It was messiier than that

It was a glorious fall day.  I was in the Ghost Ranch Library, working on donations, when my phone rang.  The call was from my ex-sister-in-law.  I last saw her in August 2017, when my sister and I drove up to Oregon from my house-sits in California in order to say a graveside farewell to Aunt J.  (Some ceremonies take longer to arrange than others, especially when everyone is farflung.) After the ceremony, I dropped my sister at the airport and drove out to Mulino to stay with R and L in their new (to me) home.  Cousins, daughters, and granddaughters came out for a potluck, but D and my stepson K chose otherwise.  I was sorry about that, as K and I are on reasonably good terms and I do love him, but I was relieved to have the uncomfortable meeting with D postponed for some other visit. He had suggested a getaway, and that just was never going to be in the cards.

Now that I was back in the States, I did plan to visit Portland, and I was happy to hear L's voice.  I took the phone out to patio, where the reception was better.  The heart-shaped golden cottonwood leaves were blowing about, and the sky was a deep blue.  It was a gorgeous day.  We talked a bit and then L told me why she had called.  D took his life on Oct 1.  He had apparently been struggling for the last year.  He was her only sibling, and their parents passed some time ago, so she's the last of that nuclear family.

We talked about that, and about K, and to my surprise, I found myself weeping.  Mainly I was grieving for his pain and despair, and for his family.  I left D almost 6 years ago, so my personal sorrow was buried deep,  compounded by some guilt.  Could I have saved him?  He never did well living alone.  But then again, I did not do well living with him.  And in the long run, this was his lifelong battle.  I was only a small part of the army of friends and family that fought beside him and ultimately could only stand aside and watch him flailing and losing in single combat.  It was heartbreaking then, and it's heartbreaking now.

October passed. My college friends were scheduled to visit that weekend and were a loving distraction and sounding board.  The Ghost Ranch management continued to be dysfunctional and provide both drama and angst for most of the staff.  I volunteered at the Balloon fiesta and played in an APO concert.  I played trios with nearby friends.  I hiked through the golden autumnal weather.  And I provided pix, words, and memories for L as she and K and M planned the memorial and attended grief counseling.

Memories of his affiliations and accomplishments:

I know that he belonged to the Oregon Alternative Educators’ Association (can’t recall exact name.) He helped produce E’s play, Home to Walata. His coffee klatsch did something with Panera, can’t recall what.  KA would know.  He did overnights at a few homeless shelters.  KL could speak to his involvement with the day shelter at UU.  Lots of UU involvement:  singing in Chalice Choir, teaching in the Learning Community, Men’s Group, donating to the building fund. He marched in NAMI parades and Parkinson’s walks.  He was a loyal and supportive friend, which is a huge accomplishment in my book. GR included him in the thank you credits of his woodworking book.

The list of activities and involvement is long, but could be summed up by a spiritual and social activist sensibility.

In a word, a good and complicated man.

 

Adjectives, good and bad:

Loving, lovable, frustrating, creative (especially in the kitchen), needy, fun-loving, caring, giving, ethical, intelligent, socially conscious, angry, depressed, fiscally incompetent, sports loving, jazz aficionado, TV-addict, fatherly, impatient, well-dressed, opinionated, abrasive, devoted (to family, friends, and causes), selfish, never boring.

I miss the good times and am grateful for the many gifts of spirit and connection, especially with his family (my family.)

 

My sisters came to visit from Oct 31 to Nov 7 and during that time frame I learned that E, now 103, was in hospice.  I went out the next week for a farewell visit at her Berkeley care facility.  While there, the dates were set for D's memorial and wake:  Dec 8/9.  I cancelled the next several weeks with Ghost Ranch and arranged a trip to Portland.  In the midst of that, Ghost Ranch decided to make me move out during Thanksgiving week, despite the fact that no one was going to be in the farmhouse, and I wanted, as a professional, to come back in January and wind up my projects.  But that's a story for another post.

So, I came to Portland, to drink the wine that L and G had been storing for me during my 18 nomadic months, to visit friends, and to say goodbye to D.  I thought I was okay until the night before my flight out, when I started weeping again.  I came out to the living room and told P:  "I'm never going to see D again."  Suddenly, I was no longer grieving for him and his family.  I was grieving for myself.

For the most part, my friends and family understood, but they also reminded me that there were good reasons I gave up on the marriage and good reasons I had a restraining order for the first year after I left him.  For the memorial service, I sang Fragile at the end of the prelude, the song he sang to me at our wedding.  "On and on, the rains will fall, like tears from a star, like tears from a star.  On and on, the star will say, how fragile we are, how fragile we are."  True of our marriage, true of his life.

It was a beautiful service.  Most of my personal friends and family did not attend, but those who did benefited by hearing the loving words and memories.  There were good reasons I loved him. Friends talked of Big Red, Robbie, Big Unc, the boy and man with a joyous lack of boundaries, the man who held his friends and family close in love and laughter until the last year, when he shut them all out.  He stopped initiating gatherings, stopped cooking, stopped returning calls and emails, stopped accessing the joy that surrounded him.  His mental illness took him.  But, while acknowledging that battle, the service and reception celebrated the lovable D. 

Still, I could not get through the final hymn, thinking how the peace it epitomized had failed him.  I give thanks to the waves upholding me Hail the great winds urging me on Greet the infinite sea before me Sing the sky my sailor's song I was born upon the fathoms Never harbor or port have I known The wide universe is the ocean I travel And the Earth is my blue boat home 

That night I stayed with R and L, helping with preparations for the wake. I learned how D's last year had spiralled downward.   Although R and L were his lifeline and he stayed with them every weekend, he spent his time holed up in the TV room.  He ignored the weekly messages from one of his oldest friends, a friend who spoke at our wedding and spoke equally movingly at the service.  The last time L saw D, she told him he needed to resume therapy and he later asked her to drive him to a therapy session. When she arrived for the drive, he was not there.  I asked R, who found D.  And that's when I discovered how D chose to end it.  It wasn't drugs, his choice in several previous attempts.  As L told her cousins, "It was messier than that."  And irrevocable.  I don't need to wonder if anyone could have saved him.  But the image of that final act is indelible, and as I watch him crying in my imagination, I cry too.  

I wish I could have saved him.  I wish he could have saved himself.

 

We walked together
And with friends. I walked endings
Alone, then and now.

RIP Dave. I will always love you.

 

 

On our honeymoon

 

Do we have to go home now?

 

 

 

Making Sense

Election night, I worked until 8 pm, when the polls closed in New Mexico, and half the electoral votes were in.  Clinton was behind by 33, but there were 294 left up for grabs.  The mood could have been cautiously hopeful, but I felt dread deadening my emotions.  I texted a bit with PT and G, but they were watching polls and TV and online election maps, and my stomach couldn't take the play by play.  I bowed out, and listened to James Marsters read The Summer Knight, with that perfect amount of Sam Spade in his voice.  I took diazepam for my queasy stomach and spinning brain, and fell asleep.

I woke up to the news that my country, my neighbors, my friends, my family, had elected a man whose entire campaign denigrated and marginalized women, minorities, and The Other, people who were also my neighbors, my friends, my family.  We elected a bully, a man whose "Art of the Deal" consists of screwing over the people with whom he deals, a man who is proud of working the tax system while the rest of us pay, whose response to criticism is a blisteringly vulgar tweet, who is all about what he can win for himself.  I can't even talk about the rape accusations and his treatment of the soldier's surviving family.

I was heartsick.

I walked through my day, feeling tears in my throat, dread in my heart.  I was nauseous, my head hurt as well as my heart and stomach.  I saw but could not feel the sun shining on the snow-sprinkled mountain. There was a haze over everything.  I wasn't sleepwalking, but I was not present.

Eventually I started reading other people's words. In most there was some version of shock and dismay.  One particularly poignant post in Facebook said "We have elected a CHILD RAPIST!"  I looked up the details in Snopes.com.....well, legally he has only been accused, and the suit has been withdrawn.  As with so much that is horrible about this man, one can't help but wonder:  is he really a sociopath, or is that just his shtick?  And, in the long run, does it really matter?  We have elected him as he presented himself to be.  That in itself is enough to shame us all.  But does it?

I started listening to people's words.  And, as I listened, a glimmer of...something....came into me.  It was not hope....not light....it was a spark, a tiny ember, melting away the hard lump that I was curled around. I started paying attention again to my body's reaction:  nausea, pain, tears.  I was feeling grief, and it was a very familiar feeling. But, I have some tools to deal with that.  Meditate, let the grief and other emotions flow through and out, envision myself as a clear vessel holding light and love....I think about that, and it seems too personal, too small in the face of this global catastrophe.  Can lifting up really be the answer?

And yet, there's that tiny spark.  I listen some more.  And I realize that my country, my friends, my family, my neighbors did NOT elect this evil person (and I truly do believe his works and his effects are evil).  At least 50% of us do believe in the value of women and marginalized people.  We want to safeguard our natural resources.  We want affordable health care, social services, freedoms.  In fact, many of the people who voted for him seem just as horror-struck as those who did not.  I read screeds of blame and shame, saying it's our own darn fault for choosing Clinton as our candidate.

What it seems to come down to is that everyone feels discouraged and disenfranchised. So, some of us tried to take down the old power structure which Clinton stands for.  While I think it is irresponsible to elect an unknown just because he isn't part of the old guard, I do understand. And I cannot descend into blaming and shaming.  My only hope while I work through this grief is that the government, corrupt, lumbering entity that it is, will use its will to live and swallow him up.  Just as liberals become part of the machine they want to fix, so will this sociopath.

And, in the meantime, it's time to get to work on that revolution. If I don't run away first.

I've been threatening
To leave if the worst happened.
But where can I go?

The advantages of independence

Yesterday I posted this haiku to Facebook:

Stood up once again,

I vow: Give no more chances;

And then my ex calls.

It was an interesting concatenation of events.  I'd had a pleasant and soothing evening with G:  he cooked a low-carb meal (stuffed cabbage soup, yummmmm) and we watched Catching Fire on Amazon. (Okay, so that was not soothing.  Wow, Katniss does a lot of screaming.) The next morning I met up with M at The Source for coffee and chat, followed by her introduction to the Intentional Focused Mediation (AKA drumming) which I have been attending on last Sundays (see previous blog post.)  I had planned to stop by to see S (at his request) afterwards.  However, on my way to M's house,  he texted that he'd made other plans with people who were more important to him, but I was totally welcome to join them (tossing me the bone after standing me up.)  I said, never mind, I'll go to Los Golondrinas for the Fiber Arts Festival.  Then I felt a rush of anger and texted, "so, I guess there's no point in making plans with you,"  and he got all back-pedally and reproachful, "I'm trying to open a dialog can't you meet me halfway?" and offered me the further bone of lunch before they took off, and maybe they'd just go tomorrow instead.  He wanted to see me, he said.

I went into meditation, mollified for the nonce.  There were only 3 of us (and M, who meditated sans drum), and I decided that my intention was to let go of anger and to bring more focus.  The latter is my usual intention:  I still feel scattered and my thoughts still go to defaults that derail me from growing.  It's probably my life-long work, to move past the thoughts and behaviors that are not in my best interests.

In the past few sessions, I have mainly provided underpinning for other people;  I do find myself immersed in the sound, but my observing mind is looking at how the sounds change with the energies that other people bring.  This session was less cerebral.  I found myself pounding out the beat, loudly and intensely, and I could feel the anger that I had thought resolved, growing with each stroke.  I was carrying on a mental conversation with S, and then I became aware of the deep hurt, and tears started leaking.  

They say anger is a secondary emotion, and I got through to the primary one.

S has been making a practise of snubbing me since December.  I had planned to return his house key and write the friendship off:  clearly he didn't know how to maintain a friendship after intimacy was past.  But he called to discuss what had happened, and it seemed that we both understood how to proceed:  he wants serendipity, but he needs to let me know I matter. I hadn't seen him since February, and I said  it was up to him to initiate a get-together.  So, he did, and then he snubbed me again. AND he put it back on me, saying that I hadn't actually verified that I was coming by. 

I don't know why he is being contradictory with words and actions, but I do know it's not working for me.  I need to stop expecting the words to actually mean something, and to pay attention to how the actions affect me.  I talked with M after the drumming, and she shared a memory of doing just the same thing to some friends of hers:  they would make plans, something better would come up, and she would suggest they join in the new plans.  The underlying reality was that she just didn't want to see those friends, but she felt like she had to offer them a place in return for standing them up.  Yes, that's just what it felt like.  Clearly, S does not care that it's been months since we got together;  his script is that he cares about me, but the reality is that he doesn't really want to see me.

In some ways, T's method of abruptly dropping the friendship is preferable.  At least there is no contradiction to puzzle through, and the hurt is clear and up front.

M said, why don't you focus on the new friends who love you and appreciate you?  V said, the next time you feel tempted to couple up, remember the advantages of independence.  And they are both right.  So, I texted that I was going to the Fiber Arts Festival, I missed him but didn't want to be a problem, and I was sure we would catch up some time.  He texted back, sounds good.  I could FEEL the relief in that short message:  I'm off the hook, he's thinking, I'm not the one who ultimately canceled, I don't need to feel guilty. 

Yeah, whatever.

The festival was not that enthralling, but I really enjoyed walking around the living history museum that is Los Golondrinas.  Now I know where to go when I miss green grass and the sound of running water.

I was still feeling a little raw, though.  And, when I got back to the car, I checked my phone and found the e-mail from D, asking me to Skype with him.  It seems that life has a way of hitting you in the solar plexus and then, as you're doubling up, hitting your head back.  The real question is, why did I agree?

He's doing better, fiscally, and that is improving his mood.  I'm glad for him, and I'm actually glad I talked with him.  The blaming attitude is still in evidence, and I don't feel the yearning for the lost relationship when that reality is in my face.  So, it's actually helpful to talk with him.  But I still curled up in a ball and cried afterwards.

Why do I keep connecting with these people?  Why do I court hurt?  Why do I say yes when they say please?

I'm learning how to enjoy my independence.  The process is opening up new abilities.  However, it seems that I cannot put my own wishes and needs first, yet.  I tried, after leaving D, and S said that one of the things he liked about me was that I was clear about my needs. But, then, that was the very thing he became repelled by:  he saw my clear statement of needs as pressure.  And I, rightfully, saw his response as rejection.  So, I find it difficult to continue to insist on what is best for me.

And,  knowing the pain of rejections, I find it difficult to reject in turn.  I think the reason I respond when D or S ask for my attention is that I can't stop caring.  And I believe they care too.  But, I also can't stop being hurt by them.  The reality is that some relationships are toxic.  Some start out being healing and helpful and then turn toxic.  I can appreciate them:  they all are layers to my life and paths to further relationships.  They all have a reason for being there, even if I'm damned if I can figure out what that reason might be.

Perhaps the reason is to teach me the difference between caring for others and caring for myself.

The Ongoing Whine

I sent a whine to my friends, because it was the anniversary of my divorce and I was feeling sad.  The responses varied from silence to reassurance (you ARE beautiful and beloved) to sympathy (anniversaries are like poking at a wound that is healing:  fresh pain), to irritation (he never loved you, he USED you, just get over it already.)

All of these are valid responses of course, as is my ongoing pondering.  I find that I have been distracting myself from really thinking about the divorce and from moving on, though.  I let myself focus on other people (again) and I let myself be hurt because the new friends don't love me wholly and immediately.  The real problem is the men:  they seem to think that I'm looking to replace D, and I'm not.  I don't know why I traded in my single blessedness for marital strife, but I do know that I am not ready, if ever, to partner up again.  While one friend commented that it would be nice to add someone who adores me to the interesting and creative mix that is my life, another said that partnering was an anomaly, a small part of me.

And I think that last is the truer observation.

So what is it about me (or them) that makes men think I'm looking for a relationship they cannot give?  It's not just about lack of attraction.  For example, I've met some polyamorous men.  First they pursue me, and then they panic at the thought of getting close to me.  I'm not sure what it is about me that attracts these men and then repels them.  I'm not asking to be the one and only, I just want to be treated like I'm important and wanted.  Surely the point of polyamory is that the relationships can be multiple and loving, as long as they are honest?  Apparently not.

And of course, the monogamous men are looking for Ms. Right.  They are not interested in casual dating, and I'm not interested in anything but casual.  Somehow it's okay to be rejected on that basis, though.

Really, I don't know why I let this distract me.  I never did need men to make me feel loved or happy, and my past experience has shown the fallacy of seeking fulfillment in that arena.   Is it because I tried and failed at partnering that I'm trying again?  If D had died instead of being divorced, would I say, "Okay, been there, done that, time to try something new"?

Or do I just want to get laid?

What are my thoughts? One night I had a strong dream about T. I think about him a lot. A year ago, he was still a major part of my life, taking up my attention and focus, constantly texting, always aware of what what going on with me, checking up on me every day, helping me get through various obstacles. He was there, and he cared. I think.

Missing him is an ongoing thing, almost more painful than missing D. I wrote to T from the train, telling him there's a hole in my heart where he used to be. He did not reply. I didn't expect him to. But he was such a huge part of my recovery, and I thought he'd remain part of my life and he has not. I can't accept it. I don't know why he dropped me so abruptly. I keep wondering what I did, even though I know, really know, it has nothing to do with me. I am the person I've always been. Stronger, but still needy. Resilient, but still fragile. Fragile. The song D sang to me at our wedding.

A year ago, T was a crush, a support, a shoulder to cry on. Now, what is he? And who am I, and what do I want?

I am living in the mountains in New Mexico...something I've dreamed of doing for years. But, I'm alone. I'm working, but it doesn't feel like I'm working. I'm not free to take off and see people, but in any case there is no one I want to see, nothing I want to do, no one who wants to see me. I know people, and I like them, but none of them are soul mates, and none of them pursue me. In fact, they reject me when I get too close.

It appears that I need to find what I want to do. M thinks that I'm living the good life: choosing my work, choosing what I do for fun, what I do for sustenance. B thinks I'm being creative and growing. V thinks I'm pursuing my dream of living in New Mexico.

I think I'm floundering. I know that I'm floundering. I think I need to talk to my therapist again, set up some counseling sessions. Cry. Figure it out.

Sometimes I want to write to D. Sometimes I want him back in my life. Why? Did I leave him because I'd had enough? Or did I leave him because I had a crush on T? I don't think so. But I don't know if it's true that I just ran out of anything to give. I don't know what made me decide to leave at that exact juncture, and what made me decide to stay away. I do know my friends and family exerted a lot of pressure to keep me pointed towards escape. My health and finances improved dramatically: I can't ignore that.

But my emotions are still raw. I still don't know what I want to do, and I'm still mourning the loss of....what? The loss of a lover? Of the future I had planned with him? Of purpose? Of someone who loved me and thought I was beautiful?

Surely I can plan my own future, supply my own purpose, love myself, think I'm beautiful. Surely I don't need another person for that.

Meanwhile, I'm dating men who are married or in committed relationships. Even though the relationships are "open," it's clear who's the second class citizen here. Me. Regardless of what they say about loving relationships, it does not feel good. If the primary partner decided they didn't want me around, I'd be gone. It's not like a friendship with a married couple. My emotions are more strongly involved, and the hurt of rejection is more strongly evident. Why am I doing this? Why am I putting my focus on relationships that hurt?

Do I miss that pain?

Theatrical lessons

Last night I was in my landlord's kitchen, scooping out chocolate ice cream.  (I don't have a functional freezer in my casita, so she lets me use hers.)  She came out to chat, and mentioned she was going to see a play:  it's the 20th anniversary of a local theatre company's founding, and she has been a loyal supporter for most of that time.   To celebrate, the troupe is bringing back old favorites.  We chatted a bit about it, and she invited me to join her.  She was leaving in 40 minutes, and had a reservation.  I said, "do I need one?  should we go together and assume I'll get in?"  Her take on it was, "they've never been unable to find space for me."

I didn't realize what she meant until we got there.

The lobby was about 200 square feet, with 3 plain chairs in the center, backs facing inward to create a triangular seating area.  A young woman stood behind a tall counter/desk to the right, and two thin long-haired arty 40-ish women in jeans sat at a table behind a short shelving wall to the left.  (The wall created a sort of lobby hallway to the closed double doors to the front left.  The right hand counter looked like it might be a snack bar, but instead was the box office for another theatre called The Box.  The desk to the left faced The Box counter and was the box office for our destination:  Tricklock Company. 

At the door we met a group of 5 men and women who greeted M with hugs and a joyous "hello, how are you, it's great to see you!"  She reciprocated and they formed chattering twosomes just inside the door.  Three more people stood in front of the Tricklock desk, two people stood in line at The Box counter, and two young Goth women sat in the central chairs.  There was no room to move.  The women behind the desk both jumped up to greet our group, and when M introduced me I got a hug as well.

It was the most informal theatre experience I've ever had.  You paid your money, got your parking ticket stamped, stood around waiting for the doors to open, and then wandered in.  There were no programs and no tickets, and the seating was festival.

The stage was at the far end, and we walked through a dark empty space that was about twice as large as the stage.  Ranged in front of the stage were two rows of 12 chairs each.  The front row consisted of folding chairs with cushioned seats, the back row had  regular chairs with tall backs and cushioned seats.  Being a large person, I went for those.  Being a small person, M steered me to the front, explaining the view was better.

Huh?  with two rows, I didn't see how that would be an issue, but I bowed to her experience.  And now I understood why there was no need for reservations:  they just added a third row as more people came in.  The final audience tally was about 35.   We sat in the center, between two groups.  Everyone knew one another, and when I asked Margo how she was acquainted she said, "through this theatre."

We were there for a one-woman show, Rot, acted by the woman who wrote the play.  The last showing was in 2004, and many of the people present had seen it then.  It was fascinating on many levels.  It was a play within a play within a play.  Elizabeth, the main character, is a playwright trying to write about Mary Shelley's creation of Frankenstein.  She is suffering from writer's block and a failed romance, and all three of these stories are played in turn, influencing each other with humor and pathos, up to the final scene which leaves you with a question, not an answer.

Unlike a monologue, this required putting on several different personas, in several different time frames.  The plot moved forward but also flashed back to the 1800s, to childhood, to adolescence, to a series of brilliantly delineated failed relationships.  The characters and timeframes were conveyed through lighting, posture, music, and accents.  She had a best friend Heather with a lovely New Joisey accent, and she played Mary and Percy Shelley with distinct voices and British accents.

Because of the tiny space (intimate?  say rather, compressed), I felt like she was talking directly to me.  And I wanted to nod my head, to convey sympathy, empathy, caring.  She was going through a tough time, Mary Shelley was going through a tough time, and I'm going through a tough time.  Let's have a group hug.

The final question was actually two, in my opinion.    1.  How does one continue when one's true love is lost?  and 2.  What can one do with a personal monster that cannot be killed? 

For me, though, the real question occurs 2/3 through.  Elizabeth is processing the failed relationship with the married man Sam, who, she thinks now, might be The One.  Heather tells her, "he's not putting as much into this as you are, it's time for you to Move On."  And Elizabeth thinks, "he should have fought for it more.  But he didn't care enough.  WHY didn't he care enough?  Why didn't he care enough?  Why didn't he....care enough?"

Story of my life.

"In 6 months you won't recognize yourself...."

This is a time of stock-taking.  I just had a birthday, and I'm starting my 55th year. I could conceivably retire at the end of it.  And there are other landmarks.... A year ago I had just left Portland and was starting a new job in a new place. 6 months ago I had just left D and was starting a new life in a new home.  At that nadir, T told me "In 6 months you won't recognize yourself."  He meant to be encouraging, of course, but since I couldn't believe it, it just gave me another yardstick for failure.  "Oh shit, in 6 months I have to be all better?!  I'll never manage it."

So, here I am, 6 months later, 1 year later, 10 years later (since I met D), 54 years later....and where am I?

From T's perspective, he was absolutely right. I am light years away from that self.  I am paying off debts and I've simplified my life. I'm taking care of business, I've started saving money.  I'm losing weight, I'm gaining health and energy and friends.  I'm no longer sobbing at random moments. I don't fall apart when I have to deal with things.  I find myself singing and laughing and skipping on occasion.  I look forward to spending evenings alone.  While I still am not sleeping well, I'm no longer a danger to myself driving home late at night.  Yes, compared to my December self, I am not recognizable.

Compared to a year ago, the change is even more dramatic.  I've gone from a partially-employed married woman living in a 2-story farmhouse in Portland Oregon, to a fully-employed divorced woman living in a 350-square foot casita in Albuquerque, New Mexico.  In a year's time I've moved into 4 different homes.  I've traveled through 7 states.  I've gone on 5 weekend or week-long trips. I've gone on too many day trips to count.  I've hosted 3 guests. I've learned a new job and system and I've worked on one 6-month project (in 17 branches) and managed 2 branches.  I've joined one orchestra and one choir. I've volunteered at the Balloon Fiesta.  I've hiked 7 trails in the Sandias and 3 in the Petroglyph National Monument, and 3 in the Bosque.  I've made 15 friends to do things with and many more friendly contacts.  To sum up, I've made a life here.

It's quite a list of change, mostly gains.  The losses?  Savings, pets, possessions, friends, and a marriage. Quick to say, but agonizingly long to feel those things dropping away, to realize that they were never coming back.  I've made a life here, but I am still grieving (oh how I'm grieving) the life I've given up.  One year ago I was living in my own home, with my husband and pets and friends and books and....10 years ago I met D and.... 31 years ago I graduated from college and moved from Illinois to Oregon. In each move, I added things.  I had a rich (even, as my friend E says, baroque) life.  This past year, it has all contracted.  From 30-year friendships to 6-month friendships.  From a houseful of stuff to a casita-ful.  From a staff of 30 to a staff of 4.  From 25-guest parties to single guests.  From a yard full of raspberry canes and a deck full of veggies and herbs to a single tomato plant.

So, here I am. taking stock.  The organizational me wants to figure out where I go from here.  The critical me wants to assess the change:  have I learned anything from this past year?  am I growing?  do I like the person I am right now?  do I like the life I'm living?  The whiny me wants to lament what I've lost, the optimistic me wants to glory in the accomplishments (hence all those numbers:  is it measurable?  doable? Hell yeah, and that makes it real, right?)

Last weekend I was walking the labyrinth at Ghost Ranch, thinking about the last time I was there with D and K and E.  E was limping with his horrible back problem.  I was thinking about my future:  trying to figure out what I was going to do if none of the interviews panned out.  D was delighting in being there with me and our friends.  Now I was alone, walking the familiar curves, looking at the red, ochre, yellow, and beige cliffs, with the bright blue sky behind, listening to the brake-squeal vocalizing of the burro (is that really a living creature?)  I found my throat tightening with tears.  I missed D.  I didn't know what wisdom I wanted to receive from this process.  I sat in the middle, waiting for something to come to me.  Instead, a group of women appeared, talking loudly, braying with laughter.  Two of them walked the labyrinth, the other two sat on the bench, whispering and giggling explosively.  I felt attacked:  I couldn't think, I couldn't enter into a quiet space, I couldn't let go.  When they left the tears spilled out and I gasped with the sobs I had been suppressing.

No, I'm not done with this grieving process.  6 months have passed, and I have a good and productive life, but it's not the life I want, and I'm still missing the life I had.

So, here I am.  And maybe that's enough for now.

Endings and Beginnings

A few weeks ago my landlady invited me to an "endings" ritual, to punctuate my divorce, to honor the feelings and the past, and to look to the future.

It was very kind of her to recognize the anti-climax and emptiness I was feeling, and to offer me a way to deal with it.  I accepted, not knowing what she had in mind, but trusting in the intent.  It was a night after work, so we planned for 7 pm.  I got home and decided to bake some chocolate chip cookies as thank you offering.  Or rather, a cooky:  the toaster oven doesn't really accommodate cookies, so I put the whole batch in a pie plate.  It doesn't cook evenly, so the bottom was burned.  But you can't really go wrong with butter, chocolate, pine nuts, and brown sugar, right?

M's house is a lovely adobe, with a fireplace and wood floors.  We sat in the living room, on a two-person couch, facing the western windows into the garden.  She had a tri-fold votive screen, which held 12 votive candles, and it was on a table about 5 feet away from us.  We each had a glass of water, and a box of kleenex nearby.

She started with a short meditation:  close your eyes, think of a joy, focus on that sensation.  I can't remember what joy I thought of:  friendship?  snorkeling?  waking by the ocean?  chocolate chip cooky?  but it was actually hard to choose and focus on it, which was a nice revelation.

Then we opened our eyes and thought of an ending or a loss that we wanted to honor.  We took turns, speaking of the event or the thought or the person, and then going to light a candle.  Speak, rise, strike the match, light the candle, sit back down.  In my case, grab a kleenex.  When the candles were all lit, we blew them out, and those endings were sent upward with the smoke.  We continued to speak more thoughts, light more candles.  We talked about joyful losses:  loss of weight, loss of anger, loss of unreasonable expectations.  We talked about grief:  loss of husband, loss of father, loss of self, loss of home.  We talked about endings:  end of a job, of a lifestyle, of youth, of middle age.  All of which leads to beginnings.

She usually does this ritual during the dark of the moon, to help honor the past time and look forward to the new beginnings.  I was reminded of the solstice celebration at T's, 2 years ago back in Portland.  There, we started in darkness and lit each others candles and spoke a word for winter.  The growing light and the sense of community were equally palpable.  This was a more intimate ritual, with just the two of us, and it went deeper in a way.  It began the process of letting go. I have been talking about losses in this blog, but I haven't been letting them go.  I've been stuck in the grieving process.

Today, I came right up against the perils of being stuck.  I have feared that I didn't have the wherewithal to find myself again, and I have feared losing my friends in the process.  I have feared that I am not worth the time or the stress, that the more I reached out, the more I would drive away the help. And that is coming to pass.

It's probably a good thing to realize, viscerally, that the healing has to come from myself, and that others can do little to help.  You can't replace 30 years of connection in a few months, and while those distant connections are real and deep and strong, they can't be there for you every day, or even every week.  And neither can the new connections.  Their support is of a different nature, and the trust and depth are embryonic, maybe stillborn.  For the daily bread, I have to grow my own yeast, bake my own loaves.  I have to do it alone.

And crying is bad for my sinuses.  

Yesterday I walked in the hills with a new friend.  We talked, we were silent.  I touched the amazing rocks, I sniffed the piny juniper and the spicy woody willows, I watched the white fluffy clouds in the brilliant blue sky, I listened to the wind in the junipers, with the deep silence behind the sound.  As ee cummings said, "how could tasting, touching, seeing, hearing, breathing, any -lifted from the no of all nothing- human merely being, doubt unimaginable You."  I spread my arms to the soft cool breeze, I was full of joy, full of the moment.  And that is as real as my grief and my tears.

I just wish I experienced it more often.

To honor Easter
I resurrected two joys:
Hiking and Thai food.

Moving on

About a year ago, I wrote a blog about downsizing and loss.  In August, I wrote about loss in general.  In fact, much of the past year I have been contemplating the gradual erosion of my life.  And here I sit, at 4 am, unable to sleep, treading that familiar ground yet again.  A bronchial cough woke me up, and, in between bouts, I am thinking about finances, health, next steps.

Most of what I presaged last March has come to pass.  I've lost most of my possessions and savings, my marriage, and my sweet dog.  I am in the process of figuring out how best to jettison my house.   And yet, the grief of the past year is missing.  Yes, I sobbed throughout the divorce mediation.  And I sobbed when I learned  about D's collapse.  And I cry in my weekly therapy sessions.  But behind all of that emotion is...emptiness.  And maybe relief.  And maybe, just maybe, the stirrings of hope.

I'm not sure.

I do know that loss of stuff is no longer part of the grief.  As part of the mediation, I took the inventory of possessions and labelled them:  D, K, and M.  (M stands for marital possessions.)  D initialed the stuff he plans to retrieve, now that he's back in Portland, and I faxed the result to my property managers.  In looking over the inventory, I realized that, for the most part, I haven't missed any of it.  There is some Grandma furniture that I'd like to cherish, there are boxes of pictures and letters and  financial doings that I should go through.  But otherwise....?

Last week my managers sent me 2 boxes of clothes, which are a welcome addition, and another small box of craft stuff.  Much more remains, along with books, dishes, CDs, and Christmas decorations.  All are nice to have, all give me joy, but if I never saw them again, I'd be okay.  In fact, that would be a painless way to deal with it:  just walk away.

Really?  Have I reached that point?

Last year I was wandering around the house, agonizing over what was going in the downsizing estate sale.  A few months later, I flung things in boxes, preparatory to moving here.  At the time, I was thinking in terms of "what do we need for the next 6 months."  So, the tough decisions were set aside.  It was very Scarlett O'Hara:  I'll think about that tomorrow (or in this case, 6 months of tomorrows.)

Now I find that, for the most part, my hasty decisions were as valid as the decisions I agonized over.  In both cases, precious things were lost, precious things were kept, precious things were stored.  And the same goes for unimportant things:  while I tossed and sold a lot, I also boxed up paperclips for god's sake, scraps of wrapping paper for origami, jewelry bits to be reused.... and now that I've left D, I still have too much stuff:  my 350 sq ft are crammed with linens, clothes, dishes, papers, books, furniture.  I am not yet traveling light.  And I want to.

But the real issue, of course, is how to lighten the emotional load.  All this preoccupation with stuff is a distraction from the job at hand.  It's easy to talk about moving on, traveling light, but what does that really mean?

After the divorce was final, I wrote a haiku:

Loss is emptiness.

It should be weightless.  But no:

Tears have gravity.

So, how do I pay homage to the past 10 years and look towards the next 30 years?  How do I jettison my tears, guilt, sadness?  How do I store memories?  and how do I take joy and hope and regain my bright, serene, creative self?  How do I move on?

My friends and family and therapist are all advising me.  It's contradictory.  Most people see the last 10 years as a waste:  I lost the self that they loved, while trying to maintain a partnership that drained me financially and emotionally, alienated my friends and family, and eroded my self-confidence and self-esteem.  I get that point of view.  But it's not the whole story.  Clearly, I would not have spent 10 years on something that gave me nothing.  There were joys experienced, lessons learned, friends made.  I did not stop creating, making music, or feeding my soul.  Those 10 years are part of me, and I need to acknowledge them, grieve over what I lost, and take what I gained.

D is not the demon of the piece.  He is the man I fell in love with after my father died.  He got me through that tough time, and he loves me and thinks me beautiful and talented.  He is proud of my accomplishments.   He is a good man.  But, as E once said, he was a lousy husband.  The power imbalance led to escalating emotional abuse, and I had given all I had to give.  No one, not even D,  blames me for leaving, for giving up.  In the final analysis, I don't blame myself.

But the process?  the process is driving everyone crazy.  I wallow in grief, in guilt:  What could I have done differently, why wasn't I strong enough, what is D going to do, why couldn't I be there for him and his sister?  I whine:  I've lost everything.  I curl up in a fetal position.  I cry.  I can't make decisions, I don't follow through.  I express my loneliness.  I express my neediness.  I cry some more.  I don't know what I want to do with my life, and I cry about that.  I don't have the confidence to start something new.  I worry about debts, about stuff.  I worry about self-care and self-talk.  I worry about alienating my friends and family even more. I worry about being a burden.

One friend thinks the guilt is useless and self-destructive and I need to Just Stop.  Another says, "pffft, feelings don't work that way.  And you've raised whining to an art form.  Your friends need to deal with it."  Some friends think I'm an idiot for dreaming of eventually being friends with D again.  The current estrangement should be permanent.  Wish him well and move on. Others think that I will, in time, need to renew contact, for closure if nothing else.  My therapist tells me to acknowledge the feelings, accept where I am:  it's okay that I don't know what I want.  But....do something about that negative self-talk.

Which brings me back to the beginning of this blog.  What is really behind all this emotional flailing?  That's what I need to find, in order to move on.  Am I truly empty?  Have I lost the ability to really feel, am I just going through the motions, running on my default whiny behaviors?  What do I really want, where is my joy, where is the me that people want me to retrieve?  I truly don't know, I don't recognize that woman they are describing. I don't believe the future is limitless.

But I want to believe it.  I know that I have all the tools to do amazing things with the next 30 years, and the freedom to pursue those adventures.  If I want to.

Loss

Our weekends are falling into a pattern.  On Saturday, D does errands and enjoys the pool and the apartment, while I work my 5th day.  That night we stay up late, together, watching movies or reading or going out for dinner.  Sunday, we have a semi-leisurely breakfast time, go to the 9:30  UU service, and plan our afternoon drive.  Often that drive includes pulling over to check out open houses.  We are nowhere near ready to move, financially or organizationally, but we are looking.

Two weeks ago I added some Skype sessions to the mix.  It has been difficult to find time and focus to talk to friends or write to them, so it was a nice change.  I caught E at home with the visiting grand-kids and was introduced to Stripes and Spot (fuzzy, medium-sized stuffed animals, tiger and giraffe respectively.)  The laptop ran out of juice 27 minutes into the talk, and I plugged it back in at the office.  Then, as I was typing an apology to E, my cousin came online.  We had a brief chat, and he showed me the view from his new apartment window, overlooking the Olympic park.

He has it rough.

So, I was content.  I was connecting with loved ones, and I was comfortable, if broke.  Then, I went to church, and a clearly distraught minister came to the pulpit to announce, with forced calm, "This week we lost a child."  A 14-year-old boy had died in an Arizona plane crash, along with his best friend and his friend's father.  He and his family were involved church members, and apparently loving and lovely people.  The pilot was an ex-Olympian,  so it was on the news, and we'd heard about it.

Of course, I didn't know any of them, but both D and I started crying during the meditation and prayer.  It's a universal grief, the loss of the brightest and best, the loss of a future.  D of course was thinking of his son, but what was I thinking of?  I was thinking how every day the newspapers and news stations tell us of loss, and every day we say, oh, that's too bad.  And sometimes we think, "He was so young," or "What a tragedy," but we don't grieve, we don't sorrow.  We are distanced, we don't know the people, we don't care.

I find myself thinking about loss a lot.  I am facing the loss of a beloved home, and I have lost many friends and some family in the past several years, not to mention beloved pets.  I have lost my source of livelihood and many sources of joy.  And I have lost my self-confidence and self-respect, not to mention my serenity.

How much of this is in my control?  And does it help to think about it, to worry about future loss, to grieve past loss? Is there anything that I can reasonably do to safeguard what I have left?

I was talking with my Mom the other day, and we are in similar places, trying to build new lives in new homes.  While we are both giving up a lot of Stuff, that's not the real problem. We can focus on the frustrations and barriers to moving on, but the biggest barrier is the fear of loss.

We have no control over the fact of loss.  It's a given that we come into the world with nothing but ourselves, and we leave that way, too.  It's a given that, if you love, you will grieve.  In fact, I want to grieve.  I don't want to let something precious go without a thought, without a tear, and I want to have precious things in my life.

Which brings me back to the real loss.  The other day a friend, possibly an ex-friend, wrote that she didn't understand what happened to the creative, bright, productive person she once knew.  She misses that woman, and I do too.   I think that finding her again might be something in my control, if she ever existed.  Right now, it's hard to remember her, and that's the biggest loss of all.

Settling into a routine

This is my 3rd Sunday in ABQ.  Since D is not here to galvanize me into motion towards 1st service, I spend the morning catching up on Facebook and e-mail and LJ.  S has written some hilarious posts regarding Simone's first few days with them.  I laugh out loud, but am not sure if my tears are from laughter or sadness.  I miss them all so much, every day.

The littlest things trigger grief and nostalgia....

• I finish scooping out the carton of cottage cheese and look for Carbon:  one of her joys in life was taking the carton between her teeth and carrying it to a special place, lying down and worrying at it until the last delicious sour milk drop was licked up.  Then she'd leave it in the middle of the room for us to trip over.
• Last night I was reading in bed, and I felt so lonely without her warm bulk pressed against me, her snores and twitches testifying to a satisfying dream life.  The loneliness is intensified because D is in PDX, finishing up packing and business, in between hosting CA friends and going wine tasting.  Usually both pets would be keeping me company in his absence.  
• Small creaking noises make me look for Simone, the usual source of unexplained sounds.  I look for her to come in through the non-existent cat door, for her to be curled up on the couch when I get up, for her to join me during a bout of insomnia.

There's more....

Yesterday the library had its bi-monthly Read to the Dogs program.  On seeing the blonde woman walk by with the perky schnauzer, my first thought is, "Oh shit, my 10th day in training, my first hour as Person In Charge, and I have to deal with illegal dogs."  I go to the desk to find out how this place handles service and non-service animals and then go looking for her.  I finally run her to earth in the story-time room where 3 other dogs are also settled, and I realize it's legit.  Huge sigh of relief:  few things are more challenging than booting a self-righteous dog owner.

From then on my one goal is to get a chance to pet those puppies.  I think back to Lisa, the golden retriever from the HWD RTD program:  she would flop on her side and remain so for the entire 2 hours.  Then she'd come into the staff workroom, owner in tow, and lean against our knees, encouraging our pats and pets and flopping again as we converged upon her.  She would have stayed all day if we had let her.

The RTD coordinator comes to the desk to give us the totals, and I express my earnest desire to meet the dogs.  She says sure, and I start telling J,  my desk partner, about Carbon.  My tears well up again, but I am steadied by J's sympathy and then a gorgeous springer spaniel comes up to me.  Her owner says, "I hear someone wanted a pet?" and I am seated on the floor, cooing over floppy ears and soft fur.

You'd think being in a new place would lessen my yearning for pets and friends.  After all, the routines and spaces they occupied are gone.  I shouldn't have these deja vu moments of grief.  Yes, a cottage cheese carton is a cottage cheese carton, but the rest is totally different.  There should be no memory triggers.

Still, I do find that the new routines are not that new, and the new space is not that unfamiliar.  We now have our second load of possessions in place, so there are familiar paintings and photographs on the walls, the bed and bedside tables are the same, we have the same dishes and clothes.  The things we forgot (how can we live without the knife set?  or the computer speakers?) merely accentuate the familiarity of the rest of our surroundings.  My thoughts go backward, not forward, as I set up my home and routines.   Yes, it's all one big memory trigger:

Sunday, church at 9:30, then an afternoon exploration.  Monday, the day to take care of business.  Tuesday through Saturday, work (the same routines and resources as any public library,  just enough differences to keep me on my toes).  Start the day with a half hour in the fitness center.  Come home to a half hour at the pool.  (Okay, these are new.)  Help with dinner, do dishes, watch TV and knit.  Go to bed and read.

Somewhere in the middle of this, I try to fit in e-mail and business, but I find myself avoiding both.  The Internet is only bringing me grief right now:  there's usually a message from someone telling me that I've dropped the ball or that I owe money or that I'm going to be sued (that's the upstairs renter), or that the house is falling apart or, or, or....  The fun posts on Facebook just make me aware of the fact that I am alone and broke, that I am disconnected from my joy.

However, there is hope.  Today I squared up to the computer and found that I could deal with the ongoing tenant strife and move on to the good stuff.  I didn't fight with D about money during today's phone call.  In the past week I found myself enjoying my commute.  The area is becoming familiar, the roads are not too crowded, and I like what I see.  The Sandia foothills rise above me, beautiful against the big blue sky.  The open spaces and parks and arroyos cut into the subdivisions and strip malls, reminding me that this is the high desert.  I look forward to seeing the arroyos fill with water:  Bear Canyon (Arroyo de Osos) is inches away from us, and I wonder if it can really contain a flash flood.

This is not home yet, but I can see the possibilities.