DAY 17

Today, the seventeenth day of being without Craig, was the worst day so far, beyond the first few days of his death. I woke up with so much anxiety and heaviness. It almost feels like my body is slowly filling up with concrete…or maybe this is just what being totally heartbroken feels like. I’m aware that as I type this, my hands are slightly shaking and tingling a bit. I think I am moving out of the stage of shock and into a reality I do not want. I have said this this over and over for seventeen days…I do not want this! But he is gone. The partnership is dissolved. I am alone. This thought hits me over and over and empties my body of all feeling and will. 

I’m constantly reassured by friends and family that I am NOT alone, and it is true on one level. But my life is now untethered from Craig’s and I am moving into a future that has none of the connection, purpose, joy, or love that we shared. Not tangibly anyway. Not in that solid, concrete, flesh and bone way that was so comforting, so healing, so normal. Now it is all contained in my elusive memory, which at this point, hurts to recall.

In one month we were going to be standing on the threshold of a new life. A new adventure. Finding a new purpose. Maybe even a new community of people or place. A Peregrinatio. Then Craig woke me out of a deep sleep that Monday morning and within twenty minutes, that life we so longed to begin together was over. The last thing I said to him as they wheeled him down the sidewalk was, “I love you!” The last thing I heard him say, four times, on the floor of our hallway was, “I can’t breathe.”

Now at times I feel I can’t breathe. Times I catch myself breathing so shallowly I wonder why I haven’t passed out. And times I wish I could pass out and not wake up again because the future looks terrifying. It probably isn’t, but right now, where there was once a shared, beautiful life and an exciting vision, there is only a void. What does one woman who was deeply in love for 32 years do with herself? 

I’ve been told not to think too far into the future, but this is hard to do when prescription drug commercials come on, or when I see an old man or woman alone at the pharmacy, or a young couple passing me on the road, laughing. One day at a time is probably the wisest yet hardest thing to make real. How can I not think about the days ahead when I wake up with a painful and swollen ankle that needs wrapped in ice? And so I wrap it by myself and wonder about my body in the future. Will it betray me, as well? Should I try to stay healthy, or just not give a shit? All the unanswerable questions. All the unknowns. And this is just the tip of the iceberg of grief. 

This morning I read my favorite Psalm...#27. It contains themes for which I've strived for or struggled with all my life...fear, beauty, having courage, seeking God, communing with God, trusting God's guidance...and waiting. But these words burned the brightest on the page for me today:

"I would have despaired unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living"

Even though I hold them in my heart, I still feel despair. I'm just hoping that the mustard seed of faith contained in that broken heart is enough to experience the goodness of God someday.  

CASTING OFF...

Sometimes a person just needs to get into a round boat with no oars and cast off...

When the ancient Celtic monks felt God was calling them to something different, some new place to settle, to serve, and to await their next calling, they would undertake a peregrinatio, a Latin word meaning “pilgrimage." This type of pilgrimage was different than the usual practice of walking reflectively to a specific holy site or sacred destination for inspiration. 

Instead, the purpose of this pilgrimage was to choose to be adrift at sea; to get into a round boat called a Coracle, made of animal skins, pitch, and

wood to exercise complete trust and faith that God would use the natural elements of wind and current to guide them to their "place of resurrection." Many of the ancient Monasteries in England, Ireland and Scotland were established through the peregrination of a faithful monk. 

While our Coracle looks a bit different and, thankfully, does have a way to steer, our intention is the same as the Celtic saints who set out in anticipation.  In many ways Craig and I have already become "unmoored" from our lives here. For years we have both been in a state of liminality...a place where old ways of being don't fit anymore but a transition towards a new vision hasn't quite taken hold. A threshold uncrossed. Until now. So, we are casting off, both literally and figuratively, with no real direction in mind. We have planned very little, only to desire internal transformation and a resurrection to something different and meaningful. Our hearts are open wide to discover any and all the new places, people, or purposes God might reveal to us.

 

I know we will be out-of-sight-out-of-mind, but if you happen to pass a big, gold van, see a round boat, or meet a monk, think of us and ask God to continue to safely and sacredly guide our journey.

And who knows? We might be back in a week. 

AGENDAS, FEARS & ATTITUDES

Monday afternoon I came down to Prairie Pond Woods for a three day writing sabbatical, which turned into a two day writing sabbatical after a bit of a relational hiccup on Tuesday. It is not uncommon for something strange to take place every time I come here with some sort of agenda in mind like writing; the power goes out, the water stops running, I get two-hours of sleep the first night, due to some ominous thump I hear just as I crawl into bed. Even my husband comments on how uncanny it is, since he is the recipient of all my lamentations over the phone. 

It is hard enough to overcome the fear and resistance of just sitting down to write, let alone having all your timing thrown off, your mood altered or your energy zapped. So, as I thought about why this happens so often, an idea came to the forefront of my musings. Perhaps my expectations needed edited out altogether; that "list" I think will be so helpful...when I will get up, take a walk, start to write, eat my meals, etc. I ACTUALLY write this stuff down, and I'm beginning to see it is this AGENDA that does me in. It doesn't allow me to roll with the punches, go with the flow, or any other metaphor that means to adjust my perspective and expectations when unexpected situations arise, or to simply let freedom reign.

Now, agendas are fine when I am running my household, conducting a meeting or planning an event, but for creative work, the ever present list just might have to go. So this morning, I took the rare opportunity to just lay in bed. I turned over at least twice after waking up at 7:00 am and went back to sleep. When I rose, I decided I would do whatever I felt like doing, whenever I felt like doing it, and see what happens. 

I wrote in my journal. I read from a book about writing called The War of Art. I watched a thunderstorm while sitting outside. I opened a bottle of champagne at noon (just couldn't do it before then), as a way of celebrating the creative act I was about to begin. And then I began...the hardest part of writing.

Not only had this idea to approach my sabbatical with more freedom given me the courage to start, but two passages I read earlier that the morning also motivated me. They are some of the most authentic and effective bits of wisdom I have ever read about the creative process...at least for the novice stage I am in.

"Self-doubt can be an ally. This is because it serves as an indicator of aspiration. It reflects love, love of something we dream of doing, and desire, a desire to do it. If you find yourself asking yourself (and your friends), "Am I really a writer? Am I really an artist?" chances are you are."

"The counterfeit innovator is wildly self-confident. The real one is scared to death."

 I have asked that question more than once to myself, my husband and friends. It is, in part, a doubt  held over from college days when one of my professors told me a drawing I had done was "corny." Corny? That's about the worst thing anyone could have said to me. Tell me it was poorly drawn, like a monkey with pastels. Tell me I used all the wrong colors and it was hideous to look at. But don't tell me what came out of the depths of my creative soul was banal, overly sentimental, inane, or stupid. I was crushed, and just about everything I've put out into the world since came with a dose of fear that I am, at my very core, a corny creative. But the dosages are getting smaller. And the next page in the book encouraged me even more to plant my derrière and begin. 
  

"Are you paralyzed with fear? That's a good sign. Fear is good. Like self-doubt, fear is an indicator. Fear tells us what we have to do."

"Remember the rule of thumb: The more scared we are of a work or calling, the more sure we can be that we have to do it. Resistance is experienced as fear: the degree of fear equates the the strength of resistance. Therefore the more fear we feel about a specific enterprise, the more certain we can be that the enterprise is important to us and to the growth of our soul. That's why we feel so much resistance. If it meant nothing to us, there would be no resistance."

I'm trusting that. 

So, today I re-read, edited, rearranged passages, and talked out loud to myself about the story line. Tomorrow I will try to write at least 1500 more words or five pages...no, wait...tomorrow...I'll write however many pages I want. It helps to have an attitude, also.

College Days. Corny?  Nah!  Just attitude.

WHAT THE WIND REMINDS US

Tomorrow, June 7, is the 25th anniversary of my mother's death. Although I had it written in my calendar and thought about it at times over the last few weeks, it wasn't until I sat down on my front porch this morning to journal and make my list of "to do's" that I remembered today was the day...or so I thought.

What reminded me again was the weather. It was exactly like today, not on the morning of her death like I had thought, but on the day before, when I was alone with her and said my good-byes. I guess that day just stuck. I remember the tearful walk I took afterwards through the grounds of Hospice. It was a cool day for June, breezy, and the sun dappled down between the leaves of all the trees. Flower colors popped in all that brightness. As I walked in and out of shade and sunlight on the brick paths, I remember the pleasantness of being physically comfortable and the sorrow of being emotionally wrought. 

June 6, 1991:

"I said good-bye to Mom. I told her I would miss our lunches and our trips together. I said that my wardrobe would suffer and I laughed. I think if she heard me, she laughed too. Some people believe our spirits can leave our bodies and then go back. I believe it's possible - so I told her that if she was looking down, I would be okay. That I had God and Craig. That I would take care of Dad and try to help him. That I didn't know if I would have a baby, but if I had a girl, I would name her Marie. I promised her that. Marie Steffen. I think that's pretty."

After digging up old journals, it was obvious that not only had I had the date wrong but that months before her death had been stressful, which is probably why so much of my recall was faulty. Craig had started going to college full-time on top of owning his own business. Our dog had puppies two weeks before my mother's surgery in Florida to have her stomach removed. One of my best friends was diagnosed with breast cancer, so there were visits, radiation appointments, crying, and awkwardness. Several friends' marriages were falling apart, as well as one of my brother's. And another brother, who had been estranged for 28 years, was unsure how and when and with whom to reconnect. 

Reading all of this 25 years later left me exhausted and bewildered. How could I have so many details wrong in my mind and not even remember much of it? We are not at our best under stress or in grief. This was true for my family and especially my for my parent's long, rocky relationship. What also struck me was the lack of any entries in my journal about my parents during the four months my mother continued chemo treatments in Florida before she came home, only to die one month later. What I did write about incessantly and passionately was my own lack of feeling significant, my artistic frustrations, and my desire to lose weight. We are not at our best under stress or in grief...

I had listed all my prayers, too. Prayers for healing, for restoration, for peace and for redemption, which never really came. At least not the way or in the timing that I asked. My mother died at the young age of seventy. My friend died the day before her 42nd birthday. And most of the couples got divorced. But disappointment, heartbreak and vulnerability are the Divine's good and wise teachers. The swaying trees this morning on the porch reminded me of that.
 

They say that smell is the sense most connected to memory. But I have tried very hard to forget the smells in my mother's room and in the hallways during that week in Hospice. What I remember most is the weather, just like today, when I let my mother go at the young age of thirty-five. In fact, so much so, it is in the first line of a poem I wrote after her death. 

On cool, breezy days in June, I will remember you...

They Say our Ears Get Larger as we Age

When Wednesdays roll around, I try to make them a writing day, or at the very least a day to do "writerly" things. I’m not one to fit a little writing into the nooks and crannies of time during the course of an ordinary day…I wish I was that kind of creative. I prefer wide, open spaces of time to do whatever I’m doing, whether it’s, cleaning, shopping, gardening, writing, etc. I’m not sure why-maybe I believe that amount of focus is needed to gain a deeper, broader experience, maybe it’s an inability to transition well, or a dislike of transitions altogether. Whatever it is, it prompts me to spend as much of Wednesday as possible engrossed in some form of creative reflection or action. This Wednesday was no different.

In the morning I got out my little “writing devotional” by Natalie Goldberg called Writing Down theBones. If you’ve attended any type of writing symposium, conference or workshop, someone there undoubtedly referred to or recommended it. It had been awhile since I last read an entry, so when it opened to the present chapter, I was pleased to see the title; Listening, the word I chose in January as my word for the year. The choice has proven to be somewhat prophetic for me.

Before I sit down to write, I usually take a walk with the dog, both to expend some her energy and to energize myself. More snow was falling but so lightly that it barely hit my glasses. I picked up my camera, only to remember I hadn’t charged the battery, blinking low from last evening’s walk. I said out loud, “Well, I guess I’ll just have to listen.” 

The soft, wet snow of yesterday had turned brittle from melting and refreezing. It was harder to walk in but easier to hear. My biped footsteps crunched out in half-time compared to the double-time music of my dog trotting ahead. We stopped to listen a few times; a song sparrow, a crow, a blue jay in the distances. I could hear nothing else in the cold, muffled stillness, until we stopped near a small beech tree, still laden with faded, crinkled leaves. There, the soft pelting of snow created a quiet, low tinkling on the leaves. The same could be heard as I stood under a canopy of young oaks further up the trail. After the morning reading, I asked myself, What is the lesson here?

I know the basic science. Some trees, though deciduous, have marcescent leaves, or leaves that remain on the branch even though they are dead. Those remaining leaves, dry and hard, vibrate when the snow hits them, creating sound waves. Those waves travel to our ears and we hear the sound. And there are many theories as to why trees in the beech family retain their leaves; adaptations to living on dry, cold ridges, or deer-infested environments, or just a sign that they are delayed in their evolution, but on their way to becoming fully deciduous. Those are the marvelous and wonderful facts.

But I was interested in the symbolism of that moment. Why only just a few trees in the landscape that reflect back the sound of the snow, or the rain, or the wind? As I stood listening, I wondered if maybe they teach us there are precious few people in our lives we should listen to; people who have stood the test of time, have integrity, and will speak wisdom to the eardrums of our hearts. Or maybe it reminds us that it takes a long time to let other voices fall silent before we can listen to our own.

I discovered one of those precious and few voices through a book club called Souljourners. For the last four years we have explored the inner landscape of our lives through authors such as Richard Rohr, Brene’ Brown, Parker Palmer, and Rachel Held Evans. But for 2016, I wanted us to read something that pointed beyond ourselves, so I chose Parker Palmer’s book, Healing the Heart of Democracy. This is a political book that is not about politics, really.  It was a bit of a risk to put forth in the group, but because the byline is, The Courage to Create a Politics Worthy of the Human Spirit, it seemed to fit. And it has become one of the most challenging books I’ve ever read. 

"The human heart is the first home of democracy. It is where we embrace our questions. Can we be equitable? Can we be generous? Can we listen with our whole beings, not just our minds, and offer our attention rather than our opinions? And do we have enough resolve in our hearts to act courageously, relentlessly, without giving up—ever—trusting our fellow citizens to join with us in our determined pursuit of a living democracy?"

This first quote on the first page by Terry Tempest Williams both hooked my interest and bubbled up in me the resounding negative answer, “Probably not!” But there was still enough hope in me that I wanted to try.

Reading and discussing it has shown me that I am more adept at listening to nature than I am to people. Outside, I hear bird calls that others who are with me, don’t. I can differentiate between tonal qualities in bird songs for identification. I can hear the various layers of spring frogs and toads or summertime crickets and katydids, when my husband just hears one homogenized drone. I can also hear people when they talk or write…but now it seems I’m being challenged to listen more deeply to those with whom I disagree and engage, especially around politics. This is a true exercise of discipline for someone who is fairly opinionated, makes judgments easily (ISFJ), cares deeply about many issues, and inherited the “clever wit” gene from her father that, unchecked, can lead to some pretty fluent sarcasm. Yes, a hard exercise of discipline when an array of social media is at her fingertips. Still more work to do on the inner landscape, it seems.

“It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles.”

Evidently, the Buddha, agrees. But there is no formula for personal transformation. It is mostly paying attention and responding to truth. Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it’s birthed quietly out of the will. Sometimes it’s a surrender to the Spirit, and a trust that the surrender, in the end, leads to victory. But like beech trees in the snow, I am listening to Palmer's philosophy on the Five Habits of the Heart, to the women in the group who appreciate the positive side of my negative tendencies, and to the bits and pieces of wisdom that randomly, yet perfectly, drop onto my radar. Like the words from this morning’s reading.

“Listening is receptivity."

"The deeper you can listen, the better you can write.”

Or become a more productive citizen, or empathetic friend, or knowledgeable naturalist, or gracious adversary. Perhaps delayed in my spiritual evolution but on my way to becoming fully receptive…one more pesky, but healthier, transition.