Words and Music

Ever since I was a little girl, two of my great pleasures in life have been reading and music. Even as an adult, I always have a few books on my Kindle or by my bedside that I read a few chapters from daily, and there is always music on in my house and in my car, and I'm frequently singing along with it. 

Over the past few months, grief had stolen both of those pleasures. I couldn't focus my mind long enough to follow the plot of a book, so although I occasionally picked up something to read, I put it down in frustration after a few minutes. And music in any form was so deeply associated with my husband that I could hardly bear to listen to it, and I couldn't sing a note without tears running down my face. Church was especially difficult, as the lyrics of the hymns were so deeply meaningful to me, and often spoke of pain and joy, one of which felt so close and one so incredibly distant. It made his loss even harder to bear, not having those lifelong comforts. 

But I have finally reached a point where I am beginning to be able to enjoy both books and music again. I began by reading a short chapter while I waited to pick up my son after his trombone lesson, or my daughter after her play rehearsal. Or I would put some music on while I was in the shower, so I could hear it, but distantly, or I would play some generic background music when guests came over. And as time has gone on, I've progressed to once again reading several chapters before bed - and, let's be honest, when I wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep - and turning on some music while I'm making dinner. I can even make it through the hymns at church without crying (most of the time).

One of the hardest parts of losing a spouse is that you lose the most crucial part of the system that supported and comforted you in difficult times. When I lost my mom, my husband was by my side to help me through it. When my brother-in-law died, I was by my husband's side to help him through it. But who do you turn to when the love of your life, your best friend, your confidante, your cheerleader, the one you always turned to, is the one you've lost? And when the things you used to do for comfort no longer comfort you, where do you turn?   

I am grateful for my faith in God, because there were times when I couldn't face even family and dear friends, and all I had to turn to was my faith. Psalm 34:18 says, "The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit," and I felt how true that was. Perhaps God chose to strip away all the human and earthly comforts I was used to in order to get me to focus on the only support I truly need, God Himself. And He has carried me through this darkest time of my life. 

I guess I must have shown that I do trust Him, and now I'm ready to embrace other comforts, and other pleasures. Like words, and music. I'm glad they're back. 

 

Celebrating Light

Today is the Hindu Festival of Diwali. I had never heard of Diwali until I moved to my current town, which has a large Indian population. So large that our school system has the day off for Diwali. So large, in fact, that there are multiple public celebrations of the holiday, including sometimes in the park across the street from where I live. 

If you're unfamiliar with the holiday, it is also called the Festival of Lights, and it is a multi-day celebration of the "victory of good over evil." Traditional celebrations include prayer, feasting, partying, music, family gatherings, fireworks, and lighting rows of clay lamps in homes and places of worship. According to the Hindu American Foundation, "The light from these lamps symbolizes the illumination within all of us, which can overcome ignorance, represented by darkness." The lights are necessary to welcome the goddess Lakshmi, who represents agriculture and abundance, into homes and temples, as Lakshmi cannot enter a dark space. Diwali is the beginning of the new year in the Hindu calendar, so it also represents a new beginning, starting fresh with a clean slate.

I love this symbolism. I am not Hindu, but since my community welcomes everyone to share in this joyous celebration, I am choosing to celebrate light and a new beginning alongside my neighbors. The past four months have been a time of darkness for me and my family. The struggle has gotten easier, but it is still a struggle. We all need to find ways to bring light into our lives again. Family, friends, music, good food, and light are all things that can lift our spirits and bring comfort to our souls. Yesterday was spent with cousins and siblings, and good food; today will be spent with friends and more good food, and prayer. And I will make sure there is plenty of physical light around, reminding us that we need to find our metaphorical light to continue to drive out the darkness and welcome in a new beginning in our lives where joy can return. 

We will celebrate the light. 

Bittersweet Endings

Yesterday, I went to see the final Downton Abbey movie. It was very bittersweet for me, not only because it was the end of a series I had thoroughly enjoyed, and the end of an interesting decades-long saga for the characters, but because it was the end of a journey I had begun with my husband and ended alone. 

My husband and I were surprisingly late to jump on the Downton Abbey train. I'm not sure why, but it took until his sister recommended it to him at the end of Season 1, and after watching the pilot episode, he announced excitedly that he knew I would love it (for the clothes, if nothing else), so we went back and watched the pilot together. And I was immediately hooked. 

The two of us didn't always have the same taste in shows and movies, although we loved finding things we could watch together. Most of the time, one of us loved a show and the other liked or at least tolerated it. 24, for example, was one of his favorites, and I thought it was just okay, but it was fun to watch together. The Great British Baking Show, on the other hand, was one that I loved and he thought was okay, but again, it was fun to watch together. Whenever we decided to watch a show together, each of us refrained from jumping ahead, waiting to watch an episode until we could do it together. Fortunately, we both loved Downton Abbey so much that we both eagerly watched each episode as soon as it was available. And when the series ended and the films were released, we went to see them together as soon as possible. Which meant that this final film was the only part of the series that I watched without him. 

It felt wrong. 

It didn't help that I went to a Tuesday matinee showing, which meant that the theater was nearly empty. I was as physically alone as I was emotionally alone. I was aware of every moment I would have leaned over and whispered a comment in his ear. I was very aware of every moment I would have put my hand on his knee. Near the end of the film, there is a lovely, tender moment between Lord and Lady Grantham where he tells her he loves her, and they reach for each other's hands, when I involuntarily lifted my hand to take his. But it wasn't there. He wasn't there. It was a moment of profound loneliness. 

And yet, it was also a moment of profound love, and of thankfulness that I had had the privilege of sharing so many years with someone who was touched by the moments that touched me, who actively sought out shared experiences, who was willing to spend time doing things he didn't love because I loved them. I saw some of us in every one of the beautiful love stories portrayed on the screen. 

I saw his loving tolerance of my awkwardness in Baxter's sweet smiles at Molesley. I saw his appreciation for my nudging him out of his occasional pigheadedness in Cora's standing her ground with Robert. I saw our romantic connection in Mary's memory of dancing with Matthew. I saw the sweetness of finding love at an older age in the relationships between Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes and between Mr. Mason and Mrs. Padmore. I remembered our early infatuation in the young love stage of Andy and Daisy. I thought of how I blossomed and developed confidence through our relationship as Edith stood up for opinions while Bertie stood back and watched with pride and affection. I thought of our hosting parties together as Cora managed things behind the scenes and Robert made a charming speech to their guests. 

And I saw myself in Mary, as she looked back at but memories of her past, recalling all the joyful moments she had spent in that house. And then the memories faded away, and she was left alone, facing the daunting task of managing Downton by herself. 

It was a bittersweet mix of happy memories and the pangs of loss. It was the ending of something we had begun together, but also the beginning of my learning to do things without him. I would rather have watched the movie with him, but I was still able to enjoy it alone. There are many things that I would rather be doing with him, but I am learning that I am able to do them alone. 

It's a bittersweet ending, but it's also a new beginning. Like the Downton characters, I can't see exactly where my future will lead, but I have confidence that things will somehow work out. I can look back and see all that I've overcome, and know that I can face whatever comes next. 

Even if I'm facing it alone.   

When It's Time to Change, Then It's Time to Change

I've always heard that when you go through a loss, such as the death of a spouse or other family member, it's a good idea to avoid making major decisions for quite some time, as long as a year or so. And for major decisions, I think that's wise. I'm not about to sell my house, or get a full-time job, or move to a different state, or buy a Ferrari, or start home-schooling my kids. But small changes can be therapeutic. They can help ease the transition from then to now. 

Which is why I've decided to make a few changes. Minor changes, to be sure; things like putting the inflatable Halloween tree in front of the house instead of in the back yard. 

I changed a number of our fall decorations in a small way: I put one of our lighted foam jack-o-lanterns on the porch instead of in the office window. I put the stuffed witch and skeleton that usually sit on the piano on either side of the antique Singer sewing machine instead (our cats often supervise family dinners from that location, so they are not fond of this change). I hung the scarecrow wreath in the kitchen instead of on the basement door. 

I got rid of some of our paid assistants, like our housecleaners and our lawn care crew. I am capable of cleaning the house and mowing the lawn with some help from the kids. Neither result is quite up to the same standard as when the professionals were in charge, but the work gets done. And if there are fingerprints on the refrigerator door, or the occasional dust kitty in a corner that the Roomba doesn't reach, or trails of lawn clippings across the yard, I'm okay with that. It's a change I can live with. 

I've changed my morning routine. I used to wake up around the same time as the kids and enjoy a cup of coffee in bed, not getting up until they were off to school. But I find I enjoy the peace and quiet of early morning as a preparation for the day, so now I get up before or right around sunrise and enjoy my coffee and morning crosswords as the sun is rising, so by the time the kids get on the bus I'm ready to start my day. 

I also decided to stop coloring my hair. I had dyed it red for a community theatre production I was in shortly before I met my husband (my online tagline was "Maryann disguised as Ginger" which tickled him to no end), and he was quite fond of the red (as was I), so I kept it up. But these days, dying my hair costs money and time that I'd rather spend elsewhere, and I'm curious as to how much gray is under there after nearly 20 years of Miss Clairol. So my last dye job was a couple of months ago, and I intend to shorten my cut periodically as my grey roots get longer. 

The awkwardness of the transition seems appropriate for the awkwardness of my current life transition. 

See? Awkward.

After all, the earlier state of both my life and my hair was something healthy that I liked and wanted to stick with, and the final state of both my life and my hair will be something healthy that I will like and want to stick with. But the middle ground, that awkward stage of "neither fish nor fowl" will likely be, well, awkward. It has been - and will continue to be - ugly, at times. It will look to others like I don't know what I'm doing (they're not wrong), or that I'm making terrible choices, or that I'm not taking care of myself they way they think I should. But I have a goal in mind, and I have a plan of how to get there. It's not a smooth road. I'll probably stumble and get lost along the way. There's a good chance I'll wish I had made different choices now and then. But I'll see it through. I'll endure the awkwardness for the sake of the final result. And if I get to that end result, and decide eventually that I didn't make the right choice? Well, the nice thing about both life and hair is that you can always change your mind. You may not be able to undo what was done, but you can always move forward. You just have to continue growing. 

The Stage of Mixed Feelings

The process of grief is an emotional roller coaster. You experience sorrow, fear, anger, guilt, relief, denial, numbness, frustration, anxiety, often in rapid succession. And sometimes you feel multiple feelings at the same time. I have reached a stage of constant mixed feelings. 

I am approaching four months since my husband passed away, and I feel like to some degree my emotions have begun to stabilize. The grief is still there, a constant undercurrent, but it is less raw. I have learned to manage it, to push it aside when I need to deal with practical issues, and to let it loose at an appropriate moment when I need a release. But what is still hard to manage are the constantly conflicting feelings. 

I think this is part of the "guilt" portion of the Kubler-Ross stages of grief. I am starting to learn to live life without him, and I feel like I shouldn't be able to do that. But at the same time, I am struggling to learn to live life without him, and I feel like I should be able to do that. I rejoice at my independence but I feel guilty about my independence. It's a conflict between knowing in my head that it's okay to be okay while at the same time feeling in my heart that I should never be able to be okay again. It's confusing, it's frustrating, and it's exhausting. 

Any time I think about changing anything about our lives or making a decision he might not have made, whether it's cutting my hair or decorating the house differently for the holidays or taking a trip or letting my daughter dye her hair or letting my son go to a rap concert, I feel like I'm betraying him in a way. Should I be respecting his opinion even if he isn't here to express it? Do I have a responsibility to honor his wishes even after his death? Or does taking on the role of father as well as mother give me permission to make decisions for our household completely on my own, without trying to guess what he would have done? The emotional weight of every decision, large or small, is intensified a hundredfold.

But the bottom line is that he's not here, and I am. I'm the one making the decisions, I'm the one running the show, whether I want to or not. And all I can do is the best I can. I make my choices based on what I know and how I feel. I listen to my heart as well as my head. I look to those around me for guidance and reassurance. And I pray. A LOT. 

I sometimes ask myself what he would say if he were here. I imagine how the conversation would have gone if we were discussing it together. After all, we had hundreds, probably thousands of discussions about family-related decisions over the course of our marriage. I don't always know exactly what he would have thought or said, but I do know that in the end, he would always have supported me. He was, after all, as he frequently reminded me, my Fan Club President. 

And I know he still is. 

What If I Had Known?

This morning, my Facebook Memories brought up a photograph of my husband and my son going to their first Cub Scout meeting, eight years ago today. 

As I thought back over their eight years together in Cub Scouts and then in BSA Scouting, I wondered: If I had known then that we only had eight more years together, what would I have done differently?

Would I have told him, "I love you" more often? Not really; I did that a lot. In fact, I'm pretty sure the last words I ever said to him were, "I love you!" (He knew.)

Would I have tried to schedule more trips and family adventures? I'd say we did pretty well on that score, too: we did educational trips, horizon-broadening trips, exciting trips, fun trips, cultural trips, international trips. 

Would I have taken more family photos, both formal and informal? I'm pretty sure we had that one more well-covered than most families. 

Would I have wanted him to be more involved with and supportive of our children's activities and lives? Nope, that one was definitely covered, and then some. 

Would I have encouraged us to form more family traditions that we could look back on? I'm not sure what more we could have done. 

We spent plenty of time with family, with friends (ours and theirs), with our community. 

Honestly, we lived life to the fullest. We had everything but time. But I don't regret a single thing that we fit into the time we had, and I don't regret a single thing that we left out. We lived. We loved. We celebrated. We made memories. 

It could never be enough, but it's enough. 

Therapy Walk

When my children were small, we had a tradition of going for a walk at the beginning of every season and looking for signs of the new season. In the spring, we'd look for crocuses, buds on trees, Easter decorations, and baby birds. In the winter, we'd look for frost on leaves, snow shovels next to doors, people wearing mittens and scarves, squirrels with extra-bushy tails, and Christmas decorations. In the summer, we'd look for baby bunnies, vegetable gardens, open swimming pools, and beach toys. And in the fall, we'd look for changing leaves, dormant gardens, Halloween and Thanksgiving decorations, and school buses. When they got old enough to use a simple camera, I'd have them take pictures of what they saw. 

I hadn't planned on taking a "seasonal walk" this morning, especially when I got up to dreary skies and light rain, but once the kids were off to school and I had gotten myself ready to face the day, I had the urge to go for a walk. Since I live directly across the street from a beautiful park and bike trail, I simply grabbed my phone and walked out the door. As I headed down my front walkway, I noticed how pretty the raindrops were on the purple asters I had just bought for the planters, and I thought of those photo walks we used to take. So I took out my phone and began to look for not just signs of the season, but for the beauty of even a dreary early fall day. 

It became a kind of therapy as I actively searched for the beauty in the darkness around me. It felt symbolic of my life right now. Things are still dreary, but I am beginning to be able to look beyond the rain and see the beauty that is still all around me. 

Walk with me, and enjoy the beauty.