Tomorrow marks two and a half years since Jim died. Next week, his birthday, he would have been 70. Both are very hard for me to comprehend. Clichéed I know but "feels like yesterday, feels like forever ago". I've traveled a far journey since I last held Jim, felt his heartbeat stop, heard his last breath out, and saw, for lack of a more precise language—his spirit fly upward and away from our home. And yet, grief is a funny thing. I remember very little of that first year and a half of grief. So much so that I need to catch myself when dating documents; I still date everything 2020. In my memory that time of my life is a blur of the bedraggled Cinder-ella—sitting by the fireplace, numb, in tears and shock, wondering where my prince was. There was also a sense of being caught between two worlds: that of the here on earth and that of some other place—in-between here and eternity. I distinctly remember last Spring that when I had surgery for my broken ring finger I "spent time" with Jim in that place as I was under anesthesia. I don't recall any details just that we were together, there was an immense feeling of love and golden light, and comfort.
Seventy years. Jim, at our wedding toast, gave me 10 promises. With the flair of the entertainer he could be, he read each promise from a strip of paper that he then deposited in a glass bowl for me. In our much too short marriage, Jim delivered nine of those and the last is yet to be seen—his promise to love me everlastingly—eternity plus 70 years. We used to silently draw these words on each other, a means of intimate connection, like stolen kisses.
Often I think I should get a tattoo of this right where Jim would write it on my arm. I <3 U ∞ + 70.
Dad's toast. He often called Jim his son.
Jim's toast.
My joy.
On rough days, I still soothe myself thinking he’s in his workshop (perhaps why I haven’t been able to contend with it yet) or on the road coming home to me or I play his piano recordings or voice messages. However, I have come to the point where I recognize that I have been, need to continue to, construct yet another life for myself and me alone, a life that I never imagined.
My friendship with Judy, visiting her at Peace Village, returning to that community, learning to mediate and be still, returns me to the essence of eternity.
Folks tell me I’m still young but losing Jim at 63, discovering he had terminal cancer when I was 59, has made me feel ancient, made me recognize death comes unexpectedly. Funny how you grow up thinking: school, job, marriage, kids, retirement, but not widowhood even though 50% of those married will be widowed, 70% of women will be. That's a lot of us. Perhaps that is one of the reasons I share in this blog my experience. It's like a pathway that I am laying down, trying to figure out, unraveling, so that I and others can look back at the threads, akin to those Ariadne left for Theseus to follow out of the labyrinth, a fine cord of where I have come from and where we might go. A pathway that is often not easily found when you are grieving.
But like so much of my life since Jim died, I feel like I am in a holding pattern. I know I'm not. I've accomplished many things since Jim died, some I was forced to like repairing the destruction to the house that occurred in that last year. Even still on a legal, financial side I’m contending with some pretty big issues that I hope resolve this coming year. Others I was offered and accepted which when I reflect on them were and are aligned with some sort of cosmic rebuilding that this stage of my life seems to be about: leading Champlain's 2030 Strategic Plan; envisioning the college's future programs; becoming interim dean of the Stiller School of Business; and reaching out to the students who have been so deeply impacted by growing up under the pandemic, climate change, and economic and political unrest. Through each of these unimaginable and incomprehensible experiences, I've learned so much that I never knew, yes that I never wanted to, and yet makes me know I am someone who survives.
One of the many ways the house fell apart...
And was repaired
Myself included
Inside and out
Other things I have started to do as I go in search of joy again: painting, making my tiny cell phone videos, skiing, traveling to Machu Picchu, even an awkward attempt at online dating (that is a whole other story), gardening, my game camera, and most importantly relearning how to be a friend. One thing I notice about myself is that I no longer live life only at the surface. I go deep. I go for meaning. I go for love. My death is not something that I am afraid of, the opposite in fact. How Jim faced his death and how he died—surrounded by unseeable to me lights—taught me that. Life is too short for anything else.
Jim's last wishes were for me to find joy again. He worried more about me than about his own dying. Often it's that deep love of his that keeps me going—fulfilling our promises so that he won't need to worry for me.
Machu Picchu was a door opening to my future.
My roommate. We discovered our first night that we had both experienced loss—she lost her daughter to cancer when her daughter was a young teen. We became fast friends.
I left a bit of Jim here, a few strands of his hair. This is the Chakana, the Incan symbol of eternity in one of their holy places at Machu Picchu, the temple of three windows.
I found me again.
I’ve learned a lot about deep loneliness and empathy and loving and friendship and now the importance of recognizing and loving the best in people and in life. The importance of doing the hard stuff when it makes a difference. I’ve been in awe of those who’ve not been afraid of my grief and instead have come forward pulling me upward. Early on when Jim was dying, I learned the importance of asking for and receiving help. Such a hard lesson. Now when I find folks in pain, I reach out to them. I can face theirs as I walk though my own—and I also know joy. I'm grateful to my new and/or renewed, deep friendships. It's pretty amazing to see how life keeps on and how when one's heart is torn open, when one becomes more open, life demands we return, it drags us back, it renews us.
Thanksgiving, the moment I realized I was the matriarch, and life spins around.
Thanksgiving and Mary, Joan, Ben, my beautiful family
Champlain: I love to go to the cafeteria for lunch and find a student eating alone and ask if I can join them. It is so special to connect.
Champlain's holiday party this year. I danced my heart out. Such a beautiful community.
Since Jim died, I host Tegan, her partner Lucas and his Mom for Christmas. At first it was hard without him, still is, but it is worth all the joyful moments.
My lovely sister-in-laws, Mary and Cathy. I am blessed.
My brother Dave's family who always come to visit—even if only to reach the top of a mountain and not be able to see the vista.
My dear friend Wendi who has seen me through so much.
James and me. James is Nicole's son, named after Jim. This was after Nicole got James and me up and down Mount Mansfield. At points I couldn't believe how out of shape I was, and how strong she is!
My friend Kathy and I. We are widows figuring it out together. Her very talented and calm husband Terry was one of my MFA alumni.
Tegan and me this past summer. Photo taken by the excellent Stephen Mease.
This pretty much sums up where my heart is these days. I have sad days and broken moments where the loss of Jim's love, the loss of the life I expected overwhelm me and I struggle. However now I know I will move through the sorrow and once again find the light. I have to be purposeful about it. Rather like learning to walk again. But I am walking and some days skiing like I never did before—fearless and in awe. Kathryn Schulz beautifully sums it up in her best selling book "Lost & Found: Reflections on Grief, Gratitude, and Happiness":
"Lately I have found this everyday remarkableness almost overwhelming...
As far as I know, it has no name in our language, although it is close to what the Portuguese call saudade and the Japanese call mono no aware. It is the feeling of registering, on the basis of some slight exposure, our existential condition: how lovely life is, and how fragile, and how fleeting."
Universal truths found at Costco. December 2022.
Machu Picchu, sometimes awe is in the tiny things.
“Lights and Fog Over the Winooski”, Oil on canvas, 12”x12”. December 2022
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