Grieving Gardener

Thank goodness the winter solstice is upon us. Today, there will be the fewest hours of daylight in 2020. With the year as it has unfolded, I’ll gladly turn in a few minutes earlier tonight to enjoy this, the shortest day of this annus horribilis. According to The Old Farmer’s Almanac, if you go outside at noon today and observe your shadow, you’ll l see that it’s the longest one you’ll cast all year. This year has cast shadows on all our lives in one way or another. A collective sigh of relief and prayers of hope from the world will be heard at midnight on New Year’s Eve 2020, because 2021 must be better than the year we are finishing.

As a gardener, I’ll be delighted that the daylight hours will slowly be lengthening now, as we move towards the Vernal equinox on March 20, 2021, in which day and night will be of equal length. I’m looking forward to the lengthening of days in which to split and transplant my thriving Irises. Peonies, resting their eyes right now, will break through the soil in the spring. My aged roses all need proper pruning as they sleep, for the best chance at gorgeous blooms next summer. Gardening provides respite from day to day worry-demons. It has given me hours to reflect on my life as it is and the direction in which I intend to go. Today, there are 90 days to organize our sheds, sharpen our tools, condition our soils, and order new seeds and bulbs for winter planting before spring arrives. I plan to use each one to the fullest.

With Christmas Eve on Thursday, my week will be carefully choreographed to avoid emotional pitfalls. This holiday season has been a tough one in many ways. The cruel chains of Covid Quarantine have been restrictive, keeping us from visiting family and friends. So, this week, I’m making a conscious and deliberate choice as to what the days will look like. I’ll be careful to add in nourishing meals and plenty of rest, while also adding time for fun.

I’ve been enjoying daily mail call, as I’m hearing from family and friends from near and far. I’ve forgotten how wonderful it is to receive Christmas cards and the beautiful wishes inside. They’ve been more meaningful this year than ever before. Everyone in my life has gone out of their way to shower me with their prayers and best wishes. What a blessing that has been, during this the year of the unthinkable.

As I plan my week, I’m going to be very honest about my wishes. I need extra quiet time for reflection. As I find myself on the path of healing, I’ll listen carefully to those that mention how happy I look, because that is the truth of the matter. Through personal growth this year, I’m discovering happiness deep from within as I trust my faith. My grieving process may be different from others. That’s okay. There is no handbook for how one gets through this wilderness. We all need to find the unique way that works best for us as individuals. That’s helped by respect from friends and family as we make our way, sometimes in rather clumsy fashion.

Enjoy the first day of winter and this Christmas week with its magic and wonder! If you are struggling, start to list all the things you are grateful for this year. Even in a year as bad as 2020, we are all blessed. We only need to start listing the ways.

I write my blogs at 5 am. I. Am. A. Morning. Person. My best work is before 6 am. Stellar ideas come to me at 3 am, sometimes nudging me to write them down in my ongoing and very private journal. I’ve always been a morning person. Perhaps that stemmed from the childhood joy of running out into the morning stillness on the farm to find newborn lambs sheltered by a protective ewe. Or, to grab a morning hug from a farmer dad that left the house very, very early. The need to irrigate 40 acres of thirsty vines before teaching school all day. The front row beauty of amazing sunrises on the Virginia City deck with our 100 mile view. First in line to say “Good Morning” to VST. For all those and a million reasons more, I’m up way before dawn.

On this early morning, some thoughts stirred in my awakening brain. Things important and vital for my ultimate happiness. Being this morning creature, I miss a morning creature that stirs the way I do. Coffee. Breakfast. Morning Channel 2 News. Planning for the day. I’ll never be a night owl. I struggle being an evening crow. Morning person all the way. I miss eye-gooped, bad-breathed, dream reviews with VST. I miss our routine. He was always the first to say, “Good Mornin, Darlin” in his sexy VST voice, chipper and happy. Every morning. Quick to start the pellet stove on frozen VC mornings without a complaint. That man never woke up with pickle face or wrong-side-of-the-bed-grumpies. If I did, he patiently waited for me to wake up. Ready to plan the day, he would often remind me , “We’ll have enough time to sleep when we’re dead”. I miss my morning guy.

This week, I got through the first birthday in 33 years in which there wasn’t a card written out to Mrs. H staring me in the face when I first woke. For as much as I hate birthdays, we had that one heartfelt tradition that died with him. I won’t ever celebrate my birthday again, even in that small way. The absence of that silliest act set the tone of loneliness for the remainder of my wakeful hours. Goodbye to acknowledging such a pointless day in my life, too many years ago to matter to me anymore. Celebrating Christmas is enough for me.

Next, a tomorrow full of dreams need to fill my future. Not anything extravagant. Travels through sunrise beauty in dust-shrouded places like Mina and Luning. Sneeze-and-you-miss-it-places like Buford, Wyoming, population 1. Plans to stand in the awe inspiring presence of Mount Rushmore, or again watch the lifted tails of angry bison. I’m starving for simple travels over hundreds of miles of conversation and wide open spaces. I promise myself I won’t die yearning for this. Oliver may need to practice his duties as Service Dog Wingman, but, one way or another, I will be traveling again.

I thrive on spontaneity. The hardest thing in the world is waiting to do something. Anything. Winterpast is a wonderful resting spot that is my beloved home. Now, I need to find a new rhythm of here and gone. VST and I had that. Always a trip planned. Miles on the road, the journey being the reason. There is romance supreme in heading out while looking over the horizon in the same direction. Sharing different visions, a mural of ideas is created. Projects we wanted to complete or destinations for future trips discussed. VST was my perfect travel partner. My heart longs for that again. Like trying to read a map and drive at the same time, traveling solo through life is so damn hard. Dangerous, too. One wrong turn and you can be upside down in a ditch.

This morning’s epiphanies made my heart smile. Like feeling something painful in your shoe, and discovering the tiniest fox tail embedded in your sock . You knew something hurt, until you found the simplest answer. Such obvious stressful points I can’t overlook.

1. I will never be a night owl. Not even an evening crow. Morning person all the way.

2. Hold those birthday candles.

3. Need to get on with it and plan my first adventure for 2021.

Those are my AHA’s. What are yours? Start with the small ones, the bigger ones will reveal themselves along the way.

Holidays are so complicated. From the tangle of lights and boxes of Christmas decorations, to the more intricate parts of family life. Nuclear or extended. Biological or chosen. Lives are so busy, especially when little ones are involved. Work and normal life are now complicated by added bills and activities that extend normal day activities. Concerns about Covid and maintaining traditions loom over us all.

My house has been decorated since Thanksgiving. Being in a new place, it was necessary to again find new places for my favorite decorations. Some didn’t make the cut for one reason or another. Finally, I just couldn’t handle another emotional box of memories and decided the house looks just fine. Red and green pops of color cheerfully add a bit of zing to WINTERPAST (the name of my house), rather like blooms in the dead of winter.

Television commercials blast blended families of different ages and colors, all smiling and showing a Hollywood mix of smiles and laughter. Perfect people. Perfect food. Perfect dogs. Perfect packages. Perfectly romantic. I don’t know about you, but my first year as a widow is anything but. I have no great expectations that Santa is going to slide down my fake chimney and put the zing into Christmas morning. It’ll be just like any other morning around here. Oliver and I having our boring breakfasts, blogging, and deciding what to do with ourselves until nap time. Great expectations I have none.

What I do expect is to embrace peace these days before the 25th. Quiet reflection on the real reason this is such a special time of year. A time that many different religious groups choose to have their holiest of holidays, cherishing family and friends as they celebrate. I expect the scale will climb a few pounds, which I will deal with after the fact. I expect that the sadness in the pit of my stomach will be a little more pronounced for the next few days. I expect to be sad a little more than normal, the loss of VST stinging every time I see a Christmas decoration he gave me so long ago, or hear one of our favorite carols.

Great expectations will be on hold as far as gifts go. I plan to get Oliver a new bone, but please don’t tell him. He is expecting an entire bag of dog treats. Can’t do. He’s on a strict diet.

As for me, at the time of my choosing, I will open the gifts under the tree that represent my Widow Words. When VST died, I decided that each month would be represented by a word signifying our relationship. When I was unable to go on, I would focus on those words, rather like a Lamaze focal point used in natural childbirth. If it helped me birth a 10.5 lb. baby without drugs, it could sure help me get through the pain of losing VST. Just like that, they worked. At the end of each month, I purchased a Christmas gift representing the words, and wrote a letter to myself to go along with the gift. These are now under my tree. This was perhaps one of the nicest things I have ever done for myself. So, at a very quiet time when Ollie and I are ready, I will open the presents and letters, and have a very long, private cry.

My great expectation for this Christmas is that many painful memories can finally be put to rest, like melting snow after a storm. New traditions can be put in place, so that next year, when I open the boxes of decorations, sad memories of my first Christmas as a widow will be tempered with memories starring me as the Goddess of Christmas Now. I refuse to revisit Grieving-New-Widowhood, when I’ve worked so hard to heal from that point in my life. I have no great expectations. Just a wish for a quiet and lovely holiday season in which I continue to get stronger every day.

Planning a full day of shopping, Miss Firecracker invited me to come along, but, I was returning from my mini-vacay after picking up Oliver from puppy camp. Oliver was wiped out, as he always is. I can only imagine the fun times he has with new furry friends as Sweet Michelle spoils him rotten. We decided the next best thing would be to meet at the TeePee for dinner.

Miss Firecracker finds it fascinating that I usually order a hamburger and fries. I love H and F’s. Not at home, because I can never get the buns grilled just right, or the patty yummy enough. I’m always looking for a restaurant that has just the right combination of fresh bun and perfectly cooked patty, with crispy fries. Not huge, not small, just the right size. The TeePee has just that burger, so that is my go to meal. Miss F finds this funny. I guess it is peculiar.

There is never a lack of subjects to cover when Miss F and I get together. We, too, have the most interesting things in common. Weird things that solidify the fact that we understand one another. Period. There are no boundaries when we’re in discussions. I’m pretty sure the patrons next to us enjoy interesting eavesdropping. Could be a chocking hazard at some points in our conversation. I noticed the waitress making several rounds past our table. I wonder how much she pieced together.

We share a friendship that involved camping trips with our guys. After you’ve camped with us, you quickly become honorary family members, because you know too much. You find out things sitting at a campfire that are delicious and real. Miss F and I have had those times, sharing great discussions with VST and B&C (Baily’s and Coffee). We were a fan club of four, with our visits never long enough. It seems a blessed coincidence, although truly tragic, that we now travel through widowhood together.

It was Miss F that sold me on the good things about my new town. She was correct in her recommendation for VST and me. At the time, we were all alive and kicking, planning lots of get-togethers, continuing on our path of friendship and fun times. With Covid, it was impossible to visit with them after I moved in without VST. It was unthinkable that B&C died in August before I had even received a Welcome-Home hug from him.

As we visited over dinner, our conversations went to places that only seasoned wives would understand or have experienced. Our experiences were similar in many ways. B&C and VST were two of the most intelligent men you could meet. They were both vainly sexy, working a room with a glance, being chick magnets until the day they died. But it was obvious they each had a chick-a-dee that held their heart in her own heart. The sun rose and set on us in the eyes of B&C and VST. Period. Of that, there was no denying.

They could and did DRIVE US NUTS. Miss F and I can talk about those things, because we are the only ones that have that right. Telling her things private takes me back to the fact that VST and I were normally joined in an extraordinary union that brought two dynamic individuals together. But. We were still just a normal couple with normal problems that others have endured. As similarities are discovered, Miss F and I giggle, laugh, and sometimes leak tears. It’s a sweet way to validate that we did share something wonderful that’s gone.

By the end of the meal, an important point was shared. Yes. We miss them. Greatly. Passionately. Sorrowfully. And yet. We move forward because we must. We have chosen to leave behind the wake of Kleenex boxes and grasp the friendship we have which allows us to share constructive grieving. We are the LUCKIEST GIRLS to have met up with these two guys in the 1900’s. We did things other women would only wish they could. Blush-worthy and outrageous things with extraordinary men that loved us deeply. Now being blessed with a rare friendship, we are finding our way through widowhood into womanhood as the new Goddesses we are becoming. For that, lucky doesn’t even begin to cover it.

*Thank you, Miss F. You are my lifeline. My raft. My friend. I love you. J

I am a true morning person. Prior to retirement, when my life was overflowing with “Musts”, I learned that by getting up by 4 am, I had two hours on most people in the world. Bonus time to squeeze more out of my days. There was still never enough time as VST and I danced as fast as we could. Two careers stole 10 hours a day, including commutes, but, that left 14 hours a day, in which to choose our activities. Deciding we could sleep when we were dead, many, many days were fueled on 5 hours or less sleep. Doubling our productivity, we lived enough for four lives instead of two.

Now, I still awaken at 4:45, ready to tackle the day. I’ve chosen to omit television from my life, which has cleared my head for much more creativity. In my experience, visual stimulus robs the brain of the ability to create magical places and things.

As a third grade teacher, story time was a reward for me. It was never included in scripted minutes to which teachers must now adhere. As I did for cursive, too, I shaved time off other subjects, because story time was something that my kids and I needed. Like air. After lunch, little bundles of sweaty happiness knew. They came to our reading carpet and got a story rock. While they sat to listen, the rock was to remain in their hand, not to be thrown at Sally or Rob. These were thinking rocks. Smooth and flat, they fit a small hand nicely and were to be manipulated as the story unfolded. During suspenseful times, the rocks moved between their little fingers. The bigger wiggles ceased, my students looked on. Not with a pure gaze, but with visualized words flashing before their eyes. The rocks were my educational strategy, long before spinner fidgets. Quieter and less distracting.

I had a favorite book, which became an annual read. “Because of Winn Dixie.” It was one that I read every single year because of the voices. They were in rich southern drawl, which I read in a very entertaining way. The kids ate it up. I loved reading it to them. Winn! Winn! The character, India Opal, hadn’t had the easiest life, living with her father, The Preacher. Her mom was absent, never even introduced to the story. The kids related to Opal. When I started reading the award winning book to them, it was brand new. Right off the press. No movies. No visuals. We created our own out of the words. Each of us would have known Opal on the street by individual ideas of her height, weight, hair length and smile. We knew her in our hearts.

After I had read the book many times, the worst of all things happened. Towards the end of my 3rd Grade adventures, when scripted lessons and minutes timed by the principal had robbed so many teachable moments, rich and joyful, “Because of Winn Dixie” became a movie. My class being legendary, new 3rd Graders came in knowing my “after lunch story time” was a priceless adventure for the mind. Everyone was giddy when I brought out the book. But, the saddest thing happened. Slowly, the rocks couldn’t work over whispered spoilers. Kids commented on the color of the actresses red hair, the size of the dog, or anything else Hollywood had dictated by visuals to be absolute. Just like that the magic was stolen. I never read that story to anyone again.

Most of my best stories are totally without visuals, forcing me to make sure I get the words just right to allow the reader to visualize what I’m describing. It would be so interesting to see the results you all come up with. It would certainly show me where I need to improve my descriptions. Even for stories I have told for years, my mental visualization changes over time. The stories mellow, or disappear because they no longer hold my interest. Others become stylized and cartoon-ish as I struggle to remember exact details, and create a bit of filler that suits the situation.

One of the most difficult situations for any story teller is when a co-participant in the story corrects your version. I’m sure that are many of you that are smiling if you’ve ever been interrupted by a spouse, just the wee bit jealous that they weren’t the one sharing the delicious tale. VST was the best at this. I would always take the bait. In this way, I suppose were were most entertaining as we bantered through. I miss his interruptions, as they validated that all the rich and precious memories I have did occur. With him. Over the last 50 years of life.

So many stories. So little time. Be sure to read to someone in your life at some time in your life. Reading a story and doing voices is not only wonderful for the person listening, but the person telling. It is especially wonderful in a classroom, with 20 sets of eyeballs watching their own visuals, while a teacher captivates them in southern drawl.

1900’s models, we met, divorced from past love. Hello, Old Friend. Will you? Yes! 32 years married. We coupled while happy, sad, inventive, supportive, argumentative, passionate, trusting, and honest. Best friends, we embraced our good sides and accepted our bad. We ran through life holding hands, grieving deeply at life’s losses while rejoicing success.

Gripping the trifecta of Health, Time, and Money while enjoying retirement, we skidded into Cancer’s grip, never seeing it coming.

Nine weeks in 2020. Sickness left skin, bones, and my broken heart as he snuck away into death’s final Forevermore.

I grieve alone.

*********************

I am always looking for new and unique ways to express myself. Some days, I experience minor writer‘s block, but, most days, my words are a conscious stream of energy that pours through my fingers in two hours or less, including editing. I enjoy the fact that the pieces come together as I visualize them, easily and effortlessly, once the topic and title are chosen. With that gift, I am blessed.

So, when I saw the challenge of explaining a relationship in 100 words, I decided to try it. Good writers need to limit words once in awhile to choose more descriptive phrases. The fewer words one has to work with, the more creativity is required to say things in just the right way.

Volumes would be needed to describe VST. Mr. Melon Head, as a dear friend referred to him, had a lot stored in his massive brain. He was a complicated man that took life seriously. A big, old softy. A ruthless business mind. Great judge of character. A man that loved deeply and completely. He was Dr. H to me on romantic cards we exchanged on holidays. I was Mrs. H. Forever, he will be VST, and to those closest, such as Auntie TJ, who gave him the name, he will forever be missed.

I challenge you to try writing about someone you love, using only 100 words. If you are writing with Word, you right click and a box will come up on the bottom of the screen. In that box is a counter, which will tell you how many words you have written. Very helpful to know. Have fun with a concise description of your loved one. 100 powerful words can say so much.

To pass many lonely nights, I’ve been watching old movies. Funny. I think of one title and three more come to mind. These old friends have helped me fill evenings when I am too tired to read, but not tired enough to fall off to sleep.

Growing up in a house of five girls, spanning a bridge of 16 years from oldest to youngest, I was imprinted with music from many different decades. My mom’s music was added to the mix. She loved it all, having exposed all of us to musical notes and instruments. Church choir. School Choir. Piano, accordion, saxophone, guitar. We changed with the times. Musical trends and preferences became harder for my mom to accept as years went on. By the time I was falling in love with Joni or Crosby, Stills, and Nash, she was clutching her ears wondering where she had gone wrong.

One safe genre on which we could always agree was musicals. I could listen to them, over and over, watching the stage sets, photography, and costuming. Each time I watch again, I find something new that is strangely important and relevant. I can’t say that I have a favorite. I love them all. South Pacific. Oklahoma. West Side Story. Evita. Mama Mia. And my latest favorite, Come From Away.

Fiddler on the Roof. I remembering first hearing of this movie when I was in high school. My oldest sister and her husband, needing to escape from their small children, had gone out on a date night. The next morning, she called Mom, bubbling over about this amazing movie. Nothing else would do but that we all went to see it. At the time, I liked the songs about forbidden love. I saw myself as the young daughters trying to break deep traditions that would anchor them to a life outdated. At that very moment in time, I, too, was experiencing love forbidden by parental restraints. VST and I, sang the sad song, Anatevka, for a choral performance.

A few weeks ago, I watched Fiddler on the Roof for the first time in years. This time, when I watched it, something else was so evident. Love and family are all any of us have.

So many times, VST and I talked about life if one of us died. Always theoretical, of course. Cancer was not invited into our home. It broke the door down and stole VST, smashing dreams in its hateful wake. Destroying what could have continued to be. Stealing what could have come. Leaving a wake of destruction and quiet, as if three decades had not ever even happened.

Aside from my devastating loss due to cancer, 2020 has shown me that at any time, an invisible and deadly threat in the form of a microscopic virus could rob all of us of a way of life and traditions we hold dear. People who were our friends might be forced to behave differently than their heart desires. Places that had been comforting might become dangerous. Traditions that were loved might become banished. Life will become bleak, unless the love for family and friends prevails. With that love, all things are possible to endure. All things.

As I watched the story unfold, it had a richness and melancholy that I had not embraced or fully understood before. The same story, yet heard from a different point of view. Yes. Bleak. The outcome of their story we all know. The outcome of ours has yet to be written. The love of fathers for their daughters. Of husbands for the wives. The love for places dear. New love. Old love. Love, in the end, is what we have when the important parts of our lives are distilled, insignificant things falling away. With this love, new traditions replace old.

In this, a most beautiful season, connect with those you love to remember those we have lost. Through memories and stories told, it will help us journey through these tough times.

A Note.

A cyber shout out into the universe. Happy Birthday, Karen Bowser, a dear sweet Central Valley school friend and neighbor girl. 65!!! Who would have thought those two hotties swimming and going motorcycle riding with the bad boys on that summer day so long ago would turn 65?!?!?!?!?! Have a wonderful day, however you decide to spend it. I miss you and hope life is treating you well. Joy

If anyone happens to know Karen, please send her my birthday message. The universe has a way of delivering the best messages. J

I am forever cold. It could be 80 degrees outside, and I’ll find a way to be cold. The kind of bone chilling cold that is hard to recover from. This has been me since the beginning of time. With a resting temperature of 97.6, I’m wired just a little differently. How then, could I choose to live in a place where the temperature this morning is 28 with snow coming down? Love. I love it here. I also loved my life-mate husband who loved it here while suffering from crippling arthritis. Crazy? Yes. Friends KNEW we would retire in Hawaii. No. We chose layering.

Layering makes all things possible in all climates. You start with a basic black turtleneck and go from there. The possibilities are endless. Turtle, cashmere. Turtle, hoodie. Turtle, blazer. Turtle…..well, you get the idea. For the bottom half, add “Cuddl-Duds” and then, whatever is appropriate over that. Of course, in the desert, jeans are a Go To. If a skirt is what you’re looking for, (Skirts do not go well with desert life, but are cute), change out CD’s for tights. Good to go. Throw a heavy wool coat over the entire affair and I’m ready for the beach.

I’m discovering that layering is also an emotional tactic I’ve been using to protect me from widow-winds on my journey. Layers and layers of “Great”, “Wonderful”, “Just Fine”, and “Perfect” carry me through as people ask how things are going, but, really don’t want to know. Besides, how could they know unless they had been through this? Even then, each person experiences grief differently. Their own unique path and sadness are waiting for them. So, layering protects us all from this messy situation.

As I’m recovering, I find I don’t need those layers as much anymore. Any one of my true-blue heart friends can tell just by the tone of my voice that I’m having a tough day. Or that I have some delicious and funny story that needs telling. Or that I am so lonely I think my brain will explode with the stories trapped inside. They know. No matter how I attempt to dress things up in layers, the truth glares through an armhole or seam. I thank everyone who has noticed, and not mentioned it, rather like finding a hole in someone’s favorite cashmere and keeping it to yourself.

They don’t let me off the hook in all respects. When they smell Bovine Scat, they simply call me out on it. For that I thank you all so much. As a widow, we all know nothing is “Great”, “Wonderful”, “Perfect” or even “Just Fine” a lot of the time. Basically, as widows, we all need shirts that say, “Things suck right now. Thanks for asking.” But, as stated above, that shirt would be three layers down, in my case.

In my dealings with a new relationship, layers are tricky. Because a very easy question starts an unraveling to places that leave me thinking late into the night. Things come up that haven’t been thought of for years through harmless conversing with a new friend. Deep within, the tiniest unhealed emotional abscesses can be found, longing to be dealt with, once and for all.

When I write about VST and I, it is through a cloud of friendship, devotion, and love that spanned five decades. One half of a century. Imprinted through pictures in which we’re all smiles. Framed memories hold the best days front and center, letting the reality of day to day life slip into the background. The fabric of our lives together was velvety and supple, a cloth we wove over the years through trial and error. The final piece had visible patches. Could I give hundreds of examples where we failed? Yes. But, those things can’t be redone or fixed. They gave our story a kick. Imperfections that acknowledge we made it through married life and came out still wanting to spend another day together. And another. And another. No matter how many days were left, it would never have been enough for VST and I. Period. We would have fought though whatever was necessary, because we were US. Sadly, he needed to leave earlier than I did.

Through conversations and introspection, I am forming ideas about what is desired in my next important relationship. These surprise me, as I realize there are things that worked at age 30, 40, or 50 that I don’t care to embrace at age 64 years and 361 days of age. There are new things I would like to try. My growth has transformed me into a woman in a new stage of life that is exciting and empowering, yet leaves me more vulnerable than I would like to admit. Each brick of my foundation for this next chapter of my life is of my own choosing. I need to choose them wisely, with the benefit of 64 years and 361 days of experiences, good and bad. Now, that’s a lot of layering right there.

I can’t wait for spring, when the layers of my peony blossoms are unfolding. Layers of stacked garden tools will become scattered about the back yard. New decomposed granite spread over layers of garden cloth. The layer of a morning’s hoodie flung off revealing the cutest swimsuit just right for a tired gardener to soak in the new hot tub (which just might be purchased this weekend).

For now, a new black turtleneck and cashmere will do nicely. Grabbing my coat, I’m off to meet a waiting friend, layered.

Music is a crucial part of my life. Do I play an instrument? No. Can I read music? Yes, a bit. Do I sing? Badly. But, music feeds my soul. Without it, my world would be empty. Most days, I would rather enjoy music than any other form of entertainment.

In my teaching days, I would have some kind of music playing most of the day. Instrumental only, the best pieces had a rhythm the same pace as a resting heartbeat. Music played during our writing time. One day, sweet Sarah came to me with a comment about the music. “Mrs. Hurt, the music helps the words come out of my fingers.” Yes, it does, Sarah. From my fingers, too.

VST and I met because of our love for music and a need to fill an elective in high school. In choir, he was a bass, me, a soprano. This was only because my blond roots didn’t possess the ability to harmonize as altos do. My fondest memories involve the beginning of class when he and his football buddies would come tumbling in, still moist from their PE showers. VST always had the sweetest smile. His tousled hair had the slightest curl to it. Odd, because by the time I met him later in life, his hair had no curl at all. He was a happy jock, later in life, to become a serious intellect.

VST was a purest when it came to music. He wanted his Country Western, and that was it. After his death, I listened to my fair share of Willie’s Roadhouse, remembering with each song all the miles we spent together in the RV. The thing about Country Western music is that the lyrics can be totally silly or trite, but, they can also be so tender. Many times, driving back and forth to retrieve my packing boxes while talking to VST, just the right song would come on. Sometimes, this would bring laughter, but more often it would bring tears. I need to be in the right frame of mind for Willie’s these days. It’s a trigger that can still bring on the ugly cry with the first note of a favorite song.

My favorite types of music don’t involve Country Western at all. On a good day, I listen to a variety of smooth jazz, 70’s and 80’s music, and what the kids, (who are not kids but adults), refer to as my funeral music. This music came into our lives when we got Oliver. VST was NOT a dog person. But when furry little Oliver came to live with us, he amplified a tender and sweet side is us both. VST found a channel that had very soft instrumental music that seemed to soothe our little puppy. From then on, this was referred to as “Oliver’s Music”. To this day, I enjoy this channel as much as Oliver does.

VST told me he had a list of favorite music on his computer should the unthinkable happen, He was still healthy and IT was never going to. When the unthinkable DID happen, I went to his computer and spent a long, long time looking for this file. To my shock and dismay, there was no file, and the memorial was in a week. We needed a play list for the luncheon after the service. My creativity was at an all time low, but, I knew I had to get this just right. So, I began to think back to all the best times in the rig, and the songs that played.

As I picked through U-Tube, the songs started coming to life with videos. I spent a long afternoon crying and listening to lyrics that took me back to times with my sweet VST. Although a tough afternoon, I felt like we were together for one last trip, one last song. Just us two, rolling along. As the afternoon ended, I had my list of songs. I needed 45 minutes worth of music to fit with the video. So, I started adding up the lengths of the songs I had chosen through tears. When I finished, I looked at the number with amazement.

44 minutes 59 seconds. Without planning. Without rejecting one of his favorites. Just the right songs. In the right order. To say the right Good Bye.

Music. Listen today to what ever makes you feel the way you need. Really listen to lyrics you thought you knew. Let it hug you. Because it will, down to the last song.

My own healing is progressing each day. The holidays have always been a challenge for me. As a teacher, I remember being in my classroom on the eve of Christmas Eve some years, leaving me in a spent mess of wrapping and tinsel as I tried to ready a Christmas for my own family, while sending little ones home with handmade gifts for theirs. Emotionally draining in the past, this year, I choose to celebrate differently. Savored in little bits, the true meaning of Christmas is occupying my thoughts.

So far, it’s working, with a little help from my friends. Yesterday, the sweetest card came in the mail. The first Christmas card to Oliver and me, ours and ours alone. It’s from a dear heart friend that I have yet to meet and hug. She and I share a deep and abiding love of our Winterpast, it belonging first to her parents. Her memories are of days past, mine are forming every new day. Christmas is remembered differently for her, as her mom decorated her home with cheer. Her memories of meals and holidays linger here. I hope that when we do meet, she approves of the way I am honoring her mom’s love of home as I make Winterpast my own.

In my holiday healing, I’ve been holding what has scared and scarred me in an emotional bear hug, inhaling the essence of the pain while accepting that it can’t hurt me any deeper. I have many ghosts of Christmases past. Memories of those lost at Christmas time, like my beloved Grandmother, gone on December 23, 1981. Loss sneaks in like a thief and can cloud a time of year that holds the promise of birth, life, and happiness. It takes a conscious mind to choose happiness when the sadness of loss takes over.

Each day, I risk a little more, trusting the new foundation that I’m laying. New routines. New interests. Driving more. Planning things fun and just for me. I’m trusting that today will be better than yesterday. More than that, I’m trusting and KNOWING that I’m taking good care of myself, making healthy choices and moving toward a life of my own choosing. I smile accepting real limitations of age and station in life, but also knowing that there are many silly, self imposed limitations that need to be shed. As I heal, the words flow out of my fingers in my morning blog, delighting me as I express myself.

This holiday, I’ve already discovered there are many judgments from others that I can simply disregard. If someone doesn’t even know whether I prefer my new plaid blazer or my favorite hoodie these days, they simply don’t have enough valid information to judge my current state of mind. If they’ve not talked to me in months, only to call expecting me to be stuck in July’s sorrow, that is on them, not on me. Embracing this is freeing me to to heal more quickly. The expectations of others on widows is often an unfair projection of their own demons unprocessed. Sorry, I’m dealing with enough right now. Opinions of me by others will not take up space in my healing brain.

In this holiday season, I remember something wise that my wonderful God Mother, TJ, shared with me long ago. Healing is knowing what doors to close and which ones to leave open just a crack. Healing doesn’t happen overnight, but slowly, like the mending of a cut or the opening of a peony. My life is becoming a garden rich with new friends in my new town. People that I can call when sorrow and grief get me down, like my sweetest gal pals, Miss Firecracker or Ninja Neighbor. I also call them when I have the best news to share or just because I feel like hearing their voice.

Find some time to Celebrate the things from which you have healed this year. Celebrate your own new friends and make some new traditions. Although robbing us of many things, Covid has forced a very busy world to slow down and hold close our family and friends. I’m finding Christmas is the best time of all to heal, while honoring those new angels we love and miss so much.