I have the door open as I just let the dogs out after dinner. Too wet for me to join them. There's the gentle patter of rain in the trees and the light is lowering. Inside at the table is my keyboard and I'm compelled to reflect, to write. The parakeets very happily chatter away beyond me. Addie, a bit wet, comes and sits by my right foot—her place—cleaning herself dry. Bella next on the left and soon Charlie will enter—wet, large and demanding my attention. Jim's father's clock chimes the hour—early—I haven't quite perfected the task of adjusting it but it is only a few minutes off. The heat rattles on with the open door. It is peaceful here.
It's hard that Jim can't see how the gardens have matured or how the house and property have been fixed—that he can't enjoy them— and yet it gives me great gratitude and peace now that they are.
Pumpkin and squash harvest
Yup wet Charlie has come in. :-)
This is where I am now 26 months after Jim died. It's a quieter life, a more purposeful life. The things I involve myself in now—are not easy—far from it—being the acting dean of the Stiller School of Business or working with PMC to globally address gender based violence. No, I do these because they have profound meaning and reach. It's a funny thing when one's beloved dies. I count my days and measure them differently. And I do things differently.
My love, my partner is now a photo, a memory, an inspiration.
An 8:00am breakfast meeting for my first faculty and advisory council meeting for Stiller.
A pie of gratitude for the PMC folks who traveled to Burlington from around the world to do ground breaking work on gender based violence.
At first I was engulfed by pain, fear, and loneliness (thank you widowhood and pandemic). Then I began to really appreciate those who reached in fearlessly, consistently, and tenderly—thank you Tegan and Lisa and Kathy and Judy and Ally and John and Wendi and Aunt MaryJo and Mary and Cathy and Carolyn and Nate and Dave and Sabine and Liz and Vickie and Dan and Kelly and oh my gosh I have to stop because there are so many! And all of those who respond to my blog and my posts! And Jim—his spirit—how he approached the most difficult times of his life both before me and when he had cancer and when he accepted he was dying—he has been a guiding answer. You work through it, you cry, you do, you love.
The cup, a gift from Wendi as she has joined me every Halloween since Jim died (his favorite holiday) and Wendi and I always watch Coco together). This Halloween she will be traveling. This will fortify me in her absence.
There is no more hiding. I can no longer waste my days or my hours. Life has become so complicated and exhausting. There is no more denying of my physicality or my spirit or my connection to something greater than this now. Yes "be here now"(which I hated when Jim died much as he and I hated the expression of "what makes us stronger..." (I still hate that one)). Sometimes life gives us no other option, no choice. Your beloved dies in the height of his and your life—YOU HAVE TO CONTINUE. The only option is how? That is a work in process. I prefer to keep searching for joy unfiltered. That is work. Work that becomes easier with time. Here I sit in the now more insistent rain, forever grateful for the peace of this place, for this rain, for sopping wets dogs and beautiful friends. Here I am thankful for purpose and quiet and contemplation. The magic of course is getting to that place where I can accept Jim's death, accept my life, a life which gives us no promises...embracing life as it is, embracing the act of loving despite death. The learned quieting of the soul. It's the love of rain in the trees and soaking wet dogs when you rather be running under rainbows.
From my silent retreat at Peace Village - thank you Judy Rodgers
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