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Archive for the ‘Grief’ Category

I’ve been pondering the question of whether I should continue to wear my wedding band, or . . . why do I continue to wear my wedding band?  When I got divorced from my first husband, I willingly took off my ring.   It’s not like that this time.  When Mike and I arranged our wedding in a week, he insisted on getting wedding bands for both of us.  I thought it would take too long to get them ordered, etc.   We both found rings at the first store we shopped.  Mike’s band fit perfectly.  I had mine resized after the ceremony.  Is there a time limit on how long to wear my ring?  It goes so perfectly with the solitaire that was his mum’s.

It’s weird.  I wear my wedding rings and think of Mike.  I see Mike all around me – his furniture in every room, in some rooms it’s all his furniture.  Our furniture melded together when we merged our lives. So did our kitchen pots & pans, knives and dishes. A good friend said to Mike, “Didn’t you know you were meant to be together, since your furniture goes so well together?”  Now I am left with the furniture – and no Mike.  Don’t get me wrong; I love the furniture and everything in the kitchen.  I just wish I had Mike instead.  (Here’s that magical thinking Joan Didion wrote about.)  It feels like I have the leftovers, no matter how wonderful those things are.

Speaking of Joan Didion, I read her book, The Year of Magical Thinking, two years ago and last year, I read Christopher Buckley’s, Losing Mum and Pup. Reading these books turned out to be preparation for where I am now.  Both books have provided me with references and ways to think about my experience of loss – and the process – of time and thoughts and questions that arise.

When I write these posts, I mull over the ideas and the words to use.  Weeks have gone by thinking, writing, adding, deleting, rewriting.  For now, I’m letting go of the question about wearing my rings.  I’m done focusing on this –  time to move on. The answer will be revealed in its right way and right time.  When I take my wedding rings off, there’s an indentation that remains on my finger. . . just like Mike has left an impression on my heart that will always be there.

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Swirling ashes and flowers at the oceans edge

 

Last weekend, I flew to Hawaii for a few days to join friends for classic Hawaiian weaving – I wove bracelets.  I was also there to release Mike’s ashes into the ocean.  He always wanted retire to Hawaii.  We decided to gather Sunday morning – about 16 of us.  I am so grateful for all that came together as I needed everyone’s help to make this ceremony happen.   

I had never opened the bag holding the box of ashes after I picked it up a week and a half after Mike had split.  It sat in the closet till I packed the bag with the box in my suitcase for the flight to the Big island.  Only just before the ceremony did I take the box out of the bag . . . and discovered that the box was a heavy metal box – sealed shut, with no way to open it.  I asked for a plain box.  Who knew?  Two men in our group both tried to open it and called it a safe, not a box.  The handyman at the resort was called to bring his tools. As he was figuring out how to open the box, he asked, “Did he really like this place?”  Yes, actually he did.  Success – the box was finally pried open.   

This being the No Faults Tour weekend with my friends . . . the ceremony began a little later than originally planned – and, it was perfect.  Including trying to get Mike out of the box.  One suggested a tide pool at the ocean’s edge was a good place on this balmy, windy day.  Another provided a basket to put the bag of ashes in.  A special friend wore a sarong in Mike’s honor, as Mike would have worn one if he had been here.  Another was wearing a look-alike to Mike’s favorite sarong.  She had bought it at the market just a few days before – colors she didn’t usually wear but it had called to her!  Aloha, Mike.  

We all filed down to the tide pool and gathered in a half circle.   I said a few words about Mike – about the joy and love that connected us to Mike and to each other.  I hadn’t been to this resort since our honeymoon.  Now Mike and I were both here again.  We prayed and sang the chant – There is only one of us, in your eyes it’s me I see, there is only one of us, you are my reflection, there is only one.  I stood barefoot in the water and with Amazing Grace being played on the harmonica, I poured Mike’s ashes slowly into the water as the waves rolled in and out.  The fine silver grey powder mixed and swirled with the water – stirring and flowing into a larger and larger area at the edge of the ocean. We broke our leis and tossed the flowers into the water – a mix of peach, pink, purple and white floating above the moving misty water.  The mist didn’t go out to sea as much as dissolve and merge with the water and drift down into the sand at the waters edge.   I guess he’s not leaving the beach.  We gathered back on the sand and many expressed how beautiful the ceremony was.  One said that this is how he wants to go – so simple and so moving.   

When I was pouring the fine ashes into the water, I flashed on how this is what Andy Goldsworthy has done . . . grinding up natural elements and pouring the colored powder down a river or stream.  Here I was making art – the ephemeral art of life – watching and remembering sweet Mike.

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It seems like the first year is the most difficult.  There have so many firsts without Mike.  Halloween.  Thanksgiving.  His Birthday – that  day felt really empty. Christmas.  New Year’s.  Valentine’s Day.  I thought about him a lot.  He made a big deal of Valentine’s Day.  He surprised me each year with a special gift and card. I’d never had a man be so thoughtful and loving with this holiday.  Easter.  Our wedding anniversary – I wrote April 6th for two days in a row until I realized why.  I had forgotten our anniversary a couple times before.  I was always happy he remembered it.  Much harder was April 21st –  six months since Mike departed this life experience.  Every time I thought of this, tears sprung to my eyes. It seemed like it had been so recently and yet, so long ago.  I couldn’t really write about it till now. 

This timeframe feels like a milestone in accepting the reality that Mike’s not here.  I keep reflecting on Joan Didion’s book, The Year of Magical Thinking.  It took a year for her to really accept – or begin to accept – that her husband was gone.  More holidays and remembrances to come.  Memorial Day.  Fourth of July – last year we were at Dillon Beach, as usual.  My girlfriend and I and our daughters have been going every year for ten years.  It was so wonderful to have Mike there, too.  We all had so much fun.  I know I will miss him being there this year.

At first, it felt uncomfortable driving Mike’s Mini Cooper.  It smells like Mike, my daughter said.  It did.  I felt like I was surrounded by him.  He loved his Mini.  Years ago, I read that items that are well loved, hold that love energy  and you can feel that attraction, that love.  I have experienced this with rings  – my mother’s, my grandmothers’, and Mike’s mother’s – and  with the Mini.  I’m driving it more now.  The scent is beginning to fade, or perhaps, I’m getting more used to it.

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This last week has been transforming, cathartic, sad, grieving, digging up soil that hadn’t been turned yet . . . turning up items of Mike’s that I’d stuffed in drawers – till later.  I had shelves and rods installed in the master closet a week ago.  Which meant I had to empty the closet.  This also meant that I had to go through everything in the closet.  No more waiting.  As I put things away, I cried, wishing Mike were here.  I’m washing lots of clothes as I sort through it all – what to keep, what to pass on.  Cleaning.  Clearing.  Working in my closet.  Seems like inner work to me.  Feels like it, too.  Lots of greiving.  Changing the inside as I change the outside.  

After a week plus of closet work, I found myself drawn to clean out my email in and out boxes.  My inbox messages had been filed a couple months ago, but I had not cleared the outbox since before Mike passed on.  I found emails I had sent to him and a few from him – more dipping into the depths of what was. . . that is no longer.  I cried and pushed the delete button on the emails.  There’s no deleting him from my heart.

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In the Goo

When I was first reeling from the news of Mike’s death, the image that came to mind was of turning into goo – just like a caterpillar does.  It deconstructs in the cocoon and melts into goo.  The imaginal cells then move into action to reform the goo into a butterfly.  I was pushed into the goo.  I feel like I am still in the goo now.  Sometimes I feel like I have an inkling of what’s next, that my imagination, my imaginal cells are creating something new.  It’s not yet clear, it’s still mostly goo.

A few weeks later, a second image came to mind . . . I was flattened like Bozo the Clown.  When I was a child, we had a blow-up punching bag of Bozo the Clown.  You could punch it to the ground, and it would right itself because of the weighted bottom.  I feel like I was punched to the ground.  There are times when it seems I am righting myself, and other times when I am flattened again.  Bozo always came back to standing up and I know I will, too.

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Going Deeper

Reading about grief in Emotional Genius, by Karla McLaren affirms what my spiritual and intellectual quadrants know without a doubt – that Mike knows himself to be expansive Love and Light – and consciousness.  Who he is has not changed, except he has taken off his earth suit.

And . . .  I must dive deep into my body and emotional quadrants.  To cry the tears that release the stuckness of shock.   To dive into the depths of the sorrow – to the sacred connections with our ancestors, loved ones and all of Life.  To “connect to the healing energies inside grief ” – and immerse myself in the waters of my emotions.  The body knows about grief and what to do.  I am listening.

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