RESILIENCE, THY MOTHER IS PAIN

Time and Circumstance

One of the best crummy but wonderful things that came to me from losing Ted to pancreatic cancer was increased resilience.  I have a lot more hope than some other people.  I've been bereaved, cancer-struck, disillusioned at work, empty-nested and betrayed by life insurance policies....and that's all recent stuff!  Being set back for me now is just an appetizer at an all-you-can-eat HOPE buffet. I know from these and other adverse experiences that things do get better, and sometimes a whole lot better.  I have hope that was born from seeing hopelessness through to a new beginning.

In my teens and twenties, a great deal of my time was spent in a state of severe disappointment with my physical body.  I'm short.  I'm stout.  My shoulders slouch.  If I had to walk across the room with a book on my head, I would probably knock over an antique table with pottery from the Ming Dynasty.  My mother used to say I was like a bull in a china shop.  That was not a nice thing to say, but it's accurate. When I hit my thirties, I began to realize that not only was I a tangle foot, I was keenly empathetic and compassionate in a culture that tended to be materialistic and cold.  In fact, feeling pain and suffering because I didn't conform with society's messages of female beauty and appropriateness made me more empathetic to others who aren't perfect.  I learned instinctively to look beyond the surface of things.  The qualities of empathy and compassion were born of what I perceived as a defect, and it allowed me to make a good living with the result. I flourished in the field of human resources and employee relations.  Thank the gods of social justice that we live in an age that is at least beginning to challenge "body shaming."   But, I did get something worth having from my pain -- Resilience. 

On Amazon -- Book and Kindle Versions

This week, my book "The Widow Lessons" was finally published.  Because of the editing process, I read it front to back for the millionth time before publishing.  I could see once again that Ted's cancer was a jam I was certain I could help him get out of.  When he died, I was hit with the guilt of not saving Ted's life.  But I was also in a personal jam called "widow" that I couldn't get out of.  I ultimately figured out how to approach the building of a new life, and I wrote a book about it in order to help others.  Would I have been that resilient if I had never met with hardship before? 

Hardships like grief and loss, disappointment and disillusionment, pain and suffering, do open up the heart of a person to a thing called hope.  If you live with loss, and you rebuild, and you struggle each day to make the best of things for yourself and others, you become pretty cozy with hope.  You don't feel crushed utterly when you lose.  You find patience when you have to wait for an outcome that may or may not go your way. You face fear with bravery and courage.  Good stuff is born in pain.

This week I found a website called Widow's Hope.  http://www.widowshope.org/ 
Check it out....It seems like a good source of hope.

Also, from the people at On Being comes a terrific post on courage and hope.  It comes from adversity, like crashing precious heirlooms and finding out you aren't going to be a ballerina or a movie star. 


Where Does Courage Come From?

Link to The Widow Lessons on Amazon

HAPPY CONTINUATION DAY

Happy Continuation Day

Do you ever imagine yourself moving away to a place you've never been before, where no one knows you and you can do that thing that most people call "starting over?"  I do.  Someone told me about a Human Resources Director job in Springfield, Oregon, even though I am retired from all that.  But that random message led to me looking at little houses for sale in Springfield, Oregon.  Maybe I should move there.  All of this happened on a day I thought was already planned out -- and my plans didn't include an item called "where else can I go to be whatever it is I want to be". Do random and distracting adventures of the mind descend upon me out of nowhere, for no reason?  Does this happen to other people?  Somewhere out there someone is probably conducting a scientific survey about that. 

Prince died unexpectedly this week, reminding everyone that anything can happen to anyone, at any time.  He had a talent for worshiping the uniqueness of everyone by being so obviously one-of-a-kind, out loud, in a musical way that could transport the listener.  He invented.  He presented.  We are reminded that something new is possible when we think about the life of Prince. 

Like some who are reading now, I lost my life when my husband died.  He was my known universe.  It took a very long time to begin again.  I have no idea how long it will take for me to feel that I am doing and being and living a life that perfectly fits.  I'm still a work in progress.  Somehow it sooths the pain I feel -- my never ending grief, that shadow always following me -- to believe that if I want to start over again, it is available to me.  I guess that's where the Springfield thing cropped up.

It was also my birthday this week, and I celebrated.  I'm sixty-one.  If I stand on a continuum, such as a yardstick, numbering one to eighty-five, I will stand at sixty-one now.  Not a whole lot of my continuum lies ahead of me when compared with the length I have already traveled.  I had better get busy making sure I use what's left in the very best way.  I feel less inclined to lollygag, standing at sixty-one.  I want to get busy doing and being something I have always yearned for, but never dared. 

Thinking about that, I feel like I would waste a lot of time packing, selling, buying, moving, sorting, exploring and settling into Springfield, Oregon, that random place that momentarily represented an escape route.  I've decided to stay put for now, and remember that anything is possible, standing right here.  On Sixty-one.  In Edmonds, Washington.  Just because people know me here doesn't mean I can't be something new, if that's what I want.

About death and birthdays, I was reading from a website that is written by Buddhists, and the writer made the point that when a cloud dies, it is also the birth of rain.  That's sort of how I feel about having a birthday and feeling jarred by the death of Prince, all at the same time.  I do feel certain that there is a continuation going on...pain, creating, suffering, innovation, feeling settled in, feeling like ripping out and starting over.  It's all part of the same thing.  Thinking about these things closes the gap between me and Ted. 

Happy Continuation Day, to me. 

Happy Continuation

SUBTLE REALMS OF BEING

Traveling Along

I gardened a lot recently due to weather conditions.  Weeds are easy to pull after rain, so I got right out there in the joint between wet and dry.  But between stones that line the garden beds, it's tougher.  I turn over stone by stone to floss the weeds and straggly grass out.  There's something about weeding my garden that is akin to smoothing down the covers on a made bed in the morning to get the lumps out.  There isn't a word for that feeling.  Mary Poppins called it "spit spot."  But that doesn't really fit me, because I do like a rough edge, flaws, unseen influences, texture, mystery.  Maybe I'm more of a lumps out but wrinkles okay kind of tidier.  In any event, I was weeding between rocks and it was supremely satisfying.  Again, I don't have a word for it, except to say that I know there is a universe under every rock and stone, even if I can't see it.  I can feel it.  Maybe weeding allows me to get close to the smell, the feel, of a subtle form of being. 

When Ted died, I was strewn about in bits all over the place.  This I felt, although when I looked in the mirror as I was getting ready for work, everything seemed pretty intact to me.  Bear in mind, however, that I do tend to miss a lot of obvious details when I'm getting ready for the world, such as the time I tried laundering my panty hose in lavender buds because I read the Victorians did that with their stockings.  I'm pretty sure I looked in the mirror that day and didn't see that the buds had busted into millions of tiny specs that lined my hosiery. I was itchy by the time I was half-way through my interminable morning meeting, and had a rash by noon.  All looked well on the outside that day, but the unseen upended my lavender dream of a day.  In short, I don't trust what I can see as much as I trust what I know is there, but cannot be seen. 

How did I go on, day after day, when Ted had recently died?  I was undoubtedly looking whole and intact, all the while knowing the lack of authenticity in what was seen.  I have to go back and read journals to recall that at some point, I got out of my widow's house and I went out of doors -- Ted died in March, so it was probably June or so when I went outside, aided by a slight recollection that I was a gardener.  I think I started with raking up winter's reckless disregard for my last year's work.  Tiny seen and much unseen life came to my attention.  I started with the subtle realms of life, my old life drifting away, a new life only an abstraction.  I saw a bird.  Then, I saw the world of the birds, a world that was going about being itself, unchanged.  It began for me in raking away, digging under, breaking up, watching.  In no way was I hoping for or trying to build something new.  Not yet.

Strangely, I must admit that I sometimes want to go back to those days and take myself in hand to remind myself of a few things.  Thing One:  I am a spiritual being, having a human experience in the world.  This is something I realized after Ted had died and yet I could still feel him close at hand.  Thing Two:  The subtle forms of being, of knowing, of feeling, of growing and leaning in are more to be trusted than anything I can find in the world I can see.
Somewhere during these early days of being a widow, I came across a Carl Sagan quote that helped me get through it all.  He said:  "Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known."  Maybe he was talking about a quasar, but I doubt it.  We know they are out there, even if they aren't all found and named yet.  No, I think he was talking about the mysteries of life itself, and how endless it really is.

SALVES AND OINTMENTS

Not Me, I don't think

I try not to be too ambitious.  Projects around my house have to stay within reasonable limits.  If I can't do it myself, I'll have to pay to have it done, or ask my kids to help.  I would rather pay for help, because I'm psychologically "saving up" all the asks for family help for when I am in my eighties.  That's my strategy for now, anyway.  But then money is tight, so I'm back to doing it myself.

I've got fifteen yards of free wood chips in my driveway at the moment.  Is there anything better than fifteen yards of free wood chips from local tree trimming companies? They smell great.  They steam in the cool of the morning.  Watching this massive pile of roiling bacteria transports me back to the primordial landscapes of Yellowstone.  And, wood chips are fantastic for the garden.  They turn into the best, richest dirt when used for mulch.  This ends my gushing about woodchips, because now I-- and I alone-- must move them to the far back of my property, one wheelbarrow at a time. 

Getting a wood chip delivery was a lot funner when Ted was here.  He did most of the work, or at least half -- even when it was my idea.  Now that I'll have to do his half as well as my half, I'm trying not to get injured.  I'm pacing myself.  That's a real challenge because of the fearlessness of widowhood. 

The fearlessness of widowhood comes from being hurt so badly that you're certain nothing can hurt you ever again.  That may be true, but I doubt it.  It's something I'm on the lookout for, since I've had some mishaps because of this sense that I can't be hurt.  For example, when Ted died, I didn't have much patience for people -- far less than I ever did, and I wasn't the most patient and tolerant person to begin with.   I can think of more than a few times I shot my mouth off, and hurt somebody.  I became more willing to take risks, both psychological as well as physically.  I got very close to some grizzly bears in the wild on a trip to Vancouver.  Thank god there were a lot of salmon in the river that year for them to feed on.  I remember frearlessly deciding to pull a wire fence taut using my Kabota.  The result was wire fencing that got wrapped around me so fast, I was like a human enchilada  inside a wire tortilla.  It's a wonder I didn't put my eye out.  I had to lay down to roll the fence off of me. 

Being a widow is a lot more work than being part of a duo.  More work physically, more work psychologically.  First aid has to be part of a widow's survival strategy, although some injuries are beyond salves and ointments.  Not even time can heal a broken heart, as every widow knows.  Time teaches a widow to temper ambitions with realism.  Get used to it.  Adjust.  That's what time will do. 

Meanwhile, I am out there, wheelbarrowing.  Loving that steam, loving that smell.  Making progress.  I found an excellent link for first aid from the Mayo Clinic, shared here.  Everything that can be aided is pretty much here on this chart.  The rest of what can hurt you but can't be aided is, well, quite off the charts.


Mayo Clinic First Aid Resources

TRAFFIC CONDITIONS

"Traffic Conditions"

When I had finished the manuscript of my book "The Widow Lessons," I reached out to other widows, in order to include additional voices in the book.  I didn't include all of them in the book, mostly for reasons of space.  One such story is from a woman who lost all of her lifelong friends as she culled them out of her life like so many sick cows in a barn.  Her criteria was "anyone with a platitude or a prayer," she said.  "I wanted pain, and only pain.  I was angry.  My tongue was acid." 

An example:  A dear friend said that she would help this widow "buck up and get over it." 
"What did you say?" I asked.
"I told her I was going to take my son's baseball bat and bust both her legs in multiple locations, and then I was going to tell her to walk it off."  Then, she banished this woman from her life, forever.

Each widow has to decide what to do with remarks people make that strike a sharp chord.  I can't "fault" this widow for what she said -- basically telling her friend how dumb-as-a-rock her remark had been. "You just hurt me, and now I want to hurt you back," is basically where she was at. 

I came across a website that has pages dedicated to comebacks a widow can/should make to these kinds of remarks.  I personally might use some but not all of them.  It's an individual sensibility thing.  I generally tend to say "thank you."  I guess I figure I have no idea what the other person is going through....it just so happens that my status as a widow is what is prompting sympathy, or encouragement, or awkward silences.  But what is the remarker going through?  I dunno.  Nobody ever knows what anyone is going through, if you get right down to it.

Reports of Awkward Remarks

The Norman Rockwell painting above hangs in my home (ok, a print).  I's called "Traffic Conditions."  I love it for a lot of reasons, but my favorite character is in the upper window above the guitar shaped sign.  This is presumably the guitar teacher.  This person doesn't appear to have a student at the moment.  Maybe there are other problems, too.  At the least, I know what it must be like to listen to horrendous butchering of a musical instrument I love and have mastered.  I think this Rockwell character needs as much mercy as the truck driver,   My point is that everybody suffers, and not everybody knows what to say.  I want to have mercy on people because I will never know about the pain behind. Maybe it is actual, total stupidity behind the remark -- that probably warrants a little mercy, too.

Just because you have lost the love of your life doesn't mean you need to be tolerant or nice or merciful to people who make thoughtless or ignorant remarks about what you should do/feel/think.  I want to be clear on that point.   If you are a widow, my experience is that you may want to think about how you will handle dumb-as-rocks remarks.  Because, here they come.  They don't stop after seven, ten, twenty years either.  "Why don't you date?"  "You must be so lonely."  .........

Speaking of Mark Twain:

WRESTLING WITH HAPPINESS

Genuine Flourishing

Since becoming a widow seven years ago, I've fought for nothing more vigorously at times than my right to be unhappy.  It feels right to be unhappy when you are the earthly survivor of a loving, long-term marriage that wasn't supposed to ever come to an end for just one of you.  Along the way, I've had to revise my stubborn attachment to misery as a badge of loyalty to Ted, my beloved.

Matthieu Ricardd

In fact, I've done a lot of investigation into happiness because I resented it when it crept up on me.  How can I possibly be happy if I don't want to be happy?  Among my readings, I found one guy in particular that I resonated completely with....he taught me what happiness really is, and why I should pursue it, whether I want to or not.  His name is Matthieu Ricard.  

He's a French-born, Tibetan Buddhist, scientist and monk who is the Dali Lama's French interpreter.  Consequently, he hasn't been a guest in my house or anything, so I've studied his writings from afar.  His definition of happiness is "genuine flourishing" -- not a pleasurable sensation or mood but a way of being in the world that encompasses the fullness of human experience, joy and pleasure as well as suffering and loss. 

I don't have to try to be happy.  I want to pursue this genuine flourishing thing because I get to respect, hold onto, cherish even, my loss of Ted as my life mate, husband and friend.  I want to pursue happiness so long as it is Ricard's brand.

It's hard to have a conversation about pursuing happiness without thinking about constitutional law.  I mean, it's my right to pursue happiness as an American, and I hope it always will be.  But within the framework of this technical, legal right, what does it really mean?  I kept on reading, researching that pragmatic angle.  I found the article I've posted here reassuring.  I can pursue happiness without feeling cheap or hedonistic about it, because, according to this 2013 Huffington article, all lasting happiness comes from nurturing relationships.  And it didn't rule out that those relationships might simply be limited to a close circle of family, true friends, and dogs.  OK, it didn't say dogs, but I maintain my American right to pursue my dog happiness.  That, I've never been squeamish about.

Why Widows and Others Should Pursue Happiness

DOWNSIZING AND SOCIAL WITHDRAWAL

My husband of thirty-four years died in March, 2009.  The first two years are a blur for reasons related to grief and a cancer fight of my own.  By then, I had something called "complicated grief" -- which simply means that I wasn't engaged in a grief process.  I was stuck.  But with the help of a grief group called "Soul Survivor" and anti-depressants, I was beginning to accept the fact of Ted's death after three years.  The next two years were spent trying to link the structures of my life back together again....I was the same bits and pieces of my life, but without my previous life to give form or function to my days.  Another way to describe it would be an identity crisis and spiritual crisis happening at the same time.  Ted and I were married when I was nineteen, so I didn't know how to live as a person who wasn't part of a married couple. 

One of the issues I finally figured out was that I couldn't keep up with life on acreage in rural Arlington, Washington, with a total of about 2,200 square feet of stuff that I simultaneously loved and hated.  In work I was doing with a therapist, I ultimately realized it was all too big and needy.  Too many things, memories, dust collectors.  My entire physical footprint, if you will, was like a huge chain around my ankles, time, neck, wallet and soul. 

I needed to downsize.

I let go of roughly 70% of my objects.  Art. Furniture. Books. Music. Clothes. Photos. Souvenirs. Equipment. Tools.  Collections.  I sold my home and bought a small, 920 square foot home in a residential area of Edmonds, Washington.  It was centrally located to all my kids and grandkids.  It was near water, walking trails and shopping.  I could "age in place" there; meaning, it was one level and the space could be modified if I live to be in the hundreds and need a walker.  It's not too much.  It's also enough -- two very different concepts.

There is an article I want to share about downsizing that helped me not plop myself into my new, smaller, enough-ish house, and lock the door behind me.  Because, after I downsized, I also wanted to withdraw from the world and be alone.  I fight this urge every day.  It's probably connected to the guilt that most widows feel about continuing without the love of our life.  We want to be dead...and if that isn't happening, we want to act dead to the world.  My advice is to fight that tug, and get help when you need it from therapists, friends, family, writing, traveling -- anything that you enjoy and want to do that will make you be in the world in a balanced way.  I've been able to figure out how to take Ted with me, and I hope you can do the same with your dear one who has died. 

Enjoy the article.  It helped me look at downsizing versus withdrawal from life, and where I am at today...seven years into it. 

http://money.usnews.com/money/blogs/the-best-life/2012/05/01/10-ways-older-people-withdraw-from-life