I'm on Fire

Whenever someone asks how I'm doing lately, I think of the line from Evita, where Eva Peron, who is dying of cancer, states, "Some days are fine, some a little bit harder." That is the understatement of understatements. No days are truly fine, and "a little bit harder" means "nearly impossible to survive." Even now, nearly five months after my husband's death, some days are manageable, if not exactly fine, and some days are merely blind groping through the necessities of life and no more.

But I have learned to forgive myself for the bad days, and to take advantage of the good days. So when I have a good day, I try to do everything that I can possibly find the motivation to do, to check off as many items on my "to do" list as I can. When I have a good day, I'm on fire. 

Sometimes that looks like scrubbing the bathrooms and doing several loads of laundry. Sometimes that looks like making a bunch of phone calls and writing a bunch of emails and filling out a bunch of forms. Sometimes that looks like decorating the house for the holidays. Sometimes that looks like mowing the lawn and raking the driveway. Sometimes that looks like cooking and baking up a storm. Sometimes that looks like picking a corner of the house and organizing it. And, just as importantly, sometimes that looks like curling up by the fireplace with a book and a cup of coffee followed by a soak in the hot tub, followed by a few hours listening to podcasts and doing crossword puzzles, and ending with curling up by the fireplace with a book and a glass of wine. Self care is hard on a bad day, but it's important enough to make sure it happens on a good day. 

Sometimes I feel like I'm continually dropping the ball, like I should have done more of the practical things by now, that I'm behind some imaginary deadline. But every time I start to feel that way, someone comments on how well I'm doing, or how much I'm doing, or expresses admiration for everything I've done so far, and I am reminded that I am my own worst critic. I see myself as a dumpster fire, but those around me - those with clearer eyes and a less biased perspective - see me as "on fire."

Maybe I am a dumpster fire on my bad days, but maybe that's not a bad thing. There's certainly plenty of things in my life right now that could use a cleansing fire. Maybe the bad days are there to purge my emotional dumpster. But they leave just enough fuel that on the good days, I'm still on fire. 

 

The Kindness of Strangers

My kids are now old enough to want to design their own Halloween costumes, rather than doing a themed group costume with the family. So although I wore a simple red-and-white striped shirt and red-and-white pom-pom beanie for my "Where's Waldo" themed Trunk or Treat display, I didn't bother to wear a costume on Halloween itself. But I think I missed an excellent opportunity to dress up as Blanche DuBois from A Streetcar Named Desire. 

Why that character in particular? Because I identify with many parts of her story. She was widowed young, resulting in a loss of income that terrifies her. Although she is clearly intelligent, she is sheltered and inexperienced in many ways, and lacks confidence in herself and her ability to navigate life on her own. She is worried about her future, and admits, in her own words, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

Obviously, there are a lot of aspects of her character that I don't identify with. I'm not frantically searching for a new husband to look after me, I'm not an alcoholic, I'm not concerned about losing my looks, I'm not a social outcast, and I'm reasonably certain that I won't end up institutionalized. But I, like Blanche, am very much dependent on the kindness of strangers at the moment. 

I'm dependent on the kindness of friends and family, too, of course. I could not have survived the past few months without the support of those closest to me. But I have been surprised, and moved, by the kindness also shown to me by strangers. 

The many local businesses who do work around my house and yard, for example, have been flexible and kind in scheduling appointments and explaining to me what they're doing so I can do it myself in the future, going above and beyond the expected services. Several of the invoices I received clearly reflect a very basic service, when in fact they provided much more. One invoice from a local vendor even listed, "Cost of services: $X. Amount due: $0." Sometimes it isn't even people who know my current situation. I replaced my son's cell phone the other day, and when I thanked the technician for setting up the phone, commenting, "It was worth every penny of the service fee!", he paused and said, "I think I can refund that fee for you." And he did. It was an unexpected kindness, and it made a difference in my day. 

Sometimes the strangers are acquaintances rather than tradespeople or vendors. Various organizations that my kids participate in have covered or discounted fees and offered transportation assistance. Volunteer positions I held but couldn't quite manage for a while were quietly covered by others stepping in, frequently by people I didn't know or at least didn't know well. I have a stack of books on grief and loss on my bedside table sent or recommended by friends of friends who have experienced a similar loss. I received letters of condolence from friends of my husband that I had never met, and from my own high school and college friends and acquaintances with whom I had long ago lost touch. But they felt the need to reach out to me and offer me kindness. 

Kindness makes a difference. And after a loss, kindness is all the sweeter.

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

-Excerpted from the poem "Kindness," by Naomi Shihab Nye (full poem here)