A widow friend of mine posted the poem below on her blog a while back. I remember reading this poem a long, long time ago and liking it a lot. I was probably early twenties at the time. I thought I understood it then. I did not. Not the way I do now.
Comes The Dawn
Veronica A. Shoffstall, 1971
After a while you learn the subtle difference
Between holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning
And company doesn’t mean security,
And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts
And presents aren’t promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats
With your head up and your eyes open
With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today,
Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans,
And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
That even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure...
That you really are strong,
And you really do have worth.
And you learn and learn...
With every goodbye you learn.
I really can't read that without having tears come to my eyes. My life has changed so much in the last 4 years. I have had many ups and downs, many steps forward and many steps backward. I honestly cannot believe how much time has passed, how my kids have changed, how I have changed. I can't believe how our lives have continued on, the things we have done, without Joe with us. I have made new friends who I love dearly, who I can't imagine my life without. Not a day goes by when I don't look at one of my kids and think how Joe would love to see them as they are now. Every new step I take without him, every big decision, every small one that I know he'd be involved with, feels like a step away from him and I hate it still. Yet at the same time there is no other way. I never talk about all the things swirling in my head, because I know it is impossible for anyone to understand, and I can't explain things with the depth that they feel to me. But it's still always in there, and probably always will be.
I know that my "self" as I knew her, died that day with Joe. All of a sudden my whole present and future changed. I was going to grow old with this man. We were going to raise our babies together and live a life that we planned. All of it was gone in an instant. The moment I saw that motorcycle on the ground a new person was born. I am still navigating a life that I never dreamed of, with all its ups and downs, greatness and sadness, and learning about the person I have become; the good parts, the bad parts and everything (new) in between.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
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I read this quote in a book recently and although the book itself was just okay, I have thought about the quote below a thousand times since reading it. The guy is referring to his wife (Mary) who he was once deeply, deeply in love with, but their marriage did not last.
"I carry a tattoo of Mary on my arm that I wear like a badge, a jewel, a wound, a way to remind myself that love and pain, like blood and ink, swim in the same sea." - Scott Weiland
I think the reason why I like these words so much is because they remind me we are all a sum of all that has happened in our lives, and we should not ignore those things, ever. We should not go on and try to forget pain and pretend it never happened. To go on and face the future with hope despite all the hurt in our past, is courageous.
Pain is a reminder, that love is real.
And in my opinion, in the end, love is all there is.
.
I read this quote in a book recently and although the book itself was just okay, I have thought about the quote below a thousand times since reading it. The guy is referring to his wife (Mary) who he was once deeply, deeply in love with, but their marriage did not last.
"I carry a tattoo of Mary on my arm that I wear like a badge, a jewel, a wound, a way to remind myself that love and pain, like blood and ink, swim in the same sea." - Scott Weiland
I think the reason why I like these words so much is because they remind me we are all a sum of all that has happened in our lives, and we should not ignore those things, ever. We should not go on and try to forget pain and pretend it never happened. To go on and face the future with hope despite all the hurt in our past, is courageous.
Pain is a reminder, that love is real.
And in my opinion, in the end, love is all there is.
.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
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.
Passed by the door to get to Heaven
Seven trumpets big and bright
You hear it coming in the middle of the night
A caution to the children
Time to turn your crimson white
We’ve all got reservations
Trials will come suddenly
And without explanation
But you were born with goodness
You were born with goodness
Wherever you go now
I’m right behind you
In the light of hope
I’ll be beside you
On that dusty road
And if you get blind, well that’s alright
Wicked winds blow with grace and might
Cling to the ways of my name
When you touch the stone
Break your word over me
Sinking in the quicksand
Break your word
Don’t you see?
You’re breaking me down now
I’m right behind you
In the light of hope
I’ll be beside you on that dusty road
When no one expects you to deny
And no one accepts your reasons why
You cling to the ways of my name
When you touch the stone
No one expects you to deny
And no one accepts your reasons why
You cling to the ways of my name
When you touch the stone
..........................-Brandon Flowers, Right Behind You
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.
.
.
.
Passed by the door to get to Heaven
Seven trumpets big and bright
You hear it coming in the middle of the night
A caution to the children
Time to turn your crimson white
We’ve all got reservations
Trials will come suddenly
And without explanation
But you were born with goodness
You were born with goodness
Wherever you go now
I’m right behind you
In the light of hope
I’ll be beside you
On that dusty road
And if you get blind, well that’s alright
Wicked winds blow with grace and might
Cling to the ways of my name
When you touch the stone
Break your word over me
Sinking in the quicksand
Break your word
Don’t you see?
You’re breaking me down now
I’m right behind you
In the light of hope
I’ll be beside you on that dusty road
When no one expects you to deny
And no one accepts your reasons why
You cling to the ways of my name
When you touch the stone
No one expects you to deny
And no one accepts your reasons why
You cling to the ways of my name
When you touch the stone
..........................-Brandon Flowers, Right Behind You
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.
.
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Monday, December 13, 2010
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.
.
Soon after school ended last year, I took my kids to the cemetery for the first time. Luke was 8 and Alyssa, 6. Almost three years since their father died.
I hadn't intended to take them on this particular day, but then I never planned or intended to take them on any day of my choosing. I always knew that we would go by their schedule- when they asked to go there, I would take them.
We were on our way home from somewhere, all of us happy and fooling around in the car. All of a sudden Luke asked "Can we go the cemetery mom?"
My heart sank and I felt like I couldn't breath. My first instinct was to say "No, not today" and I wondered why on earth, how on earth he could be thinking of the cemetery when we were having so much fun....fresh out of school on summer vacation, a gorgeous day, lots of promise for more laughs to come. Then it hit me, of course he would be thinking of his father on this day. Just as I do. Even when things are good, great even, they are just never quite right.
"Yes" I said.
We drove passed our house and up the hill to the cemetery where Joe is buried. I had no idea what I was going to say to my kids, though I had thought of this moment a million times since he died. Suddenly I was at a complete loss for words and could only think to take my next breath.. My kids drive by the cemetery twice a day, every day when they ride the school bus. I have told them there is a bench at their daddy's grave and because of that they know right where it is. My heart breaks to think of them looking out the bus window at where their father is buried. It's just not right.
We drove in and I stopped the car. They both got out and walked straight to the bench and looked down at the name for the first time. There in big letters, their own last name was inscribed:
C H A L I F O U R
I could see the mixture of emotions on both of their faces. As a kid you must not be able to help but think it's kind of neat to see your name written on a beautiful piece of granite, so important-looking and official. Yet somewhere deep down I could tell they were feeling the pain of what it meant to have that name there. Alyssa literally stood quiet for a minute and then skipped off singing to herself, looking at other gravestone and flowers. She was escaping. She had her fill of what this meant to be here and at another time, in another moment, she would process more of this event, but for now, she was done.
I stood there not saying a word, just looking at my kids and their reactions. Luke was looking down at the marker with Joe's name and the date of his birth and his death on it. He looked up at me and I could see the stress in his eyes. He blinked back some tears as he looked at me. I did nothing but look at him, ready for whatever happened next, but having no idea what that would be.
"So how does this work?" he asked. "Daddy's body is down there?" He asked questions he knew the answers to, but he needed to hear me say them.
"Yes Luke, his body is in kind of a fancy box called a coffin buried under here" I knelt down and touched the marker with Joe's name on it. For a moment I felt the strangest dynamic with Luke, no longer mother and son, but equals, two souls facing extreme pain in loss. I felt like a child in some way, knowing all the logistical details but having no real, concrete answers for many of the questions death presents. I looked at Luke wanting so badly to do right by him, to be strong and answer his questions. I have no idea what it is like for him or for Alyssa or any child who has lost a parent. I just try my best to watch and help them through their grief as best I can.
"Can he hear what we're saying?"
"His body doesn't work anymore. His ears don't work and he's not alive, so no, he can't hear what we're saying from down there." I answered.
"Wouldn't it be cool if we could just go down there and open it up and say "Hi daddy" and he would be there?"
I knew what he was saying. Wouldn't it be great if he were still alive. If we could see him, talk to him, if he was still here, with us. I half-smiled at Luke and stood up again.
Luke stood there a few more seconds and then looked to his sister. He ran off in her direction to look at other names and dates on more stones.
For now, he was done.
.
.
.
.
.
Soon after school ended last year, I took my kids to the cemetery for the first time. Luke was 8 and Alyssa, 6. Almost three years since their father died.
I hadn't intended to take them on this particular day, but then I never planned or intended to take them on any day of my choosing. I always knew that we would go by their schedule- when they asked to go there, I would take them.
We were on our way home from somewhere, all of us happy and fooling around in the car. All of a sudden Luke asked "Can we go the cemetery mom?"
My heart sank and I felt like I couldn't breath. My first instinct was to say "No, not today" and I wondered why on earth, how on earth he could be thinking of the cemetery when we were having so much fun....fresh out of school on summer vacation, a gorgeous day, lots of promise for more laughs to come. Then it hit me, of course he would be thinking of his father on this day. Just as I do. Even when things are good, great even, they are just never quite right.
"Yes" I said.
We drove passed our house and up the hill to the cemetery where Joe is buried. I had no idea what I was going to say to my kids, though I had thought of this moment a million times since he died. Suddenly I was at a complete loss for words and could only think to take my next breath.. My kids drive by the cemetery twice a day, every day when they ride the school bus. I have told them there is a bench at their daddy's grave and because of that they know right where it is. My heart breaks to think of them looking out the bus window at where their father is buried. It's just not right.
We drove in and I stopped the car. They both got out and walked straight to the bench and looked down at the name for the first time. There in big letters, their own last name was inscribed:
C H A L I F O U R
I could see the mixture of emotions on both of their faces. As a kid you must not be able to help but think it's kind of neat to see your name written on a beautiful piece of granite, so important-looking and official. Yet somewhere deep down I could tell they were feeling the pain of what it meant to have that name there. Alyssa literally stood quiet for a minute and then skipped off singing to herself, looking at other gravestone and flowers. She was escaping. She had her fill of what this meant to be here and at another time, in another moment, she would process more of this event, but for now, she was done.
I stood there not saying a word, just looking at my kids and their reactions. Luke was looking down at the marker with Joe's name and the date of his birth and his death on it. He looked up at me and I could see the stress in his eyes. He blinked back some tears as he looked at me. I did nothing but look at him, ready for whatever happened next, but having no idea what that would be.
"So how does this work?" he asked. "Daddy's body is down there?" He asked questions he knew the answers to, but he needed to hear me say them.
"Yes Luke, his body is in kind of a fancy box called a coffin buried under here" I knelt down and touched the marker with Joe's name on it. For a moment I felt the strangest dynamic with Luke, no longer mother and son, but equals, two souls facing extreme pain in loss. I felt like a child in some way, knowing all the logistical details but having no real, concrete answers for many of the questions death presents. I looked at Luke wanting so badly to do right by him, to be strong and answer his questions. I have no idea what it is like for him or for Alyssa or any child who has lost a parent. I just try my best to watch and help them through their grief as best I can.
"Can he hear what we're saying?"
"His body doesn't work anymore. His ears don't work and he's not alive, so no, he can't hear what we're saying from down there." I answered.
"Wouldn't it be cool if we could just go down there and open it up and say "Hi daddy" and he would be there?"
I knew what he was saying. Wouldn't it be great if he were still alive. If we could see him, talk to him, if he was still here, with us. I half-smiled at Luke and stood up again.
Luke stood there a few more seconds and then looked to his sister. He ran off in her direction to look at other names and dates on more stones.
For now, he was done.
.
.
.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
I started writing this blog after Joe died because I could barely speak a word from my mouth about how I felt inside. My family and friends would ask me how I was doing, or I would see it in their eyes that they wanted to know what they could do for me, but I never knew what to say. I felt at a loss to talk about any subject relating to Joe because words seemed to grossly trivialize my emotions. But I did not want to cut my friends and family off. I needed them. So I did the best I could, here.
In the early days and months LEFT was literally the only way that most people in my life knew what I was thinking about and (generally speaking) how I was feeling. I could write here on my terms (at night, after my kids were in bed) and about subjects that were weighing heavily on me. I cried many, many tears over almost every one of these posts. I have never masked the fact that this blog is 100% about me (however it does not define 100% of who I am). It has been uncomfortable at times for me to write some of the stuff that I have. There is a lot of pain here and it is real. But I tried my best to be as forthcoming as possible with my emotions for many reasons, one of which is because I truly believe that honesty and truth are powerful, and they are the building blocks that someday will set me free to a life less haunted by loss.
The self-centered nature of this blog (like the hundreds of other widow/widower blogs out there) was never questioned by most readers, in fact many thanked me for keeping the line of communication open in some way. They told me that it helped them to grieve too. I do not fully understand why people would want to see so much pain written down (especially by or about someone they love), but I fully realize that is because I am not in their shoes. And I completey respect and am thankful for that and for whatever brings people here. I write from a widow's perspective because that is what I am and that is all I know in terms of this loss.
That being said I have faced criticism for LEFT as well (think "get over it already"; -or- (the absurd) "your husband takes blame in the accident also"). However I know that whether the criticism comes from people who know me or do not, those people face their own demons in life that they will probably always misdirect on others. So I do my best to disregard and keep writing.
After about a year of documenting things here there was an unexpected twist in the healing I recevied from LEFT. Other widows started emailing me about specific posts or about my blog in general. They would thank me for putting into words what they had been unable to. They would tell me their stories and describe similar circumstances to mine. Young widows, all over the country, raising young children alone. Living lives that were thrust upon them suddenly by unthinkable tragedy. People from all walks of life, with an array of family lives, resources, friends and circumstances. Women who lost their spouses to illness, vehicle accidents, work-related accidents, suicide and murder. Every story is heart-wrenching and each email I recieve with one of these stories brings mixed emotions. A kinship of sorts, a bond with another human being that is sincere and real, yet I hate the circumstances that brought us together. I wish they didn't have to write the emails and I wish I wasn't recieving them.
Those emails from widows are a big reason why I have continued to write in the last year. It's not to say that I didn't need to write, because I do. But I have other places in which to write to purge my thoughts. However the relationships with other widows gave me something that I could not get when I wrote in a notebook or on a computer. They made me feel less alone. They let me know that, not only am I not alone, there are MANY people traveling a similar path to mine. You may not see many in your town or maybe a few in a city, but collectively we are many; young widows raising children. A group no one wants to be a part of, but a group nonetheless. When I write posts like this or this, I know that they not only hear what I say but understand it in an intimate way. They do not judge me when I feel angry and there is no need for further explaination when I say things. Once again in life, it is human relationships that are the silver lining to tragic situations.
Recently though, even with the good things that I receive from this blog, I have been considering ending it altogether. It seems I am feeling a little too uncomfortable with being so public about the things that I struggle with or that are on my mind. But all morning I had this aching feeling that I need someone to understand how I feel today. So here I am and to my widowed friends I say:
My youngest child started first grade today.
I know you hear me, and I am so thankful that you are listening.
.
.
.
.
In the early days and months LEFT was literally the only way that most people in my life knew what I was thinking about and (generally speaking) how I was feeling. I could write here on my terms (at night, after my kids were in bed) and about subjects that were weighing heavily on me. I cried many, many tears over almost every one of these posts. I have never masked the fact that this blog is 100% about me (however it does not define 100% of who I am). It has been uncomfortable at times for me to write some of the stuff that I have. There is a lot of pain here and it is real. But I tried my best to be as forthcoming as possible with my emotions for many reasons, one of which is because I truly believe that honesty and truth are powerful, and they are the building blocks that someday will set me free to a life less haunted by loss.
The self-centered nature of this blog (like the hundreds of other widow/widower blogs out there) was never questioned by most readers, in fact many thanked me for keeping the line of communication open in some way. They told me that it helped them to grieve too. I do not fully understand why people would want to see so much pain written down (especially by or about someone they love), but I fully realize that is because I am not in their shoes. And I completey respect and am thankful for that and for whatever brings people here. I write from a widow's perspective because that is what I am and that is all I know in terms of this loss.
That being said I have faced criticism for LEFT as well (think "get over it already"; -or- (the absurd) "your husband takes blame in the accident also"). However I know that whether the criticism comes from people who know me or do not, those people face their own demons in life that they will probably always misdirect on others. So I do my best to disregard and keep writing.
After about a year of documenting things here there was an unexpected twist in the healing I recevied from LEFT. Other widows started emailing me about specific posts or about my blog in general. They would thank me for putting into words what they had been unable to. They would tell me their stories and describe similar circumstances to mine. Young widows, all over the country, raising young children alone. Living lives that were thrust upon them suddenly by unthinkable tragedy. People from all walks of life, with an array of family lives, resources, friends and circumstances. Women who lost their spouses to illness, vehicle accidents, work-related accidents, suicide and murder. Every story is heart-wrenching and each email I recieve with one of these stories brings mixed emotions. A kinship of sorts, a bond with another human being that is sincere and real, yet I hate the circumstances that brought us together. I wish they didn't have to write the emails and I wish I wasn't recieving them.
Those emails from widows are a big reason why I have continued to write in the last year. It's not to say that I didn't need to write, because I do. But I have other places in which to write to purge my thoughts. However the relationships with other widows gave me something that I could not get when I wrote in a notebook or on a computer. They made me feel less alone. They let me know that, not only am I not alone, there are MANY people traveling a similar path to mine. You may not see many in your town or maybe a few in a city, but collectively we are many; young widows raising children. A group no one wants to be a part of, but a group nonetheless. When I write posts like this or this, I know that they not only hear what I say but understand it in an intimate way. They do not judge me when I feel angry and there is no need for further explaination when I say things. Once again in life, it is human relationships that are the silver lining to tragic situations.
Recently though, even with the good things that I receive from this blog, I have been considering ending it altogether. It seems I am feeling a little too uncomfortable with being so public about the things that I struggle with or that are on my mind. But all morning I had this aching feeling that I need someone to understand how I feel today. So here I am and to my widowed friends I say:
My youngest child started first grade today.
I know you hear me, and I am so thankful that you are listening.
.
.
.
.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Balance
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.
.
In the last two days I have seen three waterfalls with my children, one of which we had a great hike to; showed them several neat things in NH that I loved as a child including the Mount Washington Hotel and the Elephants Head; seen two gorgeous skies at sunset and one beautiful sunrise; kayaked by myself on a peaceful lake; gone for a nice walk with my kids and dog; seen one of my best friends in the world spur-of-the-moment and her 2 funny kids; had supper with my babies at a restaurant; sat and watched them run through fountains in a park; shopped with them at a couple cool stores that we all equally love; we’ve all taken outdoor showers in the beautiful woods of Vermont; sat in a hot tub with my daughter and swam with her in our lake; tossed a toy for my dog to fetch a gazillion times off my sister’s dock; spent time with my mother and father; did a puzzle with my daughter; laughed hard at my son’s wit and sat by a beautiful rocky river with my kids all by ourselves.
.
Yeah, our lives are pretty great.
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.
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.
.
In the last two days I have seen three waterfalls with my children, one of which we had a great hike to; showed them several neat things in NH that I loved as a child including the Mount Washington Hotel and the Elephants Head; seen two gorgeous skies at sunset and one beautiful sunrise; kayaked by myself on a peaceful lake; gone for a nice walk with my kids and dog; seen one of my best friends in the world spur-of-the-moment and her 2 funny kids; had supper with my babies at a restaurant; sat and watched them run through fountains in a park; shopped with them at a couple cool stores that we all equally love; we’ve all taken outdoor showers in the beautiful woods of Vermont; sat in a hot tub with my daughter and swam with her in our lake; tossed a toy for my dog to fetch a gazillion times off my sister’s dock; spent time with my mother and father; did a puzzle with my daughter; laughed hard at my son’s wit and sat by a beautiful rocky river with my kids all by ourselves.
.
Yeah, our lives are pretty great.
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Monday, August 9, 2010
Stuck
I wonder if anyone could possibly understand the mind of a 38-year-old widow with 2 little kids. That is not a statement of self-pity and I am not looking for praise. I know as I write it that any person could write the same sentence about their own life (fill in the blanks "...the mind of a X-year-old X with X...") I know that life is hard for everyone and every person has their struggles. For the first time in my life when I look at my face in the mirror I recognize that I am getting older. It is a conscious thought now, where it never used to be. I can't help but feel that if Joe were here it would matter a little less, because we'd both be in the same boat. I look at my kids and wonder some days how we will ever get through this. The weak moments are hard to acknowledge. My mind wanders to awful places of what would happen to them if something were to happen to me, to my health, or due to an accident or whatever. How could two children endure so much pain? The thought terrorizes my mind. And I know it's useless to worry. Every time my kids and I leave wherever we are to go home I wonder...."What exactly am I going home to?" and I feel empty. I have always loved my house and truly can't imagine not living in it, but I think it is holding me back. I am stuck living a life that was supposed to be but isn't. I wonder if anyone could possibly understand a 38-year-old widow with two little kids. Nope. I don't think so. Why would you want to? It is a self-centered fantasy........a far-away dream....to have someone understand your feelings and listen to your fears and act as if you are not crazy for having them. Someone you don't have to hide from. It's a dream.....of days gone by.
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