Travel

Since my last post I've taken a trip to Portland, Oregon, my first in several years. My stepson lives there in a russet-orange bungalow with his wife, two sons, and a cat. I'd been unable to travel due to my husband's health, and I worried about the accumulation of time and distance between myself and my grandsons, now 7 and 9. All four were waiting for me at the airport. Story and Harry gave me big hugs and chattered all the way home. So much to catch up on! So much that was new! The next several days were wonderful -- relaxing and refilling. After the first cool and misty morning of "postcard Portland," the sun came out and shone the rest of my stay. I basked in boys' attention, neighborhood walks, scrumptious market produce, music and theater in the parks, masses of roses and front yard gardens. (My stepson, Donald, grows artichokes in his, and hops trained to form a screen filtering sunlight to a sparkling peridot liquescence.) I was introduced to aikido and to yu-gi-o, a terribly complicated (to me) manga book/game series. When it was time to say farewell, I was reminded again of the fluidity of time, how it can stretch, fill, deepen, wait.

I was aware from the first that my husband's death set him free, and gradually it has freed me, too. I can travel, accept a last-minute invitation, or linger over coffee. Relationships, like time, are also not as fixed as one might think. I am still nurtured by the bonds of love and the life Roger and I shared, but the thin, electrical ties of tension, the alertness for the next disaster, are breaking down, disintegrating from lack of use. I'm glad to know that his death isn't an "all or nothing" deal, that some parts will go and some will stay--and those will inevitably change, just as I am. Maybe some will even become me, the joins rubbing off, changing with the seasons . . . seen sometimes, in perfect clarity, to contain all that was and will be and is. Moments of intense joy and deep gratitude.

 

The house in your heart

Hello and thanks to each of you who read "Continuation."

(Some of you told me you were unable to leave a comment and i appreciate you bringing it to my attention. I think it's fixed.)

So many responded, and i love hearing from you. Whether you tell me your story or not, i know that we all have a small library tucked away -- there are complicated poems with elaborate flourishes or vague allusions, litanies and lists, epics, short stories, romances (happy and heartbreakers), and mysteries. Here's a story from my Nana collection:  When my granddaughters would spend the night, and they were settled in the big bed we shared, i'd ask them to describe the tiny house that is their heart. How is it different than last time? What have you done to make it more truly yours? Did you change the color of the door or add a koi pond? We go through each imaginary room, laughing again at a shared joke or remembering the taste of fresh tomato bisque. Each of these bright moments added to the home's warm glow. Finally, i'd ask them if something had hurt them that day, if they'd worried about something, or if they had done something they later regretted. Occasionally, one said yes, and we'd consider some solutions. Then we'd take her little problem out of the house and blow the pain away, leaving just the lesson, to be kept in a book in her library.

Once, i told a friend about this ritual, and she was as delighted as a child at the thought of creating a house that was her own in every aspect, a place that truly reflected who she is and how she's grown, with spaces for whimsy, nurture, and reflection. Let me tell you right now, we never outgrow the need to be tucked in and kissed, to feel safe enough and sure enough to open our heart and see it as a home. If you weren't given that as a child, i give it to you now -- no, you give it to yourself. Get comfy in bed, close your eyes and take a big breath. Let it out slowly. The world around you dims and you see a little house taking shape. It's yours; open the door and go in.

Sweet dreams ~
     Suzanne

Continuation

It is a year since I visited my blog, a year since I wrote of events in the outside world, but not of events in my own. Those notes I kept privately though, just so I could make some sense of my rapidly deconstructing situation, a life that was falling apart . . . a month from August 2 to September 2 in which my husband fell and broke his arm, lost his ability to move, lost his hope, but never lost his courage or his spirit. It was a month filled with moves between facilities, colored with the intense palette of emotion, scored with doctors' opinions, messages, music, silence. It was a month that began on a sunlit afternoon and ended on a soft night under a moon that had begun, almost imperceptibly, to wane.

It was a month that I went from wife to widow, that I continued my journey without Roger, my partner of half a lifetime. There were time that I could actually see myself walking, accompanied by women, and a few men, who have remade their own lives.  A few would walk with me, alongside or just ahead or behind, then they would be replaced by others. We kept silence, just sharing space and strength. I am thankful to each of you. I don’t see that road now but I know it’s there. All of us are travelers, and each of us has needed companionship.

Now I am here. I have been writing, and in March published my thoughts on Roger’s memorial service in a blog essay titled “Transformation” for Sculpture Magazine.

I decided to pick up my blog, and hope that those who find it will discover something worth keeping, something worth sharing, and maybe companionship for awhile wherever you are.