Our Corona~

Life will never be the same again, in most ways.
Shit around the world, and in our country, is changing so fast that my head is spinning around like Linda Blair’s in the freakiest movie to ever happen to our world, back in the 70’s.
photo-1572113394679-f98d243df693-200x300The Exorcist.
Facebook is flooded daily with everything about our new favorite virus.
Fortunately, it’s also flooded with information about free classes, concerts, workouts, counseling one on one, yoga breathing and relaxation, singalongs…pretty much whatever your quarantined heart might desire.
Financially, shit is already hitting the fan for so many individuals and families.
There’s a great deal of really, really, good, dark, humor available too. Recently, memes are spot on in every topic.
People post on fb about how stressed they are, how sad they are, how emotional this is for them, how it feels being in isolation, how tough it is going to the store to shop.
And they’re getting supportive and encouraging responses from everyone around them…family, friends, strangers…people near and far.
All of which is lovely and wonderful and beautiful and necessary and good and how great it is, right?
And I’m over here thinking, not in a bitter way but in a wry, sardonic manner, tinged with cynicism, though I try to keep that at bay, that hey, world, guess what?
Welcome to the head spinning shock, disbelief, financial hurricane, numbness while feeling all the feels, terror, anxiety, fear, disorientation, discombobulation, loneliness, and generalized 100% uncertainty about the future, and every other emotion that we who are widowed experienced upon the death of our person and have lived in whatever time since their death.
Many, if not most of us, without support and with broken and shredded hearts.
My sense of humor is seeing me through all of this.
Life, right?
I want to start up a new business for all the non-widowed folks in the world now who find all of this so overwhelming.
Understandably overwhelmed.
Who wouldn’t be?
A business where I’d consult and help them understand what the hell is going on with them emotionally in these days of coronavirus.
I’d be kind of sardonic about it all with them.
These emotions we’re experiencing in these last couple weeks, and for the foreseeable future are all normal in every way.
Of course, the virus will end at some point.
Our loved one, our person will never return, at any point.
There’s no date stamp for that.
I guess I just want to say to the world, as we all go through this, that I hope you all do continue reaching out to one another. Slowing down. Paying attention. Speaking from your heart to your loved ones. All of this.
Because, really, world?
Welcome to the fuck of widowhood.
Grief is suddenly mainstream, peeps, and ain’t that a bitch?

Time in Freefall~

Written on the eve of what the world celebrates as New Year’s.

But since Time has ceased to hold any meaning for me since Chuck’s death, I’ve taken it upon myself to designate my New Year as beginning on April 21; the anniversary of Chuck’s death.

That’s the time when I reflect on whatever needs reflecting upon. It’s when I do a self-check, and it’s a time that is meaningful to me. I realize, more and more, that Time is merely a social construct. It’s necessary, in our culture, to keep our worlds moving, I suppose, but for those of us left behind, it’s a mish mash of how can it be so long? and oh my god it’s been forever! There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot of in between.

Recently I also made the decision to stop counting the years since Chuck’s death. Not because it doesn’t matter; it very much does. But my heart can’t manage the reality of all the years yet to come. I started sorting it all out and it will soon be 7 years and…nope. Not doing 7 years. In my mind, and what I will forever tell people henceforth, it has been 6.5 years. Period. 2020-01-04 (8)

Additionally, since I’m stopping counting the years since his death, I will no longer age. I’m 61 now, and that’s the age I’ll stay. I’m already one year older than Chuck was when he died. Enough already.

Yes, yes, of course there are those who might say, behind their hands, that I’ve gone nuts. Crackers. Over the edge. Look at the crazy widow! they’ll whisper.

Behold the field of fucks I don’t give.

I stopped caring about other’s opinions of me a looooong time ago. In fact, the first thing I’d tell anyone new to the grieving community is to install a hinge on their elbow so that it automatically shoots up when someone offers an opinion/comment/suggestion about the right way to grieve, and your fingers automatically flip them a bird. 

You can, of course, in order to appease such people, stare at your elbow/hand in shocked surprise that this happened. Act horrified if you wish. You’ve made your point with them.

In some ways I relish the prospect of being known as the crazy widow lady. Kind of a cool rep, in my mind.

I may very well create a reputation as that crazy widow lady dressed all in pink and what’s that all about? they’ll ask, not really certain if they want to know the answer.

That’s okay, too.

I’m going to just be over here, driving my pink car, towing my pink trailer with the names of all these loved ones on it, shooting sparkle and glitter at everyone. Giving hugs. Getting hugs. 

The crazy widow lady in pink.

Cool beans~

What Was. What Is~

Your death

stripped me down to bone and marrow.

It dug my heart out of my body with sharp talons

And flung it, bloodied, onto the ground

A sharp bladed axe,

Such as was used for beheadings in the days of Henry VIII 

Hacked away at that bloodied heart of mine on the ground.

Slicing and dicing it into miniscule pieces.

It took effort and determination and grit

And all the Love he left behind for me,

To string those pieces of you and me together.

My heart doesn’t look the same now, as it did when it was full in my chest.

I don’t look the same as I did all the years of our together lives.

I am stripped raw.

Exposed.

Vulnerable.

That isn’t a bad thing.

Or a good thing.

It’s just what I am now.

I’m still dislocated. Dispossessed. Disoriented. Displaced. In dissaray. 

I’m okay with all this, too.

In a world where nothing is okay because you are no longer in it…

I’m weirdly okay.

Living and missing you. Living while missing you with each breath. Living. And missing.

Empty and filled with Love for you.

I don’t try to reason any of it out any longer.

Perhaps that is the true freedom that comes with grief.

In the truest, most loving, strongest way of letting go…

It is letting go of people’s expectations of me. 

People’s opinions of me.

People’s anything of me.

Or judgement of myself.

I’m just me. 

Still, and always, in Love with a dead man.

With a heart open to Love every day.

No matter what.

Aching with Love.

Aching for you.

Loving you~

A Breath Away~

You are so far away now.

6 years away.

A lifetime away.

A moment away.

But a moment that is memory rather than feeling.

Remembrance.

I stare at your picture,

At pictures of you and I together,

And I look at all the pictures in the years since you left,

I almost wonder…

Which ones are real?

You and I, passionate together, 

Or me, alone, passionate in a different way,

At a different level,

That passion that peaks when I speak of you, dream of you, write of you, live for you.

Alone, there is mostly just a vast emptiness 

that reflects your absence. 

How is it possible for your absence to feel as strongly binding as your presence once did?

In the beginning, in the horror filled new years of without you,

my mind took me to and from and back and forth and up and down and inside out,

As I strove to make sense of me walking this earth alone.

Now, in this just past 6th year,

I wonder no longer.

About any of it.

I may see you again. I may not. I am in pain. I am empty.

I miss you with a dull throbbing, even as I strive to live this life of color and travel trailers and open roads and new friends and fading memories and daily challenges.

Oh my dearest Love…

My dearest Love…

You are me and I am you and your Love is me and I am both of us and I…

I carry our story.

I carry us, now.

Oh, my dearest Love…

Living on Koiros Time~

I’m continually searching for new and fascinating podcasts to listen to as I drive my Odyssey of Love. Podcasts by people who think outside the box. Live outside expectations. See beyond what we’ve generally been taught, whether intentionally or culturally.

This perception in thinking isn’t new to me; I was raised to read and question and educate myself.

When Chuck and I started our traveling days together, we let go, willingly, of our material possessions. A huge bit of it was donated to friends. What we kept, we’d go through each time we visited our storage unit. 

And what I found was that, as our pile of possessions grew smaller and smaller, I began looking inside of myself. 

Why did I believe what I did? Where did my absolutes come from? And were they serving me in my adult life?

A few years after Chuck’s death, I gave away everything left in our storage unit. 

Everything I own is in my car and in my trailer.

And, as I did when he was alive, I’ve gone inward to see what’s there and what does/doesn’t serve me any longer.

How can I further expand my heart and soul and mind?

For me, it’s a matter of survival.

I find it difficult to live in the world that was, and no longer is.

Through idle searching, I found a podcast, and episode, of Krista Tippett, with Richard Rohr. He’s a Franciscan monk (I think that’s the proper term). Well educated, as they all are (or used to be). He’s older, more in my age group, with a nod to all of those who recognize the term post Vatican 2.

Part of the conversation was given to the meaning of Time, which is when I learned something I didn’t know about. Not language wise, in any case. I’ve experienced it but didn’t know that the Greeks named it centuries ago (Go, Greeks)!

Time. 

We mostly experience it and define it in Chronos. Which is time by the clock. By the seasons. Predictable time.

But there is another term for time that the Greeks recognized and tried to define, insasmuch as they could, what with being human and all. Knowing that there was something bigger than our experience of time.

Kairos.

Time again. But time expanded. Deep time. The moments of Chronos time. The moments of recognition. Contemplative time. Those infinitesimal seconds and beats of your heart.

This is how I live.

I haven’t yet figured out how practical it is, because our world demands Chronos. It almost feels defiant to live inside of Kairos.

Except that it pretty much comes easily to me. Chronos turns the world but my world, and my experience of time, changed drastically when Chuck died.

Richard Rohr spoke with Krista Tippet and I’m very loosely translating this to my perception about the before time that consists of so much order. As in, doing the shit we learned to do. The life trajectory that so many of us absorb

Grow up (albeit in a dysfunctional household), graduate/college/graduate/marry/kids/job/2 cars/picket fence etc.

Chuck and I never bought into that lifestyle, though we lived it outwardly as we raised our kids. 

We most definitely bucked it when we sold everything and chose to live on the road.

In many eyes, I went over the top, or possibly, over the edge, when I chose to live on the road alone, after he died.

But everything about life changed when he died. Time ceased to have any meaning for me, even as every moment was experienced in pain and grief and dislocation and disruption.

This time, the years of my life after Chuck’s death, this is the disorder that Richard Rohr spoke of. How I translate his words into my life.

And, to quote him again, it is my job to just get out of the way.

Again, nothing new to me, since beginning my Odyssey of Love.

I’ve always known that I’m not in charge of how this is going. I just need to suit up and show up and let it all unfold. Now I realize that I’ve just naturally been living in Kairos time.

Cue Don Williams, and change the lyrics…

It’s only when I get in my own way, when I revert to Chronos time, that shit gets messed up. 

It’s as if the Universe is trying to tell me Look, sister, back off, right? I’ve got this going on and happening and you’re trying to interfere. Just step back, right?

The Universe. Love. Some call it god. The Force. 

Whatever you call it, it’s the same thing.

As long as I let Love guide me, show me…as long as I live in Kairos time…it happens. I can’t explain it but my heart and soul know when I’m in it.

Chronos time is head space and it fucks with me and messes up the right stuff that’s going on. Chuck used to lightly tap me on the side of my head when he saw that I was getting into that space and say Snap out of it, Miller!

In a wierd and strange way, living in this disordered time is what keeps me open to possibilities. Open to Love. Giving and receiving. Which, you’d think, would fuck me up. But it doesn’t. It works.

Another piece of the puzzle that is my Odyssey of Love.

Now placed.

Thank you, Krista Tippet and Richard Rohr~

This Never Ending Story~

Is loneliness the never-ending story of widowhood?
Does it end if we find another chance at Love?
Does the loneliness exist, even then,
Because the loneliness is specific to that person, your person, who died?
Is there ever a moment again
When a widow’s heart feels that lightness of being,
Once felt?
Or is the heaviness, the ache, the sadness of that particular loneliness
A lifetime sentence in the so called new normal?
Because, no matter what I do, where I go, how I push, how I involve myself in life, in relationships with family and friends, no matter how much I join in, engage, power on,
That loneliness doesn’t leave my heart, my soul, or my body.
Counseling and therapy for anxiety and trauma…EMDR, bi-lateral brain stimulation, talk, tapping, retreats, meditation, new environments, connections with others…I’ve done it all, and I continue doing it all…
And…that loneliness that only intensifies as the years pass by.
973 days. 21 hours. 34 seconds. Since Chuck died.
I’m very definitely not the poster widow for getting “over” the grief.
It isn’t the chest slicing grief of the first 3 years, so I guess that’s good, right?
It’s more a sort of numbness, even though I feel so much, which is contradictory, I realize.
I long for him more as the years go by.
My body craves his presence next to me.
It all feels so fucking relentless.
This feeling. And, honestly…life.
I’m doing all the shit and creating beauty around me.
And that default heaviness of my heart and soul is ever present.
Is this the rest of my life, I wonder?
And how can it not be, really?
He’ll always be dead
And missing from me and I’ll always long for him,
Because he isn’t here.
Nor will he ever be here again.
His deadness is relentless.
I want to wake up from this,
And I know I never will.
Will I ever feel the lightness of being again that I felt for 24 years?
Questions and more questions.
And
Dead
Dead
Dead.

If These Gods~

If all things that are impossible
Became impossibly real,
And the unimaginable
Became impossibly imaginable,
And what is impossibly, unimaginably, inconceivable,
Became entirely plausible.
In a world where my fiercest and most impassioned pleas,
Ringing forth from the depths of my shattered heart…
Could be heard pulsating through the days and nights of the almighty Universe,
And the gods of the Romans and Greeks and all gods through Time
Were to hear my cries,
Bouncing off the stars and the moon and the sun…
Especially…most especially Aphrodite and Pothos and Eros…
And Mars, that fierce god of war, who understands passion and ferocity,
If these gods, dancing among the stars,
Were to hear my fervent keening,
And, in response, radiate their powers into one lone energy that would shape all that is impossible,
Into the possible,
With a nod to the mighty Thor for use of his valiant hammer…
They would, on the winged feet of Mercury…
Convey you, my dearest Love, my beloved, my husband,
To my side once again~

Love…in Time~

Where, my Beloved, did you go,
That long-ago night when you left me?
Where did you go,
That darkest of nights forever ago,
But yesterday?
Watching as your chest quivered in and out,
Until it quite simply…didn’t.
And my heart that was your heart that was my heart again, and yours,
Shattered and splintered,
Even as it crystalized into nothingness and everything.
Even as my traitorous mind went blank, searching for memories of you and I and us.
Frozen in time.
Time.
That time.
You, gone.
Me, still here.
Grasping the starkness of my new world,
Without you.
Where did you go, my beloved?
As I placed my hand on your chest something I’d done so often…
And didn’t feel you place your hand over mine something you’d always done.
Two hearts. One heart. Your heart. My heart.
Your heart and your Love into my heart and Love magnified in me.
Where you went, my beloved, was into nothing and into everything that is my world without you.
Spirit. Essence. Heart. Soul. Green eyes. Strong shoulders. Warm embrace.
We became me, and us and who we were, became who I now am in my world without you.
Love.
Magnified.

And. Not Or~

We all know the power of words, especially in widowhood.
Words stream at us in loving support, with awkwardness, clumsy grace, and, unfortunately, in judgement.
We hear these words and phrases and they make us stronger or they make us want to hide.
We begin, as time passes, to hide ourselves. To isolate ourselves.
We present artificial selves to protect ourselves from judgements and maintain our daily lives, while our hearts and souls go underground.
Early on, in what I will presume was good intent, a friend told me to just fake it til you make it.
Instinctively, I knew that wasn’t an option for me. It felt like an unhealthy response to a genuinely traumatizing event.
As these few years have passed, I’ve spoken about life without my beloved husband, and the struggles of widowhood, in as real and authentic a way as possible.
I refuse to hide myself from it. I refuse to allow the world and its’ judgements to force me into isolation. I can’t, for my own sanity’s sake.
And I’ve also had to create a life and do my daily tasks, which I can’t do if I’m sobbing my way through my days.
So I’ve put on the face, so to speak, in order to get shit done, like we all do.
But this isn’t a fake it til you make it face.
In what I consider a healthy response, I’ve morphed into two people. Which, as a Gemini, is no big deal to me, honestly.
And I’ve learned that this widow life isn’t an either/or proposition.
It’s an and situation.
I am this person AND I’m that person.
I am devastated empty lonely yearning sad missing him AND I am creating and creative engaging being and showing and receiving Love…daily.
I am a shadow of myself AND I am shining more brightly than ever.
I don’t want to be here on this earth without him AND I am more determined than ever to carry our Love story every day.
I feel empty AND feel so full each and every day.
I am this AND I am that AND I am perfectly okay with this duality.
This duality, for me, is how I widow~

Feel Free Not to Read This. Probably Don’t. If you do, please refrain from telling me whatever you think I need to Know. M’k?

Fucking cancer
Fucking death
Fucking widowhood
Fucking life without him
Fucking heaviness
Fucking memories of you dying
Fucking bed sores
Fucking hole in the base of your spine where the tumor ate through your body
Fucking having to live without you every damn day
Fucking having to wake up and do life in the midst of fucking confusion that is just always there no matter what, for fucking years
Fucking relationships that tear apart after death
Fucking dark shadow of widowhood that scares people away even when you try to hide the shadows
Fucking nights staring at a TV show that you couldn’t even describe to someone even after watching it for an hour and another hour and another and you still couldn’t say
Fucking eyes that stare into nowhere and beyond nowhere into you know not what of nowhere
Fucking screams that get shoved down into your body because…well, who knows why?
Fucking judgment from every direction; too soon, too fast, too much, not enough, too dark, too light, too this, too that, too everything
Fucking cancer that ravaged and blew apart the body of the man I loved
Fucking tears that spill out no matter where or when
And fucking tears that don’t spill and choke you instead
Fucking energy to suit up and show up every day
And fucking judgements that it’s not enough or it’s not the right kind or it doesn’t matter just don’t be a fucking widow
Fucking widowhood that you’d tear off of you if you could and fuck that you can’t
Fucking doing every fucking thing you can and he’s still dead and always will be
Fucking skin hunger and fucking every damn thing about him being dead and gone
Fucking life fucking death fucking grief fucking breathing fucking everything without him. fucking everything