My beloved’s suicide plus 18 months. The word is not the thing, and all I can give you is words. Seemingly never-ending new depths in the ocean of surrender. Familiar after familiar revealed as ephemeral. Perhaps it’s a feeling one has as death of the body approaches. Only for me it isn’t
Today I enter year 78. Sixteen months and a day after my beloved’s departure. Not three weeks in my new home. Last night I was guided to watch “This is It,” the documentary of the three-month rehearsal of what was to be the capstone tour of Michael Jackson’s career, which of course didn’t occur because
I felt a small bug crawling on my back inside my t-shirt. Tick, I feared, whipping an arm over my shoulder. Only one finger could reach far enough to extract the creature expediently. A procedure it did not survive. Turns out it was a ladybug. I apologized that my lack of composure led to
A friend is helping me “re-home” many belongings as I dramatically downsize the physical accouterments of my life in preparation for taking up residence in the new tiny monastery the bank and I jointly own. Among them is the first real bed my beloved and I purchased over 40 years ago. At that time, it
I don’t schedule much in the morning because it takes me a while to get up to speed. Meditation, journaling, stretching and strengthening, wandering with the dogs, time with whatever two cents I’m writing. And while I try not to get sidetracked, I also want to stay open to whatever surprises the universe is itching
For more than six months I had been anticipating that I would be leaving Vermont after living here for 27 years, roughly a third of my life in the only place I’ve ever considered home. My beloved and I arrived on Halloween 1993. For the sake of a good story, I planned to officially
My beloved, A year ago at this time, just shy of 3 AM, you might have been awake, sleepless, knowing that, if at all possible, this would be the day you left this incarnation.
Erupting from new depth, the volcanic sound of my heart’s desolation. Seismic enough to raise eyebrows on other planets I shouldn’t be surprised. My dogs sure looked at me funny. Ten months since Dear’s suicide, I got why some people are pulled to follow their beloved in death.