Wednesday, April 13, 2022
Then?
I have come to the end of my "If...Then...." statement. You know, those statements that are used to create computer code. Or the statements that are our widowed bargaining chips, so to speak.
Bargaining. I thought I was long past that stage of grief after 11 1/2 years. But nope. I realize that I have been wanting Adam by my side more and more lately. It's not really a lonliness thing. It's more of a stubbornness thing on my part because I know the comfort he would be.
This is a weird stage of life to be wrapping up my formal education--something that he didn't really get to do. I have had so many questions that I have wanted to ask him as I am finishing my doctoral project and writings. I just want HIS help. Instead I have had to ask Justin. Or my dad. Or fellow students. Or Google. Or no one.
It's a profound sadness that has returned. At a time when I should feel joy and gladness for accomplishing this feat, I feel sorrow. Like there's a big giant hole missing. Because there is.
There will be no graduation picture with him at my side. No family picture with him smiling and cheering me on. And that hurts.
That's the thing though. There isn't any "fixing" of this sorrow or sadness. Ever. It's just something that I have to wade through. It's messy. No one else really gets it. It isn't comfortable. My gut wants to avoid it. And has to a large degree in recent years.
The other day it kind of dawned on me like a ton of bricks. I went to graduate school for a lot of very logical reasons, which will be of benefit to me and the boys for a very long time. The unconscious reason I went to school (and I just put this together) was to avoid the hole that Adam left behind. School has been a giant distraction for the past 6 years. It distracted me from hard times, from ends of relationships, from the frustrations of solo parenting. But ultimately, it distracted me from thinking about Adam. I was simply to busy to be overly bothered by grief. Or better said, school gave me something one which I was "forced" to focus so I could not derail too far into my grief.
Grief really is strange. One day feels like everything is figured out and in its rightful space. And another day it feels like utter chaos. There is no logic with grief, no fairness, no sensibility. It's also something that those who have not lost a partner can't fathom that I still "grieve."
I've watched as most of my "original" widowed friends have remarried. I realize that when people remarry, they take grief with them, but life becomes so full, busy, and consuming of love for another that grief weighs less. It doesn't shrink, but somehow the weight of present love becomes heavier and such an area of focus that the weight of grief lessens. Life becomes happy. Joyful, even. But for those that struggle to fill life with the desires of their heart (ME! *hand raised*) it is difficult to sort things out. To make peace with what has been lost.
I wanted one more baby. I know she was meant for our family. I know this. How do I make peace with that? Just ignore it? There is no fixing that. Every "older" new mom my age is a trigger for this discomfort.
I want the joy of marriage in my life. The closeness. The type of caring that does not exist with any other relationship. The inside jokes, the things that only two people know and love about each other. I crave this. But I don't crave it enough to settle for a man who is not matched with me. The pickins are slim at this stage of life. I think I'd rather be alone than settling.
Wow. That's it. The list of things for which I long has become quite short. I expected more on this list. But nope.
Then.
If I do... then....If I go to school, I will figure out more of my life and what I want to do with it. If I stay in Nebraska, then my kids will have stability and safety. Check check. Done those things.
Then is here. It's NOW. And I still feel somewhat lost. Then...WHAT?
What. Where. How. When.
I cross out "Who" from that list because I no longer think that someone else will appear and save me or make any of this better. I know it's me. And I'm not sure that will ever be comfortable. Probably just as it will never be comfortable to be okay without just one more baby or without marriage in my life. Maybe that's as God designed? I am not exactly sure. But then is now and I know that I need to figure some things out.
What does "then" really look like and what am I to do? We shall see.
Tuesday, November 16, 2021
Boys
The past few years have been a different kind of difficult than I could've expected. While I think I have made (relative) peace with my widowhood most days, I recognize that other areas of life have been very difficult. Solo parenting a tween, teen, and an adult simultaneously is a very different stage--and a difficult one. In some ways it has been amazing, and in other ways more challenging than I would prefer to deal.
Every once in a while, the boys do something amazing in my eyes that reminds me how grateful I am for their goodness. This morning was one of those times. I was dropping Spencer off to school for early morning jazz band. The sky was beautiful as only a Nebraska sky can provide. Streaks of varigated pink exanded across the sky as the sunrise enveloped the morning. Spencer got out of our van and I creeped along through the parking lot, waiting to be sure he got into the school. Only, there was a male teacher coming into the school behind him. Despite his load of his much-too-stuffed backpack and his electric guitar case in hand, he did what I would hope that he would do--open the door for the teacher and wait until the teacher had entered the school. It's silly, really. It isn't something super monumental. But there are moments when I am grateful to be Spencer's mom. Despite the birth order and age-related sibling struggles that exist in our home, despite their knuckheaded behavior, I know that I have good boys. I am a blessed woman.
I said a prayer of gratitude as I drove away. I thanked Heavenly Father that my boys are alive. My mind trailed, thinking of friends who have lost their children to various illnesses and accidents. I felt a little guilty that I can complain about the difficulty of these boys at times. I do not understand why things ended up the way they did in the crash and that they lived, but I am grateful that I have these boys to teach me everyday. I pray that I will always remember that they give me the opportunity to learn, if I but choose.
Thursday, February 14, 2019
Just Love More
It has been a very long time since I've written. Sure, I've had a lot of commentary--widowed or otherwise--run through my head over the past few years. Still, I just haven't been able to write. It's been too difficult.
Maybe it's because I've been busy. I HAVE been busy. That an excuse most give for why they don't do "such and such" and it can usually be met with validity. But maybe it's because I have been stuck. Stuck isn't a good feeling. I think I've determined that it is sometimes a necessary stage. A requirement.
While I've never proclaimed to have all this grief stuff figured out, I most certainly knew the steps early on and knew the circular pattern of thoughts that can coexist with grief. For a long time I danced around the meat of it all. When you KNOW that grief must be felt and explored and understood but you don't know HOW to get to the meat of it all....
I can't put it into words. I guess I just didn't know how to open that Pandora's box. How to feel it all deeply. How does love and grief and living life to the fullest again coexist?
In Melissa-like fashion, I decided I needed to cross off some of the to-dos on my list. I decided I needed to see a grief counselor. A therapist. Someone to fix me. Or maybe not fix, but just to help me get to the places in my heart that have been untouchable. I didn't know what I needed to fix and I needed an unbiased observer to guide me. Because we can't fix something unless it feels broken. Now, my heart wasn't broken--it was SHATTERED. I didn't think it was possible to fix something that has been so very smashed.
Have you ever watched someone have a bloody nose? Like a bad one? They'll cup their hands together underneath their face, so as to not let any blood slip through the cracks of their fingers, not wanting to drip anything on carpet or flooring until they can get to a trash can, a sink, or a basin. I think that's how I've felt. That I have tried so desperately to hold onto every little piece of my heart, of how it has been loved, and not wanting to drop any shards on the floor for fear that I won't survive otherwise. Instead I have built a wall around my heart. Not just any wall. Not a 4 foot chain-link fence to be hopped over. But a massive castle wall. Complete with a mote around it. I have put on a hard exterior because I'm just completely spent.
There's a thing that happens in widowhood. People might mistake it for bitterness, anger, or depression. But it truly isn't bitterness--or anger OR depression. Instead it is a high BS meter. When you come out of your fog, you see things and people for what they really are--often the fake, disingenuous, stupid, or just plain naive is magnified.
Or maybe not magnified. It's like getting into a car with the sound on the radio unknowingly turned to full blast until the key to the car is turned. It's joltingly BLARING. And I've learned that I have little to no patience for people who just don't get it. Which translates into...no patience for pretty much anyone. No love.
Over my 8 1/2 years of widowed life, I have seen miracles. Real miracles are usually those that are unspeakable. But they're real.
I think this is why it has been so very difficult.
It isn't about turning some magic key to finally say, "Ah-ha! Eureka!"
It isn't about one day waking up and being okay with those around me that irritate me by their fakeness.
It isn't about continuing to live a life that feels frustratingly exhausting with minimal joy.
It's about finding a way for grief and love to coexist.
And the only way for grief and love to coexist is to love more.
TO LOVE LIFE. To love people. To love truth. Eternal truth.
It is love that holds the drips that try to slip through my hands. It is love that stops the bleeding. It is love that heals the heart. Only love can heal wounds.
I think I finally get it--the quote that was on our wedding favors makes sense....
There is no remedy for love but to LOVE MORE. --Henry David Thoreau
We all need to be loved and want to love. Those that claim otherwise have either not experienced true love.
Or they're just lying. And have a mote around their heart.
This Valentine's Day, show love. Care about those around you. Not stupid fake love.
Maybe it's because I've been busy. I HAVE been busy. That an excuse most give for why they don't do "such and such" and it can usually be met with validity. But maybe it's because I have been stuck. Stuck isn't a good feeling. I think I've determined that it is sometimes a necessary stage. A requirement.
While I've never proclaimed to have all this grief stuff figured out, I most certainly knew the steps early on and knew the circular pattern of thoughts that can coexist with grief. For a long time I danced around the meat of it all. When you KNOW that grief must be felt and explored and understood but you don't know HOW to get to the meat of it all....
I can't put it into words. I guess I just didn't know how to open that Pandora's box. How to feel it all deeply. How does love and grief and living life to the fullest again coexist?
In Melissa-like fashion, I decided I needed to cross off some of the to-dos on my list. I decided I needed to see a grief counselor. A therapist. Someone to fix me. Or maybe not fix, but just to help me get to the places in my heart that have been untouchable. I didn't know what I needed to fix and I needed an unbiased observer to guide me. Because we can't fix something unless it feels broken. Now, my heart wasn't broken--it was SHATTERED. I didn't think it was possible to fix something that has been so very smashed.
Have you ever watched someone have a bloody nose? Like a bad one? They'll cup their hands together underneath their face, so as to not let any blood slip through the cracks of their fingers, not wanting to drip anything on carpet or flooring until they can get to a trash can, a sink, or a basin. I think that's how I've felt. That I have tried so desperately to hold onto every little piece of my heart, of how it has been loved, and not wanting to drop any shards on the floor for fear that I won't survive otherwise. Instead I have built a wall around my heart. Not just any wall. Not a 4 foot chain-link fence to be hopped over. But a massive castle wall. Complete with a mote around it. I have put on a hard exterior because I'm just completely spent.
There's a thing that happens in widowhood. People might mistake it for bitterness, anger, or depression. But it truly isn't bitterness--or anger OR depression. Instead it is a high BS meter. When you come out of your fog, you see things and people for what they really are--often the fake, disingenuous, stupid, or just plain naive is magnified.
Or maybe not magnified. It's like getting into a car with the sound on the radio unknowingly turned to full blast until the key to the car is turned. It's joltingly BLARING. And I've learned that I have little to no patience for people who just don't get it. Which translates into...no patience for pretty much anyone. No love.
Over my 8 1/2 years of widowed life, I have seen miracles. Real miracles are usually those that are unspeakable. But they're real.
I think this is why it has been so very difficult.
It isn't about turning some magic key to finally say, "Ah-ha! Eureka!"
It isn't about one day waking up and being okay with those around me that irritate me by their fakeness.
It isn't about continuing to live a life that feels frustratingly exhausting with minimal joy.
It's about finding a way for grief and love to coexist.
And the only way for grief and love to coexist is to love more.
TO LOVE LIFE. To love people. To love truth. Eternal truth.
It is love that holds the drips that try to slip through my hands. It is love that stops the bleeding. It is love that heals the heart. Only love can heal wounds.
I think I finally get it--the quote that was on our wedding favors makes sense....
There is no remedy for love but to LOVE MORE. --Henry David Thoreau
We all need to be loved and want to love. Those that claim otherwise have either not experienced true love.
Or they're just lying. And have a mote around their heart.
This Valentine's Day, show love. Care about those around you. Not stupid fake love.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Running
I haven't done much writing in a while. I guess there's a season for everything, and the season of late has been for me to ponder and not write. That said, I have some things to say tonight.
I attended a cross country meet for Justin today. With him starting middle school this year, there were a bazillion different clubs and extracurricular activities with which he could occupy his time. He has tried to get involved with every single thing he could squeeze into his (and our family's) schedule. I have started to see some of the reasons for my needing to take this year off of full-time work, and tending to his every changing schedule has been one of my juggling acts as of late.
So, back to cross country. Today when I got to his meet down at Haworth Park in Bellevue, the 7th grade girls were about to run. They were scheduled 30 minutes before his run time with the 7th grade boys. As they took off and began to run, I watched their course and I watched the varying running abilities. One sweet girl was much slower than the other girls and was behind the pack of runners right from the start. No one wants to be the last one in a race, and I can only imagine (as I've never competed in running) that it probably does not feel the best to be the one at the end of such a large race. The race was just under 2 miles. As the runners all started toward the end of the finish line, there were lots of cheers for individuals and for schools. I cheered for students at Justin's school as well. But something I had seen happen during the past few races occurred again. The little girl who was at the end of the runners at the beginning of the race turned out to be the last runner at the end as well. As she came upon the finish line, everyone cleared the course area and got to edges of the course. Very loud applause and cheers came from the crowd of onlookers--like a million times louder than any of the other cheers and clapping for the other students, even more noisy than the applause for the "winner" of the race. As we all cheered for this girl, she didn't stop and walk even though she clearly had been struggling. She ran. She sped up and ran as hard as she could to get to that finish line.
I watched this scene.
I bawled.
I'm bawling now as I try to type this because I can't relay how much this affected me to watch this race.
I realized that that little girl is metaphorically me. Maybe for 30 years I have been slow to learn and retain some of the most important lessons that can be learned in this life. Maybe I have tried to be a "good girl" and done all the "right" things, but still have been lacking some important lessons. And now I feel like the past 4 years have been spent playing catch up. Like a whirlwind of spiritual knowledge has taken place and I finally feel connected to my spirit somehow. I feel like I have legions of angels cheering me on and trying to encourage me on this final lap of my journey--even though this final lap will likely be a much longer period of time than that first 30 years.
It's comforting. It's like the puzzle pieces are finally fitting together in my mind. It's like I finally understand Adam's role in the rest of my mortal life. I finally get why he is needed in the spirit world and why I'm needed here, even though we are tangibly away from each other. We both have lives that have different--yet at the same time, SAME purposes. And because I feel with such clarity that it makes sense and yet I can't verbalize why it makes sense in my heart, it confirms the truthfulness of this for me.
When Justin was running in his last meet, I started bawling watching him run and I had such a profound feeling of longing for Adam to be right by my side where he rightfully belongs, watching and supporting his oldest son. I know that when I experience these feelings, part of the reason I feel such intense longing is that I get stubborn and not humble and I put my desire to have him with me over the Lord's will and purpose for Adam right now. Because when I can be completely vulnerable, I know that it was His perfect timing that took Adam when he needed to go. That there is no explaining otherwise. But when I watched Justin run that day, I instantly felt comforted that he was right there watching and encouraging Justin. I didn't say anything to the little boys about this experience, and they did not see my tears while they played with sticks and I watched Justin on his course. I found it fascinating (and reassuring) when, on the walk to get Justin, Carson said to me, "Mom, I hope Dad watched Justin run." It confirmed what I felt--and what I know this little 4 year old felt too. After we got Justin back to the car to go home and I told him of my experience, he said, "Mom, that's interesting because while we were racing, I felt like someone was right behind me so I kept turning around during the run. The guy that was behind me, but not in the spot where it felt like someone was running behind me, he finally said to me, "What in the world are you looking at?!" and I explained that I thought someone was behind me, that it kept feeling like someone was there. I'm positive that it was Dad. I know he is with me sometimes."
I think hard hearted, frustrated me is finally starting to soften and make some sense out of life. I'm starting to understand more about the role our loved ones who have passed away can have in our lives. That it isn't a bunch of baloney, and that it isn't some sort of witch craft. It is a simple peace that can't be verbalized or explained--only understood by those who have had the experience. A quote from Helen Keller explains it: "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart."
And this song from David Archuleta has been ringing true in my heart since I heard it. The first time I heard it I wasn't really listening to the words and their meaning. I found some amazing double meanings and peace in this song.
I attended a cross country meet for Justin today. With him starting middle school this year, there were a bazillion different clubs and extracurricular activities with which he could occupy his time. He has tried to get involved with every single thing he could squeeze into his (and our family's) schedule. I have started to see some of the reasons for my needing to take this year off of full-time work, and tending to his every changing schedule has been one of my juggling acts as of late.
So, back to cross country. Today when I got to his meet down at Haworth Park in Bellevue, the 7th grade girls were about to run. They were scheduled 30 minutes before his run time with the 7th grade boys. As they took off and began to run, I watched their course and I watched the varying running abilities. One sweet girl was much slower than the other girls and was behind the pack of runners right from the start. No one wants to be the last one in a race, and I can only imagine (as I've never competed in running) that it probably does not feel the best to be the one at the end of such a large race. The race was just under 2 miles. As the runners all started toward the end of the finish line, there were lots of cheers for individuals and for schools. I cheered for students at Justin's school as well. But something I had seen happen during the past few races occurred again. The little girl who was at the end of the runners at the beginning of the race turned out to be the last runner at the end as well. As she came upon the finish line, everyone cleared the course area and got to edges of the course. Very loud applause and cheers came from the crowd of onlookers--like a million times louder than any of the other cheers and clapping for the other students, even more noisy than the applause for the "winner" of the race. As we all cheered for this girl, she didn't stop and walk even though she clearly had been struggling. She ran. She sped up and ran as hard as she could to get to that finish line.
I watched this scene.
I bawled.
I'm bawling now as I try to type this because I can't relay how much this affected me to watch this race.
I realized that that little girl is metaphorically me. Maybe for 30 years I have been slow to learn and retain some of the most important lessons that can be learned in this life. Maybe I have tried to be a "good girl" and done all the "right" things, but still have been lacking some important lessons. And now I feel like the past 4 years have been spent playing catch up. Like a whirlwind of spiritual knowledge has taken place and I finally feel connected to my spirit somehow. I feel like I have legions of angels cheering me on and trying to encourage me on this final lap of my journey--even though this final lap will likely be a much longer period of time than that first 30 years.
It's comforting. It's like the puzzle pieces are finally fitting together in my mind. It's like I finally understand Adam's role in the rest of my mortal life. I finally get why he is needed in the spirit world and why I'm needed here, even though we are tangibly away from each other. We both have lives that have different--yet at the same time, SAME purposes. And because I feel with such clarity that it makes sense and yet I can't verbalize why it makes sense in my heart, it confirms the truthfulness of this for me.
When Justin was running in his last meet, I started bawling watching him run and I had such a profound feeling of longing for Adam to be right by my side where he rightfully belongs, watching and supporting his oldest son. I know that when I experience these feelings, part of the reason I feel such intense longing is that I get stubborn and not humble and I put my desire to have him with me over the Lord's will and purpose for Adam right now. Because when I can be completely vulnerable, I know that it was His perfect timing that took Adam when he needed to go. That there is no explaining otherwise. But when I watched Justin run that day, I instantly felt comforted that he was right there watching and encouraging Justin. I didn't say anything to the little boys about this experience, and they did not see my tears while they played with sticks and I watched Justin on his course. I found it fascinating (and reassuring) when, on the walk to get Justin, Carson said to me, "Mom, I hope Dad watched Justin run." It confirmed what I felt--and what I know this little 4 year old felt too. After we got Justin back to the car to go home and I told him of my experience, he said, "Mom, that's interesting because while we were racing, I felt like someone was right behind me so I kept turning around during the run. The guy that was behind me, but not in the spot where it felt like someone was running behind me, he finally said to me, "What in the world are you looking at?!" and I explained that I thought someone was behind me, that it kept feeling like someone was there. I'm positive that it was Dad. I know he is with me sometimes."
I think hard hearted, frustrated me is finally starting to soften and make some sense out of life. I'm starting to understand more about the role our loved ones who have passed away can have in our lives. That it isn't a bunch of baloney, and that it isn't some sort of witch craft. It is a simple peace that can't be verbalized or explained--only understood by those who have had the experience. A quote from Helen Keller explains it: "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart."
And this song from David Archuleta has been ringing true in my heart since I heard it. The first time I heard it I wasn't really listening to the words and their meaning. I found some amazing double meanings and peace in this song.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Awakening
It's been months since I've formulated phraseology of substance for this blog. I've written a bit, but I have felt the past few months that nothing I could do could quite summarize how I've felt as of late. I'm going to attempt it.
I've had some swings. Some very high highs and some very low lows. It has been some of my worst moments and some of my best. I don't think I can describe it any other way. But this I CAN say: I feel like I'm finally coming out of deep hibernation. Like I'm cracking my protective eggshell. It's like the pieces are starting to come together--or fall off, as it may. I don't have it ALL figured out. I mean, I haven't figured out if I really can tackle going back to school so that I can afford to provide for us financially long-term. I haven't figured out how to keep up on all of my tasks at hand. But I have felt an awakening, nonetheless.
In January, I became reacquainted with an old friend from high school. His friendship helped me learn so much about myself in a short amount of time. He made me feel alive again. I remembered what it was like to have a good guy friend to talk to and who genuinely cared about my well being. It was nice to have a good male friend again. He was the first on this path of awakening. Because truly, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Changing up that path of circular reasoning did wonders for my thinking. Then, I made a last minute trip to California. I have wanted for years to have some time to myself, some time to retrace my steps and not to have to worry about seeing anyone or doing anything other than what I needed. Somewhat by accident, I was able to do that. I was able drive through Morro Bay where Adam and I got engaged. To drive through Cambria and San Simeon where we spent our honeymoon. Go to Pismo Beach and wander around. To walk the Avila pier at night and enjoy an amazing full moon. I was able to do all of this--and NOT have grief trigger moments. Any widow and widower knows what a big deal this is. Life is full of triggers. I experience them daily. But to be in such a place in time where these moments and memories have always been so raw, yet so sacred--it was a major breakthrough for me. It helped me realize that there isn't just "one path" that I have to take--there are limitless possibilities. And that I don't have to keep sitting around waiting for these possibilities to appear. I have lived in fear so long, so untrusting of others, so untrusting of myself. I can't really put into words how that fresh beach air, the sunshine, and being able to talk to people of my choosing made all the difference for those few days.
Before I left California that weekend, I was able to meet up with a widow friend. She was able to help me realize how much I have lived in fear. Fear of worrying about what Adam would want instead of realizing my own potential and to learn what I want. True, it has always been hard for me to narrow my focus since Adam died of "what exactly DO I want?" And I can't say that I have all the answers to that (like I wish I did). But I'm getting there. I finally FEEL it. And that feeling is helping me ACTUALLY BELIEVE it now.
I got back in touch with another friend from high school a couple weeks ago. It is interesting how I truly feel God has a way of sticking people in our lives at just the right moment. Sometimes we don't realize it (like the many people who rallied around us after Adam's death, and I wasn't even remotely conscious of who was there, yet I needed every single person who stood by us) but when we DO realize it and things start to click--it is amazing. This other friend who I have gotten reacquainted with reminded me--through his example--of some of the things that I have put on a shelf and had forgotten about. So I went back to Body Pump this past week. I got back on an elliptical machine. And I've been going jogging around the hills in my neighborhood. What? ME? Yes. It has been time to focus on me.
There is a fine line between being narcissistic and actually realizing that in order to take care of others, we have to be taking care of ourselves. I have been lost for so many years in caring for others that I'd lost ME. I had forgotten what it has felt like to take care of me--all of me.
Yesterday I had to help Spencer find family pictures of himself to print off for a school project. In so doing, I was thoroughly disturbed by how few pictures I was "ok with" of myself. There were only a handful. In my mind, nursing school and all that life entailed during Adam's last 2 years of med school were simply hellish. Yes, I brought on nursing school and agreed to that commitment all on my own. They were really hard years where Adam was doing some soul searching and so was I. I don't look back on that time as being all rosy. But I realized yesterday while looking at pictures that those times--at the end of nursing school and the year after--that I probably felt the best I did during our entire marriage. Which is interesting, since it really was a psycho time of running a million different directions. True, I wasn't balancing three kids at that time (only one), but I think my mental capacity felt…"right." I loved learning. I didn't thrive on grades like my colleagues, but it felt good to use my brain in a different way. I think of that time as truly being "me."
And so it is I'm determining now how to balance all that I've learned these past few short months. I was reminded by N how much better I felt when I could devote time in caring for my body. I've been reminded by L how good it was to use my brain in a different way. I've been reminded by J how nice it is to have a balance of spiritual experiences, and to be able to share those with another human. And in going to Ted E. Bear Hollow for the last 8 weeks for grief therapy with the boys, I've remembered how important it is to feel emotionally balanced as well.
It truly is about balancing ourselves mentally, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. When one of those things is out of alignment, we suffer. As mortal humans, we need all four areas. And to try to overcompensate in one area…it just doesn't work. It is true that we are spiritual beings having a physical experience on earth. But that doesn't mean we can take time to only nurture our spiritual nature. We have to nurture all four to be whole.
So I am taking steps to be sure those four are in alignment. It feels wonderfully freeing.
"And all saints who remember to keep and do these sayings, walking in obedience to the commandments, shall receive health in their navel and marrow to their bones; And shall find wisdom and great treasures of knowledge, even hidden treasures; And shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint." D&C 89:18-20
I've had some swings. Some very high highs and some very low lows. It has been some of my worst moments and some of my best. I don't think I can describe it any other way. But this I CAN say: I feel like I'm finally coming out of deep hibernation. Like I'm cracking my protective eggshell. It's like the pieces are starting to come together--or fall off, as it may. I don't have it ALL figured out. I mean, I haven't figured out if I really can tackle going back to school so that I can afford to provide for us financially long-term. I haven't figured out how to keep up on all of my tasks at hand. But I have felt an awakening, nonetheless.
In January, I became reacquainted with an old friend from high school. His friendship helped me learn so much about myself in a short amount of time. He made me feel alive again. I remembered what it was like to have a good guy friend to talk to and who genuinely cared about my well being. It was nice to have a good male friend again. He was the first on this path of awakening. Because truly, the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Changing up that path of circular reasoning did wonders for my thinking. Then, I made a last minute trip to California. I have wanted for years to have some time to myself, some time to retrace my steps and not to have to worry about seeing anyone or doing anything other than what I needed. Somewhat by accident, I was able to do that. I was able drive through Morro Bay where Adam and I got engaged. To drive through Cambria and San Simeon where we spent our honeymoon. Go to Pismo Beach and wander around. To walk the Avila pier at night and enjoy an amazing full moon. I was able to do all of this--and NOT have grief trigger moments. Any widow and widower knows what a big deal this is. Life is full of triggers. I experience them daily. But to be in such a place in time where these moments and memories have always been so raw, yet so sacred--it was a major breakthrough for me. It helped me realize that there isn't just "one path" that I have to take--there are limitless possibilities. And that I don't have to keep sitting around waiting for these possibilities to appear. I have lived in fear so long, so untrusting of others, so untrusting of myself. I can't really put into words how that fresh beach air, the sunshine, and being able to talk to people of my choosing made all the difference for those few days.
Before I left California that weekend, I was able to meet up with a widow friend. She was able to help me realize how much I have lived in fear. Fear of worrying about what Adam would want instead of realizing my own potential and to learn what I want. True, it has always been hard for me to narrow my focus since Adam died of "what exactly DO I want?" And I can't say that I have all the answers to that (like I wish I did). But I'm getting there. I finally FEEL it. And that feeling is helping me ACTUALLY BELIEVE it now.
I got back in touch with another friend from high school a couple weeks ago. It is interesting how I truly feel God has a way of sticking people in our lives at just the right moment. Sometimes we don't realize it (like the many people who rallied around us after Adam's death, and I wasn't even remotely conscious of who was there, yet I needed every single person who stood by us) but when we DO realize it and things start to click--it is amazing. This other friend who I have gotten reacquainted with reminded me--through his example--of some of the things that I have put on a shelf and had forgotten about. So I went back to Body Pump this past week. I got back on an elliptical machine. And I've been going jogging around the hills in my neighborhood. What? ME? Yes. It has been time to focus on me.
There is a fine line between being narcissistic and actually realizing that in order to take care of others, we have to be taking care of ourselves. I have been lost for so many years in caring for others that I'd lost ME. I had forgotten what it has felt like to take care of me--all of me.
Yesterday I had to help Spencer find family pictures of himself to print off for a school project. In so doing, I was thoroughly disturbed by how few pictures I was "ok with" of myself. There were only a handful. In my mind, nursing school and all that life entailed during Adam's last 2 years of med school were simply hellish. Yes, I brought on nursing school and agreed to that commitment all on my own. They were really hard years where Adam was doing some soul searching and so was I. I don't look back on that time as being all rosy. But I realized yesterday while looking at pictures that those times--at the end of nursing school and the year after--that I probably felt the best I did during our entire marriage. Which is interesting, since it really was a psycho time of running a million different directions. True, I wasn't balancing three kids at that time (only one), but I think my mental capacity felt…"right." I loved learning. I didn't thrive on grades like my colleagues, but it felt good to use my brain in a different way. I think of that time as truly being "me."
And so it is I'm determining now how to balance all that I've learned these past few short months. I was reminded by N how much better I felt when I could devote time in caring for my body. I've been reminded by L how good it was to use my brain in a different way. I've been reminded by J how nice it is to have a balance of spiritual experiences, and to be able to share those with another human. And in going to Ted E. Bear Hollow for the last 8 weeks for grief therapy with the boys, I've remembered how important it is to feel emotionally balanced as well.
It truly is about balancing ourselves mentally, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. When one of those things is out of alignment, we suffer. As mortal humans, we need all four areas. And to try to overcompensate in one area…it just doesn't work. It is true that we are spiritual beings having a physical experience on earth. But that doesn't mean we can take time to only nurture our spiritual nature. We have to nurture all four to be whole.
So I am taking steps to be sure those four are in alignment. It feels wonderfully freeing.
"And all saints who remember to keep and do these sayings, walking in obedience to the commandments, shall receive health in their navel and marrow to their bones; And shall find wisdom and great treasures of knowledge, even hidden treasures; And shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint." D&C 89:18-20
Friday, November 15, 2013
Praying
Tonight a sweet widow is clinging to her life, in the ICU due to a diagnosis of septic shock. I feel such a strange mix of emotions about this dear woman.
She is a very good friend of my mom's. When Adam died, she sent me notes. She had been widowed not too many years before me. She knew how I felt. Only a widow can get this kind of grief, understand the longing for the love of that spouse that is lacking, and long for his presence. She knew. She knew what it felt like to simply want to be swept up and be gone. Not suicidal. But just gone, reunited with an eternal mate. We both knew.
The first Christmas after Adam died, she came to my parents' house and dropped off bucket after bucket of toys. Cool boy toys. Toys that her grandsons no longer used. She wanted my boys to be ok. And she wanted me to be ok.
Tonight I want her to be ok. To her family, I'm sure this is too soon for her to go "home." To her friends, she needs to be around longer, to be the light that she shines, to continue to share her musical talents, to be the woman of laughter and fun that she is, the spiritual giant.
It is a strange feeling to pray for her and want her to be better, yet have a deeper understanding of how she longed to be with her sweetheart too. This knowledge makes my prayers difficult.
I simply pray that the Lord's will WILL be. That His love will soften the hearts of the many who she has touched. And most importantly that her children will be strengthened. For everyone needs a mom. And a dad. And I'm sure they don't want to be without both so soon.
She is a very good friend of my mom's. When Adam died, she sent me notes. She had been widowed not too many years before me. She knew how I felt. Only a widow can get this kind of grief, understand the longing for the love of that spouse that is lacking, and long for his presence. She knew. She knew what it felt like to simply want to be swept up and be gone. Not suicidal. But just gone, reunited with an eternal mate. We both knew.
The first Christmas after Adam died, she came to my parents' house and dropped off bucket after bucket of toys. Cool boy toys. Toys that her grandsons no longer used. She wanted my boys to be ok. And she wanted me to be ok.
Tonight I want her to be ok. To her family, I'm sure this is too soon for her to go "home." To her friends, she needs to be around longer, to be the light that she shines, to continue to share her musical talents, to be the woman of laughter and fun that she is, the spiritual giant.
It is a strange feeling to pray for her and want her to be better, yet have a deeper understanding of how she longed to be with her sweetheart too. This knowledge makes my prayers difficult.
I simply pray that the Lord's will WILL be. That His love will soften the hearts of the many who she has touched. And most importantly that her children will be strengthened. For everyone needs a mom. And a dad. And I'm sure they don't want to be without both so soon.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Fall Harvest
Tonight I went on an outing. I went to attend a singles activity with church friends. A bonfire and hayride, to be exact. What I wasn't expecting was some amazing imagery along the way tonight.
We went to a farm almost an hour away from my home. I forget that while I'm in the city, the rural areas of Nebraska really aren't that far away. I saw the most breathtaking sunset on my drive down there. I had some quiet time to think and to ponder. As I drove south on Highway 50, I noticed some things. First, the corn. As it is dead and being cleared for the season, most cornfields are in the process of being clear cut--harvested. As I gazed at one particular field, I noticed that these tan-colored corn stalks were all permanently wind blow toward the east. They had been acted upon by nature's flow, the way the wind blows--and from west to east as all storms come in this part of Nebraska. Considering a stalk of corn starts out from seedlings in the spring, to an 8 ft stalk that is only a couple of inches thick in diameter, corn is something with which I'm always fascinated. I mean, if you understood how the wind blows and how these giant stalks still stand tall. Yet the tops end up having a definite direction with which they've been blown. Like they've been acted upon and have no other choice but to be moved a bit.
I kept on driving. I saw a sign for the Sarpy County impound lot. To this day, I'm not completely positive that this is where Adam's car went after the crash. But I'm pretty sure it did while insurance and things were settled and the criminal investigation was completed. As I passed this sign, I wondered if this is where it went. And then I saw the name of the road. Fairview.
I don't whine or murmur or whatever term one wants to use for my complaints. I mean, I DO...but I don't complain like I once did. Things feel different now. But I found the name of this street fascinating. I drove on rolling hills. Some of my most favorite places on the planet where there are farms and beautiful farm homes that dot the horizon, corn, grain bins, and combines. I love this drive. If one stays in the city and never stops to take a drive and realize what else exists, the view that one sees is not fair. It can be downright ugly. But atop these hills, perspective changes. It isn't only fair. It is right and it is just. It is exactly what I feel about my life. This is where I'm supposed to be right now, doing exactly what I'm doing, in the right space in time, with Adam right where he is. It is a fair view.
Then I saw a sign for the town of Manley. While not spelled "Manly," I just thought this was funny.
It was cold out. And windy (of course). We went for a long hayride. Away from the city lights, it reminded me of the many times, with and without Adam, that I have gazed into the sky and been amazed by the stars and their beauty. When one is in the darkest of dark outside with nothing to cling to, it is interesting how bright the stars feel. We sometimes need to feel even the smallest of spiritual rebirth when things are the darkest we can imagine.
On the ride home, I noticed something I'd never seen before. I have only seen a combine harvester during the daytime at work, cutting down the tall corn stalks. It never occured to me that they could work at night, in the dark, with just the small headlights on the combine. That somehow, those lights would be enough. I never thought it was possible to work at night in a field.
I never thought I could do any of what I"m doing right now. I never thought I could mow a yard and tend to the outside of a home. But I am. I never thought I could raise children on my own. But I am. I never thought I could be a full-time, working, solo mom. But I am. I never thought I could survive long-term without living close to family. But I am. It is all possible. Maybe not ideal. Maybe not something that I want to do. Maybe not something that I do cheerfully or gratefully. But it is possible.
Heavenly Father doesn't make us choose. We get to do something about our corn stalks after they've been blown one direction. He gives us a way to see the good in the world, and helps us realize that we don't always get a spot light to tell us what to do or how our life will proceed. But he gives us little bits of light to make it through. Lastly, he gives us a light in order to work through the night, to get through life with the most important things we need--he helps us get through all the stuff, all the changed plans, hopes, and dreams in order to continue through each day, reaping the harvest that we need so desperately to place before us. The harvest is upon us.
We went to a farm almost an hour away from my home. I forget that while I'm in the city, the rural areas of Nebraska really aren't that far away. I saw the most breathtaking sunset on my drive down there. I had some quiet time to think and to ponder. As I drove south on Highway 50, I noticed some things. First, the corn. As it is dead and being cleared for the season, most cornfields are in the process of being clear cut--harvested. As I gazed at one particular field, I noticed that these tan-colored corn stalks were all permanently wind blow toward the east. They had been acted upon by nature's flow, the way the wind blows--and from west to east as all storms come in this part of Nebraska. Considering a stalk of corn starts out from seedlings in the spring, to an 8 ft stalk that is only a couple of inches thick in diameter, corn is something with which I'm always fascinated. I mean, if you understood how the wind blows and how these giant stalks still stand tall. Yet the tops end up having a definite direction with which they've been blown. Like they've been acted upon and have no other choice but to be moved a bit.
I kept on driving. I saw a sign for the Sarpy County impound lot. To this day, I'm not completely positive that this is where Adam's car went after the crash. But I'm pretty sure it did while insurance and things were settled and the criminal investigation was completed. As I passed this sign, I wondered if this is where it went. And then I saw the name of the road. Fairview.
I don't whine or murmur or whatever term one wants to use for my complaints. I mean, I DO...but I don't complain like I once did. Things feel different now. But I found the name of this street fascinating. I drove on rolling hills. Some of my most favorite places on the planet where there are farms and beautiful farm homes that dot the horizon, corn, grain bins, and combines. I love this drive. If one stays in the city and never stops to take a drive and realize what else exists, the view that one sees is not fair. It can be downright ugly. But atop these hills, perspective changes. It isn't only fair. It is right and it is just. It is exactly what I feel about my life. This is where I'm supposed to be right now, doing exactly what I'm doing, in the right space in time, with Adam right where he is. It is a fair view.
Then I saw a sign for the town of Manley. While not spelled "Manly," I just thought this was funny.
It was cold out. And windy (of course). We went for a long hayride. Away from the city lights, it reminded me of the many times, with and without Adam, that I have gazed into the sky and been amazed by the stars and their beauty. When one is in the darkest of dark outside with nothing to cling to, it is interesting how bright the stars feel. We sometimes need to feel even the smallest of spiritual rebirth when things are the darkest we can imagine.
On the ride home, I noticed something I'd never seen before. I have only seen a combine harvester during the daytime at work, cutting down the tall corn stalks. It never occured to me that they could work at night, in the dark, with just the small headlights on the combine. That somehow, those lights would be enough. I never thought it was possible to work at night in a field.
I never thought I could do any of what I"m doing right now. I never thought I could mow a yard and tend to the outside of a home. But I am. I never thought I could raise children on my own. But I am. I never thought I could be a full-time, working, solo mom. But I am. I never thought I could survive long-term without living close to family. But I am. It is all possible. Maybe not ideal. Maybe not something that I want to do. Maybe not something that I do cheerfully or gratefully. But it is possible.
Heavenly Father doesn't make us choose. We get to do something about our corn stalks after they've been blown one direction. He gives us a way to see the good in the world, and helps us realize that we don't always get a spot light to tell us what to do or how our life will proceed. But he gives us little bits of light to make it through. Lastly, he gives us a light in order to work through the night, to get through life with the most important things we need--he helps us get through all the stuff, all the changed plans, hopes, and dreams in order to continue through each day, reaping the harvest that we need so desperately to place before us. The harvest is upon us.