will be live tweeting it (I'm @freshwidow). I have honed and polished my slide show but sometimes it is just down to whether I've consumed exactly the right amount of coffee...

Yes, we will wake up early and "listen in" on the Grief panel at BlogHer that morning. I have proposed the hashtag @BHGrief, we'll see if they decide to change it at 9:05 a.m.

Yes, there will be margaritas. OK, maybe we will read the #BlogHer10 tweets ex post facto.

Yes, I am so excited to press the flesh (don't get too excited, Sarah!) with so many friends from this blog, from Twitter, and from Facebook.

I am reminded of my last "career trip," to BlogHer last year almost an equal adventure. More this time -- because I'm speaking and (shhhh!) I have NEVER BEEN TO THE WEST COAST.

Like many milestones, like a wedding, I now see that the journey begins the day AFTER the milestone -- like all rites of passage, it can go neither "well" nor "poorly," because it's all about getting through and then getting up the next morning.

And no matter how tired I am, I will always be fresh.

* * * Please connect! I love comments! * * *

What is a "remarried widow?"

A remarried widow shouldn’t exist. People ask her, “how can you call yourself a widow if you’re also married?” She’s milking the label. They don’t know what it was like to be married, widowed, and single all at the same time, 3 labels she never chose to wear together. She’s already cheated on a dead man. Nothing gets more absurd beyond that, so she keeps the labels that fit.

A remarried widow may be two things at one time, but she can never be what she was before.

A remarried widow is used to being a problem to somebody. She knows there’s not that much in life that she can control so she doesn’t accept a lot of the rules that others live with.

A remarried widow is grieving, but she is not alone.

A remarried widow is comfortable being two things at once, satisfied with ambiguity, and secure in her definition.

A remarried widow raises children who have one Daddy who died and another Daddy who met him a few times and thought he was a good guy and who will show up at soccer practice.

A remarried woman has made some tough decisions, and has also been presented with some easy choices.

A remarried widow enjoyed her independence, for a moment.

A remarried widow is sharing a story with a happy ending, and she knows you’re comfortable hearing about it only because of the last bits. She accepts this frustrating aspect of socializing but she is still thankful to own all the earlier parts of the story, too, as well as what may be next.

A remarried widow says, in public, that she knows how lucky she is to have had two great loves in one lifetime. Secretly she thinks it’s an option for everyone.

A remarried widow is not remotely interested in your “epic” kitchen remodel.

A remarried widow inspires women whose lives are recently broken, especially those who can’t imagine kissing someone new.

A remarried widow wears black, but never to weddings.

A remarried widow is pretty judgmental about most divorces.

A remarried widow recognizes her duties and her pleasures.

A remarried widow cries at weddings, funerals, and birthdays.

A remarried widow has really good life insurance coverage and so does her husband.

A remarried widow does not want to go through it again, but doesn’t want to die first, either.


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Kitty

It was an ordinary Sunday at church. (Not really, but let’s pretend it was.) Sunny and emotional. We had just sung “Morning Has Broken,” a favorite of mine from the summer camp I hated.

“Now is the time in our service when we share joys and sorrows, the significant events which have touched our lives.”

Up comes a young woman I know a little, with her mother. They have a joy to share, and a sorrow. The young woman has had several operations for a brain tumor, but has been stable a long time. She’s in college. The pair look down, then up, then seek each other’s hand. I brace myself.

“We have a wonderful cat who we love, I grew up with her, and she has had a good life. She’s nearly 16. Earlier this week she didn’t seem to be eating so we took her to the vet.

He said she has terminal cancer. We don’t know how long she has.

She’s been losing weight. She still purrs, and she still wants to go outside, but we can tell that she’s leaving us. It’s just very hard to watch her suffer.”

I couldn’t have put it better myself, this was exactly what it was like during the last months of Gavin’s life. I know the humanity of someone who is losing everything, cat or human, and I remember my husband still could purr, still would have chased birds if it had been his birthright. I’m grateful that even though the cat might understand what’s ahead, she isn’t asking them to say otherwise. I can see how this family is living with and sharing the dignity of not pretending there’s hope. I’m a little envious, I’m flashed back, and then I am just plain sad.


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The only one.

This is the only picture I have of my daughter from near the time that Gavin died. I think I took this the next day, or two days after we all left the hospice facility, broken, relieved, disoriented. June 2006. Of course I know the anniversary, but not exactly when the picture was taken because, of course, the digital camera calendar was a few weeks ahead, or behind, or somehow mixed up the entire time.

I looked for this picture for a long time. There are a few others from that year but none that were memorable, and this one, only because I’ll always associate the moment this shutter clicked with my desire to preserve one still moment in the blur of everything the days and weeks before and after he died. I was happy to forget the few months leading up, when a few pictures had been taken of him weak, lying on the futon in the living room, and a few bland shots of Christmas we sleepwalked through.

There are pictures of the trip she and I took right after the memorial service, and some from her first days in day care, later that summer. Most of that time was lived in a fog, some of it with others around, most of it alone, overheated, praying someone would take a nap, wishing I were paralyzed. These pictures tell some fuzzy story about loss and then short tales of change, trying to escape, new experiences. This one, I remembered, was the only one to simply record a moment of life, an actual mood or memory.

And I wanted, increasingly as I got stronger, to remember what I’d felt like, how we’d lived then. It was easy enough to share some narrative: one about the loss (horrible, inevitable, sad in the proscribed way), the second about how we were learning new things (positive, brave, led by a secure child). The stories were sociable and appropriate. I wouldn’t learn anything from seeing the pictures of those days.

Any picture of her at age two and a half would help validate me as a survivor. I craved that proof. I mean, she’s wonderful, but we were alone in hell: grieving, the diapers, no naps, the heat of summer, the fights to get into the carseat… did it really happen without any visual record? I needed it but didn’t have the energy, I suppose, to find it.

I browsed, almost aimlessly, wondering if I’d imagined taking this single candid, looking in vain.

About a year later I was doing much more sophisticated things with iPhoto and paying more attention – and in a generally more awake state. I spent days cataloging, editing, and titling the scans I had made from Gavin’s lifetime portfolio of more than 1,000 drawings and paintings – actually using the application as it’s intended, at last, I opened a tab in the menu. The year “2006” was unchecked – toggled “off.”

I checked the box. A minute later all of 2006 – only 20 or 30 pictures – came back. Had I turned it off on purpose?

And here she is – the only picture of my only child, my little girl, coming in from the sun one summer day. You can see meaning in it, or a slice of one day. With gratitude at finding it, I choose the latter.


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Sesame Street “When Families Grieve” special

Meet Jesse, a bright seven-year-old, with the cutest pink pigtails and a fuzzy blue face. She’s Elmo’s cousin, and her father died almost a year ago. Yes, the newest Muppet is a bereaved child. “When Families Grieve,” a one-hour special from Sesame Street, features her family and Elmo’s. With help from Katie Couric, herself a widowed Mom, and from Elmo and his friend Rosita, Jesse shares her experience of loss in an accurate and age-appropriate way. I know because I am mother to a grieving and fatherless little girl who is nearly that age now.

The show is compelling, compassionate, and reassuring for viewers of all ages. The goal of the program is to encourage conversation about loss and grief, particularly between parent (or uncle, as in the case of Elmo’s father, who lovingly engages Jesse) and child, the first and most important step in beginning to cope. It tells kids they’re not alone, and that while their emotions can be big and hard to understand, having feelings is natural and normal.

“When Families Grieve” is a great resource to advance grief literacy, reducing stigma and providing basic tools to open conversations. By illustrating real families and fuzzy ones sharing their feelings, the show demonstrates that talking about it really does help, and listening can be powerful.

If you’re one of my core readers, you probably already know these basics, but watching will validate some of your feelings and experiences. But if you’ve been afraid to talk with your kids, or too numb to do so (even after years – you wouldn’t be the first!), you’ll come out reassured, with some new, creative ways to remember your loved one. Most of all, the dialog and stories remind viewers that life goes on, that loss doesn’t ever completely disappear, and that there is no right way to grieve.

As for age range: The kit includes support materials aimed at kids ages 2 to 8, including a sweet storybook. My daughter, now 6, wanted me to skip (the preview DVD) ahead to the sections with Muppets, but older kids will be more interested in the 7-to-teen real kids whose families are interviewed in some detail. The oldest boy shown was 13 or so. Older teens MAY be able to gain something. Because childrens’ grief is progressive and developmental, kids experience the loss anew at each developmental stage, and ask new questions, or ask the same questions in different ways as they learn. So it’s possible that a teen who experienced loss at a younger age may be able to put himself in his old (smaller) shoes and gain something, or identify with the older kids and skip the Muppets. Leave the room and hand them the remote.

Of the four families, three lost fathers, and two of the losses were military-related. The producers didn’t take any easy ways out: one of the military deaths was a suicide after a soldier returned home. “When Families Grieve” is part of “Talk, Listen, Connect,” a program which supports military families living through deployment and other challenges. Spanish language materials are available.

In a brief segment, Couric interviews the featured widowed parents about what helped them and what didn’t, but it’s not a comprehensive view of the sequelae of grief or the complex problems facing these parents. There are no divisions: the show is neutral on politics, society, and medical, mental health, and pastoral care, and doesn’t touch on any of the supports widowed people need outside of their households. I didn’t learn much about life for military families after loss, who often live behind a wall. But for what it does – the most important goal of providing basic facts and reassurance -- this show is wonderful.

I cannot recommend this generous, entertaining, truthful show more highly to families learning to live with loss and to their friends and others who wish to support them. I’m grateful this program was put together and hope it opens dialog between many people about living with grief and learning from each other.

"When Families Grieve" is available online and a free DVD kit is available on request. There are two versions, one for military families, one for civilians. The NEW web site also includes short clips matched with activities and discussion guides. Working through these can be a better way to introduce the topic with younger children, since the full program runs for an hour and includes information parents may wish to absorb in peace.

The full program is, however, *appropriate* for all ages, even grown-ups, and you don't have to be bereaved to learn from and enjoy the show. My FB friends suggest that parents review the full program before showing it to their kids.

* * *

I was honored to be invited to a screening of the new Sesame Street special, “When Families Grieve,” at the Pentagon. Every loss recalls every other, and brings back our first loss. It’s impossible to go to the Pentagon without remembering that I watched the plume of smoke rise on September 11. The bus shelter I waited at was dedicated to those who lost their lives that day. Helicopters buzzed overhead, it seemed for ambiance. Wonderful clouds that looked like baroque draped silver curtains couldn’t be photographed because of security restrictions.

A highlight of the presentation was the banter between Deputy Secretary of Defense William Lynn and Chairman Joint Chiefs of Staff Admiral Mike Mullen with Elmo, Rosita, and Jesse. A baby in the audience (Adm. Mullen’s grandson) exclaimed with pure joy when Elmo appeared from behind the podium, and Elmo’s 3-year-old self responded honestly and spontaneously.

Of course, laughter turned to snuffled tears, wiped away with medaled and camo'ed cuffs, as the packed room watched the families onscreen share their stories of loss and living.

I was, I think, the only civilian press in the auditorium, and the only widow aside from those featured in the film (we were asked to stand). Despite security phalanx, I felt welcomed and as if my little blog was worth a listen.

I needed the confidence. I had a mission on this, my first visit to our nation’s military headquarters. Not just to watch (I’d already seen a previous preview online) and to ask questions if the chance arose (of course not – it was very official) -- I had a message for Elmo.

“Thank you from the bottom of my heart for what you do,” I told Kevin Clash, the man behind (really under) Elmo. He was pulling down masking tape that held his script inside the podium, wearing an elastic headband that I’m sure stabilizes the Muppet or audio gear somehow. “I have to tell you how grateful I am to you for keeping my toddler entertained after her father died. All I wanted to do was lie down on the couch and nap, and I could, while she watched you. Thank you for making this terrific program, it was accurate for the age, I can testify, and really wonderful. But mostly, thanks for your role in our survival* and even for many moments of joy during that numb time.” I meant every word, and I managed to keep eye contact with the puppeteer, not the puppet.



Then, I got my picture taken with Elmo, who, I stressed to Short Stack’s friends at the bus stop, was the real Elmo, NOT the one that’s just a guy in a suit, who gets paid to walk in parades. I posted the picture on Facebook and kvelled over and over; I was glowing all evening, my husband didn’t want to interrupt, and my daughter asked me to please not talk about it any more, please.

This morning my husband said I looked a little spent from my time with the little red guy. “You have no idea,” I taunted him, “how much worse this would be if it had been Grover. I mean, Elmo didn’t even exist when I was a kid.”

That shut him up right good.**

* (I did not tell Mr. Clash that I was pretty sure Short Stack would think Barney was her Dad after that first summer, just the two of us and the TV.)
** Not really.

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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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A Milestone in, or toward, Life 2.0

The milestones pile up, big and small, three years' worth, and they are all linked to loss: When I removed my wedding ring. The anniversaries, birthdays, child’s birthdays, ritual vacations. First Thai food without Gavin. First Mom, and 4-year-old, at a playdate who didn’t know I was a widow. First trip to the grocery store where I didn’t buy a lot of cookie comfort.

This one was new and it snuck up on me. I had my first parent-teacher conference this week with my daughter’s kindergarten teacher. First her speech teacher came in and summarized progress toward her goals. I had some questions (Should I correct her diction when she’s talking to herself? Which is about 2 hours of each day. “No.”) but overall the teacher said Shortie’s doing really well and may not be referred for services next year.

And then the teacher and I went through evaluating all her little successes: reading simple words. “Understanding statistics at a kindergarten level,” WTF is that? Social adjustment, managing her food allergy, etc. She is especially enthusiastic, as I know, about art, and excellent with scissors. In all things, my daughter looks to be flourishing. I smiled.

“Now, Short Stack has mentioned that her father died. Can you tell me some more about that?”

I hadn’t told the teacher.

A milestone that went unmarked at the time: The first time I didn’t mention the loss, at ALL, in meeting someone really important to my child.

I was shocked, sad, happy that I’d gotten away with it: and surprised it took me this long to see that back in September, there was at least one occasion when I didn’t need the attention devoted to a widow.

I blabbered my spiel in incredible surprise: her father, his illness, my general state, basics of grief in kids her age, support we’d gotten. I reaasured her that we talk about him and I’m always honest, and while experts have told me all her reactions so far are typical, she should feel free to let me know if she has any concerns. And I told her about other changes in Short Stack’s life: the death of one grandma, our move to a new neighborhood, Mr. Fresh joining the family. How she refers to him as “Dad” but also says, “I’m a artist like my Daddy,” meaning Gavin.

Everything was OKAY. I’d again escaped injuring my child despite incredible flakiness. I was again grateful for sensitive teachers who have to cope with all our parenting gaps. Grateful I’d avoided a single-Mom breakdown for three years and am now out of those particular woods (breakdown is still possible, but I’m not single ☺).

Is this a milestone of loss, or of Life 2.0? It’s a mark of the absence of loss, the mark death doesn’t leave, of me TRULY living with it and beyond it. Maybe a hint, if not the first, of defining myself as something other than a widow.

I’m just plain happy to be here. And I feel a little less skeptical to, maybe, call a life, at some time, a “New Normal.”


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Fall.

Six things I was grateful for today.

1. The smell of crushed leaves after the kids have been through. (I am pretty sure that for worms, this is the smell of pizza.)
2. The sound of dried fallen leaves as you walk or skip through them.
3. The softness as my daughter jumps into a berm of leaves piled over grass near the curb.
4. The crooked dance of the leaves as they fall in our way.
5. The stubborn brown of the leaves that stay late on oaks.
6. The clear blue you see after the yellows, reds, and browns have left.

(cross-posted at Grace in Small Things).

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Behaver Rules [sic] (Found Art)

An artist friend found this “readymade” in an old school notebook from around 1956, and gave this to me as a housewarming gift. It’s been posted in my work area ever since as inspiration. Or something… perhaps to remind me to be grateful I’m not the fidgety bright child of the 50s, and no longer this kid at any time (though workplaces seem to bring this out in me still).

Gavin grew up in an era when the teacher read Scripture in class, an average somewhat-challenged pupil unlike me, and he didn’t find this a bit funny. Maybe he knew a kid like me back then and hated her.*

Still, #4? #9? Poor kid.

Behaver Rules
1. Listening to stories inc.
2. Be good in school.
3. Raise your hand.
4. DON’T moan.
5. DON’T talk out.
6. Sit up straight.
7. Follow drirections.
8. DON’T talk to your self.
9. DON’T laugh when the teacher is reading the bible.
10. DON’T bring toys to school.
11. In your free time walk around the room quiltely and read quitely.


* It certainly bugged him that I point out any spelling error that crosses my path, even in something a child was forced to write as punishment 35 years ago. 


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November: From the Days of the Dead to the Distractions of the Living

I decided to participate in NaBloPoMo because I’m already so incredibly overbooked, I figured what’s one more damn thing? I mean, if you want something done, give it to a busy man. Right?

Note: I am not a man.

October 31 to November 2 marks the Days of the Dead, a particularly redolent time for me. I’ve blogged about Gavin and I taking our honeymoon in Oaxaca for the festival, about the outdoor dance performance I hosted in 2007 as a memorial to him, and about a tribute I handed out for the event. I don’t want to repeat too much of those earlier posts, but the Mexican tradition as I learned it from Felipe Ehrenberg treats making art (a learning process) and remembering those lost as central to continuing life -- which is as good a description of grieving as I’ve yet found.

We connected with the Days of the Dead a dozen years ago because we felt we’d beaten death once, when Gavin had some heart problems. Little did we know -- I wouldn’t have expected the end to be so nasty, brutish and short or for it to lead me, eventually, to so much more clear and forceful direction in my life.

Each November at the small funky bookstore I used to run, we built a community offering, in a different medium with a different theme. It was chaos and love combined, and always colorful. We’d burn copal and myriad candles (remember when they were not required to be scented?), welcoming everyone, even the bums, to get paint on their hands, drink beer and eat candy. The 2007 event was more advanced but less Mexican than all the ones while Gavin was alive, since it included a hot chick in metallic leather thong bikini and little children whispering to their Moms, “I can see her BUTT!”

Americans need a tradition like this – a solemn and hilarious way to celebrate the lives of those who’ve died, a way to live with mortality every year, even in good years. Grievers and non-grievers together without fear or silence. God knows this country would benefit from celebrating non-religious festivals, more ways to share creative energy, noise, and food and drink. We’d be creating occasions to talk about loss, to take it as the serious and weighty business it is, to share memories and laugh our butts off, too. And what a great way to meet with and learn from our unassimilated Latino neighbors.

Maybe next year I can do one through our church? If I have time. If I’m not moving, balancing paying work, and participating in, uh oh…. NaBloPoMo.

CRAP.

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(Fragment 05) Widowed AND Remarried

In my brief bio here, I say “I identify as a young remarried widow.”

I use “I identify” because this is how transgendered people speak. Postmodern as it sounds, the words should tell you, not that I made a choice, but what I really feel in my heart and what I know to be true. I use trans language out of respect so no matter how I edit the blurb, I’d like to keep this phrasing.

I say “young” because, even with all my gray hair, my issues are different from those of older grieving folks. While I enjoy meeting those folks, I find true sisterhood (or brotherhood) with grieving people around my age, especially if, like me, they are raising young children.

My dual identity as both “widowed” and “remarried” makes me complicated, like my trans friends. Even though you can finally select relationship status “widowed” on Facebook, you can’t choose two statuses.

But it’s also the thing I hear the most from readers: a bunch of you have told me you love hearing that grieving doesn’t disappear and that loss can be compatible with joy. Widows are “in between” in about a dozen ways. They are glad that someone who’s been there says you can arrive at chapter two without leaving chapter one behind. It’s easier to take on a transition if you know it’ll take a long time and there’s no easy way out.

OTOH -- two statuses?-- I could be asking for too much. I have never been accused of being realistic. Mr. Fresh says he hears my dissatisfactions as the result of rising expectations and that this is a powerful force: in fact it was one of the factors responsible for the French Revolution. I acknowledge, with gratitude, that he’s right. I’ve come so far.

But society also expects me to play a public role as a widow, and as my kid's married Mom. Why has it been so hard for me to announce my wedding? Unlike many widows, I haven’t hesitated to tell people I’ve “moved on” romantically.

I eloped partially out of hostility. I refused to vet the man who was to become Mr. Fresh with family or friends. I challenged my beloved minister by asking her to marry us before she herself got married, even though she’d announced her engagement months prior (and then I requested a reading she hates). In the back of my mind, I didn’t want to let my community off the hook of caring for us, to hear them exhale with relief that we’d be okay without their help. And I didn't want to let go of the hard stuff, the tough part, either.

But maybe I’m over that. At least I can see the pattern, hear the little voice inside me. In truth, I know most of our circle smiled big and wanted the best for us. Whenever I told someone I was dating I heard genuine happiness for me and, from married Moms, vicarious excitement. In actual fact, my communities and families have held me pretty well.

I feel ready for the bona fides. Maybe once everything’s out it won’t look so complicated.

A printed announcement:
With Short Stack Fresh,
Supa Dupa Fresh and Marshall Fresh
Take great pleasure in announcing
Their union in marriage,
December 10, 2008.
The family will reside at Xxxxxxxxx.
A celebration is planned for spring 2010.

An alumni note:
Supa Dupa Fresh married Marshall Fresh on December 10, 008. They live in Sprawling Suburb with Supa’s 5-year-old daughter, Short Stack. Supa was widowed in 2006.
Note to alumni editor: please let me review any changes to this text. I don’t want anyone to think I was divorced.

And with those, I realize I owe the world more formality: I never sent Gavin’s death announcements to his alumni publications.

So:
Gavin O’Shaunnessy, class of 1968, passed away on June 2, 2006. O’Shaunnessy’s artwork lives on in many public and private collections. He is represented by the BigDeal Gallery in SmallCity. He received ThisSchool’s Distinguished Alumnus award in 1996. He is survived by his wife, Supa Dupa Fresh, and their daughter, Short Stack.


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Witness: "Meeting" Our Needs

Skip ahead to the next dating-related post!

I "witnessed" at church today as part of our budget drive kickoff. As communications chair I was filling a gap -- we needed testimonials about personal giving decisions -- but I also discuss grieving and receiving.


Good morning. I’m a New Yorker, and I don’t know how I survived the first 21 years of my life without the phrase “you all.” “You,” plural, just doesn’t cut it.

You all have heard me speak up here many times at Joys and Sorrows, and at other times. You all listened as many things in my life went down: My husband got sicker, and sicker. He received the first miracle drug, then the second. He got even sicker. I faced parenting challenges. I had difficulty at work and with finances. You were here for me when he died. And you were here for the memorial service, as well as when I coped with the decline of my mother-in-law over the next year and a half. And then, you were here for me when she died.

And you all were also here for the upswing, which was also slow and muddled, although no one will ever tell you so: You listened when I started dating, you heard my wacky dating stories. You heard me as I coped with my daughter’s severe food allergy, and transitions to day care and then preschool. And then when I married.

You all offered something appropriate at each step – and often it was something surprising, that I wouldn’t expect. You listened, you let me cry and sing. You cooked or cleaned or let me off the hook. You provided a playdate on a rainy day. You kept an eye on me and my daughter. You gave me advice – mostly solicited – on parenting, eldercare, dating, even on what to do with my hair (I didn’t really listen on that last one so much).

I thought of myself as very needy. But that wasn’t it. Now that I’ve come out the other side I can say that I was learning to ask, and to receive. I had been afraid to need, but need led me to abundance, community, and love.

Now I want this church, also, to learn what it’s like to receive – what it’s like to not struggle and work hard all the time. We shouldn’t have to cut back on our dreams because of dealing with the day-to-day.

Yes, it’s about “needs.” Needs are things that are necessary, but they are also met – satisfied, fulfilled, full. “Meeting” means so much. Many of us in this room have met. And we all hope to find a helpmeet, a partner, someone fitting our lives, to work with side-by-side.

If I think now about those heavy times I went through, what was the fulcrum, what turned the switch and transformed needing to receiving?

It was the ASK. This church is learning how to ask, just as you all taught me. How does one ask? I found it is essential to be specific. I’m a practical person and I like numbers and visuals. I find it handy to refer to this little chart and line up my income level with how I feel about this beloved community. I can see what a suitable gift would be, one that meets the needs. This guide was so helpful, as I’d never been a member of a church before or made this kind of gift. And I think the first year we made a very small one. But as I understood the chart, I planned to move onto it, and I did.

This year I lost my job, but I plan to still stay on the chart. It’s based on percentages, so even at a lower income I can maintain or even go up a level.

Please think about what you, too, all of you, have received here. Think about the proportion of your love that comes in the door. What this time means in your week. Would this place be here for you if you had stronger needs? Has it already helped? Maybe you were able to make a difference for someone else. Listen to your heart, and then see what you can do to get on that chart. Respond with the generosity you’ve seen in this beloved community.

Thank you!


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Grieving: How We Survived the First Year+.

From sex to sadness. Sorry for making readers relive my rollercoaster. Here's how we got through the first year after our loss:

• I stayed at my job, even though I was in a bad situation and bored to tears. (They gave me benefits at 30 hours, I could walk to work.)
• I sent my daughter to day care for the first time, two blocks away, even though there were "issues."
  
• We didn’t see people as much as we should have. Little kids need other little kids (dogs like to be with other dogs), and extroverts need company.
  
• We went to church every single week. All kinds of strangers expressed all kinds of sympathy and empathy and other things I never heard of.
• We participated in almost every structured event we were invited to unless it involved preparation (potlucks) or dressing up (art openings) or being out after 7 p.m. or politesse. I guess this means we stayed in a lot.
• I wanted as much sleep as possible. I tried to get the kid to nap. We spent many, many days lying on the couch watching hand-me-down kids' videos. (I was pretty sure Short Stack would grow up thinking Barney was her Dad.) Nothing makes you feel more used-up than nursing a kid in the late afternoon and then she still doesn't sleep.
  
• Trader Joe’s. Every evening I took something out of the freezer, put it in the ‘wave or the Swiss Diamond, and we ate it between tantrums. My cholesterol went through the roof.
• I ignored finances. I kept it at the back of my mind that I could always sell the house (how “gift of the Magi.”). Gavin had minimal life insurance, but we lived off that, art sales, gifts (MBA classmates) and savings (already depleted during his illness). I knew my job would not support me, but could not imagine having a 40-hr-plus-commute job or taking on any more responsibility.
• I complained a lot, about everything. This predilection took care of reorganizing my rolodex.
• I said that anyone whining about George W. Bush was very lucky to not have any real problems. I canceled the paper.
• I wrote a bunch of thank you notes. I neglected most phone calls. I cursed a lot.
• I wondered why the hell no one was calling. I checked the mailbox like a freshman, but looking out only for condolence notes and gifts, preferably money.
  
• After dark, I worshipped in the church of Buffy (all seven seasons in full).
• I forgot the words “dentist” and “salon.” I got fatter and still lost weight.
• I went for massages at least once a month, more when I was on leave.
• I attended support group as my truest religion. I cried and laughed with new friends.
  
• I made wonderful plans and lists, and lost them.
  
• I was heavily preoccupied with Gavin’s 91-year-old mother, who could no longer conceal her growing dementia.
• I believed Gavin would care what I did about some matters but often ended up cursing him.
  
• I took care of a few important matters and coasted on everything else.
• I cherished my child but did the very least in almost every department.
  
• I started a blog with a strong sense of mission and humor. I abandoned it with many other "projects."
• I took one three-month unpaid leave from work and began a second one.
  
• We started dinner each night with a moment of silence, holding hands. I've always imagined one is "saying a personal prayer" or trying to feel lucky. Mostly I was cursing inside, or thought of something tiny ("Today I am so, so grateful for my dumb job"). How I would have thanked the holy one, blessed be he, for a shred of true silence during one of these moments.
  

You can see why that turning point was such welcome relief. I was ambitious, futile, desperate, unproductive, litigious, angry, and blinded. I was weary, a shell. But somehow I knew it wouldn't last forever.

Even a spent sigh somehow turns into a breath.



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Dating Episode 0.9 and 1.0: Virtually Real & Really Virtual

My first online relationship ended with phone sex.

In August, seeing that flamenco dancer, and with encouragement from Lil and a dare from another woman in group, I swore I’d dip my toe in. Within a month I was drenched and it was up to my neck, rapidly rising. How did I get there?

Around my birthday I placed an ad on Match.com, a little more elaborate than the one on Plenty of Fish, but same punchy attitude and honest simplicity. It was a big room to play to: Manual laborers, lawyers, investors. Idealists whose jobs I wanted more than their bodies. Losers who wanted to “feel they lady’s breasts.” There were guys who were way out of my league. Fellows who pointed out that they wanted an "HONEST woman for once." Some winked. One asked for a picture "that shows you below the neck" (it was hard to find one -- I was always squatting at kid height).

I was totally a teenager: gawky, awkward, flirty, without perspective, fresh, unaware what guys my age liked. Not sure who I was or why anyone would like me. My personal brand? My story? No fuckin’ idea. This was the story I knew. I held it close during those weeks:

I held an almost-religious faith that I would find someone else, remarry, and live a happy chapter two (or three?). I credited Gavin with this. That first night after diagnosis --- my first birthday since having a child – we drank a bottle of wine and I waved my finger at him saying, "I just want you to know, if I find someone else, and if I want to, I’m going to get married again. You know, on the off chance you don’t make it."

So generous, Gavin looked at my rage and confusion and clarity. “That’s terrific – I want you to be happy!” Two years later in my young widow/ers' group, I heard I was the only one who’d had this conversation at all. Well – after the first few months that practicality wore off and we were in and out of the land of miraculous healing, surrounded by the moat of denial, until it was too late. I suppose chapter two was an appropriate belief, since Gavin was much older than I. But I entered dating grateful that we’d had that conversation. I thought of that faith, mine and his, every day.

So you can see why nothing was working well.

Except – that it sort of was. One of my earliest winkers developed into a slow and mellow conversation. His ad quoted Groucho and pictured him leaning back with a glass of white wine, petting one of two twinned pugs. In the picture, he was talking. Then some of him on flyfishing adventures and on a boat. A man with a yacht would talk to me? Me?

I was so insecure but tried to be honest: “… I'm not even sure if these are the types of things that would make me seem more (or less) interesting. Knowing me, I should probably be trying to convince guys I'm *less* interesting. Though being 40 means being more comfortable in my own skin and less likely to compromise -- right? I suppose I should put some more pictures up. You wrote a very good profile but I still don't have much of a ‘feel’ for what you're like.”

He was relaxed, and he could deal: “… Do you really want to attract men who are attracted to a less interesting you? For that matter, do you really think you can make yourself less interesting? Seriously doubt it. I wouldn't have responded if I didn't think you were really interesting! As for me, well I'm a pretty direct person and I wrote my profile to convey that. But, I'm also REALLY interesting. I'm just not going to give away all the goodies in my profile. What would we have to talk about?”

It was scrumptious. When he expressed confidence that we were going to have coffee some day, I was beside myself. I was pulling up the bucket from the well of horniness and it was running over. I felt flushed with hormones from head to toe. At the same time, there was a lush sadness coming up. It affected my entire body at exactly the same time as the desire. I was complete and full with the conflict.

Short Stack was in toilet training. Over and over, day in day out, I kindly said, “Listen to your body, honey…” One of my challenges is to treat myself with the same loving care I give to my child. At the time, I’d heard a statement on Oprah* that “Our children learn not from how we treat them, but from how we treat ourselves.”

I started to hear what I was saying. Listen to my body. (Maybe someone else would like to listen to my body?). "My body is saying it is sad and horny." Yeah, weird, but it sounds human enough. I told YachtGuy I was flooded with sadness corresponding with him and it didn't freak him out. He said, "Take your time. This is supposed to be fun."

Now hang on a minute, I said have a body? I do?

Oh yes. Yes, honey, I do.

[White lettering on blackscreen, arousing your ire:]

TO BE CONTINUED.

Part 2. Dating Episode 1.0: Really Virtual

Maybe a week after he assured me we’d meet in person, my “relationship” with YachtGuy escalated to talking on the phone, which was richer and more wonderful. We had rapport, we laughed. I called him “French” because he shopped each day for that night’s dinner; I could hear his playful sneer when he threatened to hang up.

I nearly pee’d my pants laughing when he told me he was living on his yacht, hours from work, since the separation. We told life stories, compared marriages, talked about our dysfunctional first families. We had a similar level of intensity but I was insecure; he was gracious, reassuring, and patient, a southerner raised by bohemians, who facilitated complex accounting transactions.

Perhaps for some women “settled charges resulting from an SEC investigation” might raise a red flag. I found out that I am not one of those women.

During my work day, I’d think of him, or exchange an e-mail or two, and that sorrow and lust would rise in me again. I sought and clung to this deliciousness.

I was still scared to have a date, even coffee, even with him. Finally I allowed that I could get together for coffee in two weeks – enough time to visit the woman who kindly but firmly disciplines my hair a few times each year. I could at least prepare on the surface.


Wow -- my first date. I wouldn’t even call what I’d done before Gavin “dating.” This was fresh territory and I only had rusty tools, though I guess my compass was strong. I warned YachtGuy that I would cry when I met him, no matter what. He warned me that he would kiss me, no matter what. I melted into an even more tangled ball of tension and pestered Vivi and Lil until they consented to chaperone the coffee date. Lil told Vivi, “Don’t forget your fake glasses and nose so we won’t be recognized.”

There were some other difficult things going on in my life – the subject of a long, separate, widowhood-related story – and they came to a head the weekend before our date. I vented to YachtGuy by e-mail and we made a date to talk by phone that evening.

As I look back on it now, after so much else has happened, I know I was a tinderbox. I couldn’t contain my excitement at any stage so far. I drank half a bottle of wine before I got him on the line. Perhaps what happened was pre-ordained. Destiny or kismet or drunken dumbness, it was a fucking total blast.

The next day I had to process with the girls:

Viv: Three hours! What did you talk about?
SDF: Um…. We only talked for one hour...
Viv: Oh my. Was the hour of talk before or after?
SDF: Before. We were pretty spent at the end as you can imagine.
Viv: Was it just dirty talk or….
SDF: The latter. So here’s how I foresee Sunday: I’m sitting across from him saying YOU'RE the guy I fucked?????? and laughing my ass off. PLEASE chaperone!
Viv: What are going to wear, and for the love of God, have you had your hair done recently? You totally have a boyfriend. I NEED DETAILS.
SDF: I do NOT have a boyfriend. What details do you want?
Viv: Basically, um … the transcript.
SDF: Transcript: First hour is like, how was your day and what do you think you want in life and let’s just have fun. He tells me how relaxed he is and how he can see the stars from his bed. I do the same except I say I can see the TV from here on the couch. He tells me some things he likes about women and what he likes to do to them. I tell him how much I enjoy those things. Things escalate to a lot of heavy breathing that cannot be heard very well and some descriptions of what we imagine we are each doing to the other except probably not accurate b/c hard to keep track of what’s sposed to be where when, breathing gets faster, I can hardly hear anything and have to keep checking if he’s still there, heavier breathing and some imaginative descriptions, exclamations and exhortations and some cursing, I hang up about 3 times (chin pushes handset buttons, or switch phones because battery dies) and one of us has to call back, then there are some louder noises. I hang up by accident again. He calls back. We make appropriate small nice talk for a while and then we say goodnight. DOES THAT HELP?
Viv: Well… it sounds almost romantic.

After phone sex, coffee had to be a piece of cake, right? I still felt that real physical contact, even the threatened kiss, would be more than I could handle easily, but at least I had some basis of recent experience with some kind of partner. I sure felt different, and people at work kept asking me about my “glow.”

Four nights before the date, just after finishing story time, I opened my inbox:

S –

Lots of thoughts in recent days. Three significant points pertaining to you:

1.  I don't want to meet you yet. In fact, I've decided to drop dating (the in-person type) altogether for the time being. Very personal reasons having nothing to do with the wonderful women I have met, you included. Sorry, but must postpone coffee for a while.  For some reason I think you will understand without explanation...at least I hope.

2.  I am strangely attracted to you. I am simultaneously troubled and intrigued by that.

3.  The other night was amazingly erotic. I want to fuck you tonight. Please call.

YG

Sent from my iPhone

* Read the next installment in this series! *


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Dating Episode 0.2 [August 2007]: What I Heard When She Moved

This will be, sort of, my last post about pre-dating. The next one on this subject starts with the best sentence I’ve ever uttered.

But this short story describes the last step before I could really “put myself out there.”

At our church in the summer, services are organized by members. This August Sunday the service featured a gorgeous flamenco dancer on the hardwood of the choir loft, in two of the intervals in which we normally would have just music.

She transfixed all of us. We looked to the choir loft fastly. She stamped her declarative feet. She held dramatic poses, Spanish arabesques. There was as much pause as guitar and those silences held us rapt. The music was plaintive and joyous, her dancing was full of life. Her belly showed, gorgeous chocolate skin. She knew exactly how beautiful she was.

How often do you find a single point around which other aspects of your life have turned? The lever or wedge, the first slow domino?

That could be me, said a voice. During her second number, it said, HANG ON, that is me. I can move. I can strut. I can command attention with a slight curve of my pinky or a thrust hip. I can be subtle and I don’t mind making a statement.

I remembered Marie’s search. Who am I? What do I like?

The flood took me by surprise. I ignored the sermon, responding to the wave:
I love fuchsia and red and black.
I love the shawl I bought at Teotihuacan.
I love music, I love to dance.
I love my perfume.

Through the hour it swelled:
I love my child.
I love my body.
I love beans.
I love dark chocolate and all kinds of wine.
I love talking late into the night about intense and light lovely topics with someone cute.
I love to kiss.
I love watching the leaves fall, and my hammock.
I love to read.
I love Dave Eggers, though he doesn’t deserve it.
I love the New Yorker and This American Life.
I love a good movie.
I love Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
I love yoga.
I love that I can do anything when I start with a chopped onion in olive oil.
I love the equity in my home.
I love creating art and mixing materials and gazing at what I’ve done.
I love the feel of wood.
I love the smells of metal.
I love my pointy black boots.
I love rice...

I can do it. I knew in my heart and I felt it in my feet and my belly. The next evening after storytime I looked for all the flamenco classes I could find. Maybe that would take too long; I looked up salsa meetups, but those people were young. Then I realized if I was out learning to dance I could as well be out flirting with boys instead of just browsing at them. And some of that might lead somewhere. I already had a sitter every Thursday for support group; if she could handle another $28 a week, my kid would not suffer.

I was off.

* Read the next installment in this series! *

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Snowbservations

Can I just say how much I appreciate the poem that arrived with today's update on trash collection from county Solid Waste Services?

Let the old snow be covered with the new:
The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden.
Let it be hidden wholly from our view
By pure white flakes, all trackless and untrodden.
When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring's feet
Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet.

Let the old life be covered by the new:
The old past life so full of sad mistakes,
Let it be wholly hidden from the view
By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes.

Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring
Let the white mantle of repentance fling
Soft drapery about it, fold on fold,
Even as the new snow covers up the old.

— "A March Snow", Ella Wheeler Wilcox

The last one they sent was Robert Frost, but still appreciated given the context. This one is actually kinda apt. Thank you, trash man! (Trash communications woman?)



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