My Arbitrary Christmas Tree...

Every Christmas, since Bob died—this coming will make number three—I am absolutely certain I won't be "into" Christmas this year, that I'll quietly go into hibernation and  let it pass without fanfare. And each year, at the most random time, I'll get hit—make that blindsided—by the damn Christmas Spirit, and eventually have to succumb to the overwhelming desire to have to go out, now and get a tree, or pass out from the sheer anxiety of not doing it, which then sets this whole blessed mess into motion.

This year's random blindside moment couldn't have been more timely—it happened just before the Arctic freeze settled into Minnesota for a long winter's nap. There I was, sitting at my desk, snuggled into a blanket, minding my own business while working on a major assignment due this week, when out of nowhere, BAM! I absolutely had to stop typing and go out and get a tree—now, dammit! The past two Christmases, I've gone to Kruger's Christmas Trees in Lake Elmo and have been drawn to short, stout, adorable (read: easily handled by short, stout, adorable redhead) Fraser firs, but this year, with Thanksgiving so late and the cold settling in too soon, I found myself dreading this little tradition that I'd started a few years ago, and even started eyeballing my pathetic Boston fern, shedding dried out, crusty leaves in the corner of my dining room, as a possible Christmas tree understudy. I am still purging, downsizing, reorganizing, reinventing my life here in St. Paul, and the though of trying to fit a damn Christmas tree into this already crammed-full apartment sent me into mini-panic attacks. . .

But there I was, working on this paper—maybe writer's block had something to do with it. Or undiagnosed, unmedicated ADD—when suddenly, I had to get a tree. NOW!!! It was dark, the temps were plummeting, winds threatening to pick up—if I didn't go right away, who knows when, if ever, I'd have the guts to head out. Without changing out of the pajamas I'd been in since the night before (I know, right? uggg! It's finals week, peeps!), I grabbed my coat, purse, keys, jumped into the Jeep and headed down to my local Ace Hardware on Dale and Grand, where I had seen trees stacked in front of the building a few days prior.

Lemme tell you one thing: Ace Hardware ain't Kruger's. Not by a long shot. If you're looking for a beautiful, memorable Christmas tree experience, go to Krugers, frozen tundra or no. Even if you don't cut your own, Kruger's ambiance, setting, hot chocolate, friendly and knowledgeable staff and sustainability philosophies make the experience so worth it. It's a 4-generation, local business, you know that your tree is grown on site, and is replaced, recycled, renewed, year after year . . . cycle of life. . . the year Bob died, the son of the founder of Krueger's, 2nd generation, had just died, also from cancer, if I remember correctly . . . No offense to Ace, but all they have is a bunch of trees, bound up like Christmas hams, crammed in a lot staffed by a teenage kid who will say ummm, I don't know to any questions you ask, and when he hacks off a couple inches from the trunk, he will ask you if it looks okay . . . you're taking your chances, 'sall I'm saying, basing your choice on something greenish, tree-ish, hog-tied and suffocating for God knows how long. But, for thirty bucks and sub-zero temps and gale-force winds literally on the horizon, it didn't seem like a bad deal. I'll just wait to decorate until the tree thawed out and revealed its full glory or deformities, I thought. I am not above cramming this tree back into my Jeep and returning it, should it thaw out into an evergreen nightmare. All about principle, right?

Long story even longer, the tree thawed out just fine—it's far taller than any tree I've had in the past, but it's full and lusciously gin-smelling (or is it gin that smells like pine?), and before I could schedule an exorcism, I had all my Rubbermaid tubs dragged out from the basement and was decorating like an elf goofed up on eggnog.

I was going to stick with a simple theme for my tree this year, thinking I'd keep the decorating and effort to a minimum. I'd only hang ornaments that were predominantly white and/or silver.  I did a pretty good job with that, except that some decorations that were not predominantly silver and/or white made me feel wistful or happy or sad or nostalgic, or whatever, and before I knew it, I was making all kinds of exceptions, for red, purple and blue . . . and gold, green and a bit of yellow, too . . . for the owls, and then for the hideous 70's ornaments Bob's mom gave him as a kid . . . do arbitrary if you must—grief, life, love is arbitrary—but allow room for arbitrary exceptions to those arbitrary rules. . . exceptions to the rules are always good. . . I love my tree, love this season, love to you all . . .

The ~~~~***¡MIRACLE!***~~~~ of Facebook!

Okay, so I was going to devote an entire entry on the fabulousness that is Chicago (I may still get to that—anything to keep me from studying, being it is my last week of class at Hamline), but then realized that, in the midst of all our running around, sight-seeing, oooh-ing and aaaahhhh-ing and eating and drinking and being merry, the very highlight of my weekend there was meeting a woman whom I'd only "met" on Facebook, never in person, another lifetime ago when Bob was so critically ill. Don't misinterpret that—Chicago is an awesome city, FULL of things for everyone and everyone, but the final few hours of our stay, before we caught our flight home, will resonate with me for a long time to come

I don't believe I ever wrote about this on Bob's blog, and who knows why not—perhaps it was too personal, perhaps there were too many other things that took precedence, perhaps it was too hard to try to explain, even to myself . . . but when Bob was in the throes of his illness, I recieved a facebook message from a woman I did not know:


3/29/10  10:54 pm
you

Jennifer, I don't know who you are, I don't know your Bob, or your relationship to him...(but through a facebook link from Jill Hildebrandt, who I also don't know worth shit, but know a friend of hers on facebook and liked the picture of her as a baby, crying, and then friended her)...but I gotta tell you something. I read your blog from Sunday. And, alas, I love you...not just a little. I love you dearly. Like you are my sister. I am sending you that love, big time. I want you to know that. And I want you to get it that its possible for some loon from chicago to love you like crazy, even though she only knows you a little bit from your writing, and you don't need to feel one iota of love back...but just know that you are loved...and accept the energy that that brings you. You are in my heart and in my mind and your words on that blogged changed me. love, mary

3/30/10  10:57 pm
Mary,
 Last night, I couldn't sleep and turned my cell phone on to call my husband (that's Bob) in ICU. At 2:30 a.m. Like I did the night before. Just to check on him. Even though I knew he wouldn't be able to speak to me. Then I thought, "Hey, crazy lady, quit it. He can't talk anyhow, and the nurses won't tell you anything you don't already know . . ." So instead, I flipped my phone over to Facebook, to try to escape with some mindless fb stalking . . . and found your note. And just had to say, it surprised the hell out of me, and made my day (night)! Made me laugh, made me just lie in the darkness, in wonder. That someone who doesn't know me or my husband, at all, cares that much. I felt your love, and continue to feel it.
That crybaby you've friended is my sister, Jill. She posted the link to our blog on fbook the other night, to reach out to friends and family that may not have known about Bob's situation . . .his story is a long one; had childhood cancer, was "cured," but now the fallout of the radiation he was exposed to way back in the 70's has come back to haunt him: heart attack 3 years ago; secondary cancer that was diagnosed just before Christmas '09, then another massive heart attack while doing an inpatient stint of chemo this past weekend . . . the blog has turned into my outlet, my therapy, a way to process all the shit that's been dumped on him, a way to try and shovel out from under all of it. . . poor guy, I've turned his situation into a real life Truman Show . . .
I could go on and on (I sure do in that blog), but I'll spare you, and just let you know that I was simply, deeply touched by your message. Thank you for that. Love back to you, Jen


Throughout the course of Bob's illness, I'd receive emails from this Mary person who knew neither my husband nor I, yet loved us like someone who had known us all our lives . . . we continued our facebook friendship after Bob died, sending little messages now and then to each other. She's a total dog person—how can you not love a total dog person?! Even one you haven't met?! And finally, this Thanksgiving, we had the opportunity to meet in person.

The second we spotted each other at Starbucks, we began screaming and crying, "It's you! It's you!!" and hugging for dear life (because we recognized each other from our facebook photo albums, of course). We then proceeded to spent the next two hours blabbing, interrupting each other, changing the subject, catching up on lost time, like old friends do (how do you catch up on lost time with someone you've never met? Not sure, but we gave it our damnedest, and pretty certain we succeeded). Even Gretchen, who didn't have the facebook connecting with Mary, seemed to be drawn into the energy of our meeting . . . 

I am still moved, beyond words, to know this beautiful person was so moved by Bob's story,  and to finally have the opportunity to meet her. "It was like the most tragic love story I've ever read," Mary had said of the Sofa King blog. . . She shared with us the story of her brother who had colon cancer, and died . . .  I can't begin to do justice to their story, so I'll just have to say, "wait for the book." It is that amazing of a story. . . I so wish I had thought to tale a pic of the three of us—Mary, Gretchen and me—but we were too busy blabbing, we hardly took time to breathe, much less take pictures. . . Mary was so generous and gracious to drive us to O'Hare and drop us off curb-side—I know, peeps, I know!!!! Killers reside on Facebook and Craigslist and other online venues! The RISK! The DANGER! The HORROR! Guess what? We lived to tell the tale. . . and guess what else? There are many good people in the world. Guess what else? We are blessed with brains and guts and hearts that exist to help us make it through this world. And guess what else? In the grand scheme of things, in spite of brains and guts and hearts, everything is still out of our control. Odd conundrum, isn't it. . .

I have a love-hate relationship with Facebook; quite frankly, I would not be on it, had Bob not fallen ill. It became my only means of connection to the "outside" world, when we were trapped in the insidious world of cancer for nineteen months. I stay on it (though I do take a hiatus every year or so, when I get truly disgusted with the mindlessness that seems to hijack the site), because, like it or not, it is a main method of communication for many (though the kids are making their own exodus from Facebook, have you heard? I haven't even heard of most of these social media outlets, much less check them out.....uggggg....some days, I forget to brush my teeth—how can I keep up with this Indy-500-paced techno-world??!!) 

I am still continually astounded at the lack of filters of some, the attention-seeking behaviors, the "road rage" mentality, and/or simple lack of judgment often displayed on facebook. . . but it is part of our modern world, like it or not. Like anything else, I have to separate the good from the bad. And meeting Mary in person was one damn good thing. Almost a miracle, if one believed in such things.

That Dang Road to Hell . . . (can lead you to some interesting places . . .)

Yes, I had (and still have) the greatest of intentions of keeping this blog going, to update regularly, but I keep sputtering and stalling for various and sundry reasons. Main one, I'm quite sure, is that I simply despise writing under the "widow" title; try as I might, to embrace it, reclaim it, accept it, whatever it, I plain and simply hate it. Two and a half years out, the label is as uncomfortably ill-fitting, as scratchy and irritating as one of those plasticky-tags at the neckline of a cheap shirt, as it was the day Bob died. I despise the word and all it conjures, all that others assume, or fill in the blanks when they hear it—the pity, the patronizing, the pigeonholing, the stereotypes . . . I despise how I feel when I think about myself as a widow—the disbelief, the immense sadness that can weigh me down, the still-startling reality—and everything that is wrapped around that silly little word. It is what it is, as "they" say, and I get that—it is who I am now, so deal, right? Right. But I don't have to like it. That, and c'mon. Everyone has their shit. Why add to the pile with a blog that could easily go onandonandon about, well, anything and everything that this journey encompasses. As I said, everyone has their shit. So, until I come up with a better title for my blog, until I come up with a better word to describe this involuntary role, until I find a new focus, or figure out a better way to do all this, I'll keep "widow(w)rites", and keep sputtering and stalling and restarting. It's what I do best.

So, on to current events. Thanksgiving is just around the corner (okay, more like breathing down our necks). Folded into the continuing aftershocks of loss, I discover and rediscover tremendous things in my life to be thankful for. My most immediate and immense gratitude is for that of family—the perimeters of which run the deep and wide—my immediate family, Bob's family, our extended families, friends who are like family, andonandonandon . . . I have met many women on this journey who have lost husbands, partners, significant others, and heartrendingly, also lose a whole family in the process. Or lose connections with their own, immediate family, or end up with those relationships redefined, for the worse, for various and sundry reasons. Another tremendous loss, that upon first look, seems to be organic, though if one would examine the phenomenon deeper, we might find otherwise. . . the fallout of grief has reverberating effects that last a lifetime, the irony being, people have been dying since God was a kid, yet we're still so inept at handling it. I am tremendously, eternally thankful for my family . . .

Speaking of family, I'll be spending the upcoming Thanksgiving weekend with my adorable niece, Brittany, who lives in Chicago! Holidays are a strange time, but I am slowly embracing the concept of stepping out of old traditions and creating new—I say that as though Bob and I had any holiday traditions of our own, which we didn't. He was notorious for walking through the house as I was deep in the throes of decorating the tree, solo, all tangled up in Christmas lights (seriously, how much more sacrilegious can a person get than dropping f-bombs while decorating a Christmas tree?) and say, "Aren't you done with that yet?" before disappearing downstairs to his office. Being without kids, we were the hanger-on-ers, showing up to to the home of whomever was hosting the festivities, wine in tow, go figure. I guess the point is, we still got together, with both families. As a couple, a cohesive unit. I am grateful that I'm invited to be a part of whatever is going on, to both my family and Bob's family celebrations, but it's also slightly awkward for me. Just my own little issue, and no matter how many times someone tells me that I am not infringing on their time, it's still awkward. Holidays are strange for Brittany, too, I'd imagine. She's a hardworking young woman, our endearing free-spirit, but she often is without family on holidays. I know she has an endless web of friends whom she likely considers family, but must still be tough for her, too. When I learned that she wouldn't be able to get to Minnesota for Thanksgiving, I decided to go to her.

This time last year, Gretchen and I were kicking back on the lush, beautiful island of St. Maarten, in the Caribbean. I still have the time-share dealio that Bob and I bought into years ago—then, it was a wonderful impetus for us to travel; now, it's an unnecessary, unjustifiable expense. As I may have said before, ad nauseum, this whole reinventing thing is a damn full time job—it's taken over two years to downsize our belongings to the point where I can finally fit twenty years of a life into a house the size of a single day. All the other stuff—time shares, houses that are too big and too expensive, careers that need to be refashioned—has to be dealt with, one at a time, in time. Last year was the first time the time share had been used in over four years, even though I still pay yearly maintenance fees. As Gretchen and I feasted on fresh lobster instead of turkey last year, and zip-lined through the rain forest, and rode horseback into the ocean,  I thought, "Hey, why not do this every year—travel over the holidays?" And why not. We were in another world—no Black Fridays, no family dramas (we all have them, right?), no pressure. Just ocean-fresh, buttery lobster in an open air restaurant, surrounded by shimmering aqua water, in sundresses and frizzy hair (tropical climates are not conducive to any hair type, which makes it pretty dang easy to style—simply don't!). Why can't that be a tradition, as much as anything else?

This year, I didn't get my act together in time to do a tropical Thanksgiving (there is still time to plan something over Christmas/New Year's, if there is anything available at this late date), but Chicago is an adventure in its own right. We got a great deal on Travelocity—three nights in an adorable vintage-y boutique hotel, the Allegro, located in the theater district, just a few blocks from Michigan Avenue—the Magnificent Mile—and a few blocks from Chicago's own 80 year-running Thanksgiving Day Parade. Wicked is still playing at a nearby theater, an old friend of Bob's now lives in Chicago and will hopefully join us for a lovely dinner at a local restaurant. So it's not lobster on the beach, but it is something new. Yes, I will think about Bob the entire weekend, but I will also give thanks to the beautiful person he was, for all he bestowed upon me, and continues to bestow. . . and I hope to do at least a few updates on this blog, maybe share a few of our adventures while in the Windy City. . . stay tuned! And be thankful for family, in whatever form or definition that might mean to you. And take good care of that family, the best way you know how . . .
xxoo

Burnt Orange vs. Toasted Orange. . .

Ive been hittin' the Craigslist Jackpot this week, both in selling and purchasing. . . the downsizing and reinventing continues . . . funny (not really), how f'n long it takes, to make 2300 square feet of stuff fit into 1200 square feet . . . what I'm saying there, peeps, is that 2300 square feet of stuff does not fit into 1200 square feet of space, no matter how much one tries to stuff, rearrange, push, shove, no matter how much a geometry genius one fashions oneself, no matter how f'n creative one believes one to be . . . the process of whittling down is a full-time job, in and of itself, added to the whole big heap of everything else that has to be reinvented, redefined, regrouped, redone. I can see how most people choose not to deal with this part of death and dying. Holy hell. Stress on hell. . . 

But, in the midst, I have also created more breathing room this week, by eliminating more CRAP from my life, though I can't be so arrogant or presumptuous or certain as to say that this is the sole reason for the breathing room . . . this week, this is what went out the door: a lovely, stylish TV stand, two gargantuan shag rugs (that looked FABULOUS out at Wrenwood, but took up waaaay too much space in my St. Paul digs—and c'mon—a turn-of-the-century duplex maybe, maybe, has aesthetic (though barely physical) room for one shag rug, but four??!! Dear lord—cue the porn music now—bow-chica-bow-booooowwww . . .), a love seat that matches the sofa I still have, but seriously have no room for both, no matter how much or how many times I push, pull, angle, twist, turn, tweak, twerk (SORRY! gratuitous pop culture reference, just to prove I'm not completely and utterly homebound) and a dog ramp—that last one was a "lucky strike extra," as Penny might call it—we've had this dog ramp forever, way back when, when Gaia was beginning to show signs of not being able to jump into the Jeep any more—long before Bob's cancer survivor body turned traitor on him—I'm almost certain we bought it even before we moved out to Wrenwood, though you'll have to trust me on that (as with most things), as he's not here to refute or support. Gaia never got used to the ramp, even at her worst; back when Bob was healthy, we indulged her obstinance—both of us could hoist her in to the back of the Jeep whenever, wherever we were going, and all was well. At the end of her life, when it was me, by myself, I enlisted the aid of a neighbor to help hoiste her into the Jeep to get to the emergency vet during an ice storm, and into the depths of the garage the ramp went. Outta sight, outta mind, like so much stuff. Until I had to move.

Back at Wrenwood, we had a 3-stall garage and a basement that had tons of storage spaces, into which we kept cramming and cramming and cramming crap, not even knowing how much crap we were cramming into it, the house and garage were that cavernous. Until Bob died. Honestly, this is the only time I ever get mad at Bob for up and dying on me—leaving me with the layersuponlayersuponlayers of crap to wade through. By myself. But, it is minor, in the grand scheme of what he has given me, continues to give me, so I suck it up, glare heavenward at him (he's totally cool about it, btw—he is in that place of pure peace and love, and "gets" that I'm just a sad, earth-bound soul, who is still trying to figure all this crap out), and plod on, like a surly teenager.

In this stage of the reinventing, I have a one stall in a garage that I still can't park in, because of all the crap still crammed into it,  in spite of all the crap that I've already given away, sold, donated, pitched, repurposed, torched. . . (okay, okay, I didn't actually torch anything. Yet.). This past week, I decided, I must park in my garage before snow falls, for the only reason to know that the Jeep even fits into the garage. If not, another phase of downsizing begins, in the form of a new vehicle (which I keep going back and forth about—the Jeep is paid for, still runs great, in spite of having over 200,000 miles on it, but it is a gas guzzler, but it has helped tremendously on the gas bill, to be in the city—round and round I go, with that one. . . ) But, there I go again digressing. Back to Craigslist.

Today, I procured the most beautiful stuffed chair, circa 1940, toasted orange upholstery, a few signs of wear and tear here and there, but solid as a shit brickhouse, vibrant as a fall sunset, comforting as a grandmothers arms, to replace the love seat I had no room for. It was advertised as "burnt orange," but I'm leaning more toward "toasted orange." Or perhaps "persimmon." It is a spicy little number, for sure, cozy as all get out. Now I need a "new" rug . . .

I have been a huge fan of Craigslist since I discovered it, and I can't even tell you when that was—I'm trying to think of the very first thing(s) I ever bought or sold on Craigslist, and come up with fuzzy recollections, at best. . . it must have been when I started my salon, trying to furnish it on the proverbial shoestring budget, constantly trying to find fun, funky and functional furnishings for the shop (tremendously successful, in all accounts!), as well as dump stuff that just didn't work . . .  I have reduced, reused and recycled for as long as I have memories, truly. I know I got that from my parents, who got that from their parents. I hate throwing stuff away, but I'm also not a hoarder (seriously fine line, peeps). My unofficial motto: keep things that are essential to my being, but whatever I can't or don't want to use any more, find a good home: donate, sell, give to family (my mom and I were laughing the other day—virtually her entire apartment is furnished with my stuff! It does make me happy to know a family member is using something I simply don't have room for any more). What I absolutely cannot sell or give away, I eventually end up tossing, but usually not before exhausting all other options. Waste of time, some may say, but I get a tremendous amount of satisfaction, in the process.

Once in a while, someone will say, "My God, you have a lot of stuff! (or shit, or crap, or whatever)." Heard that a lot in the past few years, when I moved three times. Yes, moving certainly brings to light just how much shit a person has (and let's be real, most of what we all have squirreled away in closets, garages, attics and basements is just that. Shit. That's why it ends up in closets, garages, attics and basements . . .). and I have to remind others that, "Remember, this is not all my stuff. I'm just the lucky sucker who ended up having to deal with it." Then I ask, "Imagine, for a moment, if the person you lived with, died. Or (not to be mean or morbid and all), let's say you died." Or, if that's too hard to imagine, how about if you lost your job, or divorced, or whatever, and were forced to downsize? How much stuff, or shit or crap would you be left with, or your loved ones be left with, to deal with? Usually stops a person dead (no pun intended) in their tracks, to ponder that, gets a person thinking about how much crap we all have, all this crap that just keeps accumulating, stuff we have to have, that we can't get rid of, that we can't live without, ironically becomes the stuff that we can't live with. At least that's how it's been for me. Guess I can't speak for everyone.There are infinite ways of dealing with the crap left behind, I'm just sharing my way of dealing.

I find it funny, how freaked out some get about Craigslist. My sister freaks when she hears that I've gone to someone's home alone. "Take someone with you!" she scolds me. She seems to forget that that's easier said than done.  If I sat around waiting for someone to escort me in everything I do, I'd never leave the house! Yes, like anything, Craigslist has developed a dark, warty underbelly—killers, stalkers, wackos, blah, blah, blah. But, hey, so have our public schools, so have our work places, so have our very own homes. Like anything, that is still the scant minority of transactions, and like anything, there are wise ways to approach it, and like anything, there are no guarantees. The odds are—like anything—you will not end up hacked into bits, portioned off into Hefty bags and dumped in various and sundry rivers. Yes, I have as active imagination as anyone, and yes, fear is as much a part of my life as anyone's. But I try not to let it dictate my life, whether it's Craigslist transaction (I've done enough of them to know which transactions are legit, and which ones are possible nut-jobs. I meet in public places. I call a family member and give an address to where I'm going. I call when the transaction is complete. If I feel something's not on the up'n'up, I don't follow through with the transaction. Craigslist is a fab resource for getting rid of crap, and for procuring crap to take the place of the crap you've just gotten rid of (that's where that "recycling" part comes in! An endless cycle, if one isn't careful!), but I'm not so desperate that I'd take a careless chance, just to score a deal or make a few bucks.

I "get" the concerns of others, I really do—yes, there are "wackos in the world," that no, you can't "trust just anyone," that others are still, understandably, "overly protective" of this "delicate, vulnerable widow" . . . but I operate under some new rules that may be a bit unconventional to others, rules that might seem a bit skewed—I like to think clarified—by death, depends on what side of that coin you stand. I don't take unwise chances, but I am also learning to not pass up chances based on unrealistic fears, whether it's a Craigslist steal or other aspects of my life. We all may as well stop doing anything, if we live by such fear. The world is a scary place, no doubt. But it's scarier to me, to life a fear-based life. That's not really living at all. Okay, lecture over, kids. Now get out there, and score some deals!! Peace out!!

xxoo

Pumpkin Festivals ROCK!!

Gorgeous fall day for a pumpkin festival, in spite of the furious wind, once again (though in my mind,  fall and wind, kind of just go together, like—well, like anything else that goes together . . .). My sister Gretchen and I joined our other sis, Jill, and her kidlets, Amelia and Otto, for the 17th Annual Kelly Avenue Pumpkin Festival in Golden Valley (I'm sure I butchered the name of the festival, just typing on the fly here—it WAS in Golden Valley, it WAS on Kelly Avenue, and the central focus IS pumpkins, but as for the official name, well, I'm too lazy to Google it right now!).

The origins of this festival is sofa king ;) awesome—many years ago,. a bunch of neighbors in a neighborhood were sitting around, sipping (that part is questionable, I'm thinking) cocktails and someone gets the crazy idea to start growing giant pumpkins, and have a neighborhood contest. Seventeen years later, this little neighborhood gathering draws hundreds of people to the cordoned off area of a quiet GV neighborhood adjacent to a park, where everyone DONATES time, efforts, whatever they can, to the cause.

I wish I had taken more photos, but Otto is at the age where he is a bloody handful right now (and I mean that more literally than you could ever imagine, and more than I could ever respectfully, in good conscience, post photos of. . . story to follow . . .); it was all we ALL (and I mean ALL three of us) could to, to keep track of him; hence, few photo ops to be had. You'll just have to trust my words to convey the awesomeness that was this event, in spite of the bloody ending . . . neighbors donate everything from food (hotdogs and bbq pork sandwiches, chips and an endless array of cookies, bars and other sweet treats, Surley beer for grownups, 1919 Root Beer and lemonade for kiddies), and entertainment (endless stations set up for kids—bean bag toss, face painting, relays, local fire department with new and vintage trucks on display, a DJ playing such FUN, eclectic music—Gangnam Style, Michale Jackson, Old Crow Medicine Show . . .), and overseeing contests—of course, the Giant Pumpkin contest (winning pumpkin was OVER THREE HUNDRED POUNDS, PEEPS!!! HOLY THANKSGIVING PIE, BATMAN!! AND NO, MY CAPS LOCK IS NOT STUCK, I'M STILL SHOUTING AT THE ABSOLUTE LITERAL ENORMITY OF THAT PUMPKIN!!!), and the Tallest Sunflower contest (I don't remember the height but I do remember that the winner was ELEVEN YEARS OLD!! YES! MORE SHOUTING OUT TO WINNERS!!), and a parade, complete with waving beauty queens and a local high school marching band. . . all contained within the confines of two city blocks . . . I know I'm forgetting things, there was so much going on . . . that's likely, in part, because I was so enveloped by the incredible sense of community, the beautiful rainbow blur that this event is steeped in, even as an interloper, I sensed this deeply . . . AND when the event was over, everyone in attendance was encouraged to take one of the pumpkins home (not one of the giant, hundreds+ pounds winning pumpkins; rather, from the endless pumpkin pyramids that were scattered about the festival).

At one point, Gretchen said, "I wish our neighborhood did something like this," and Miss Amelia, in her wise-beyond-her-years ways, looked up at Gretch and said, "Well, you could start one of your own, you know. . . " next weekend, Gretchen and her husband are having their own Halloween gathering in the backyard of their new home—who knows what might transpire around their bonfire, after a few cocktails . . . it reminded me of the wine parties Bob and I hosted at Wrenwood . . . anything in life worth pursing often begins with just one person . . .

The day ended, unfortunately, with Otto—long past the time for his afternoon nap and getting crazy-squirrelier by the second—launching himself off the edge of a curb on our walk back home in a perfect 10 swan-dive face-plant on the asphalt. It was a slow-motion horror scene to behold, yet happened so fast that no one could do anything to stop it. The little bugger stood, screaming with every cell of his being, blood pouring from God only knows where—his whole face was covered in blood. . . Jill scooped him up and began running for home, which was several blocks away. . . Gretch, Amelia and I were running behind them, pulling a wagon with three pumpkins, coats,  candy, shoes, empty tupperware containers for the homemade cookies Jill had contributed to the event, when I saw Jill slow as Otto was slipping from her grip.

"I can't hold him any more!" she cried. I dropped everything (which might have been nothing, I have no recollection) and tag-teamed with her, scooping Otto in my arms as he turned his bloodied face into my very artfully tied scarf and brand-new sweater, sobbing into my chest, "hold me, Jenny, hold me, hold me. . ." and then, "Where's my candy? Where's my candy? My candy . . ." I took off running with this little brute (who literally is about half my size), my heart nearly seizing from my chest with the effort, but feeling the adrenaline lifting my feet, assisting my arms . . . long story short, we made it home, Otto was cleaned up, and other than a very scraped up face (and swelling nose—I told Jill he could go as W.C Fields for Halloween. . . sorry, very bad taste, but still, kind of funny, if you'd been there . . .), he seemed to be back to his goofy self in time, though I wouldn't be surprised if he ended up with a black eye. Maybe two . . . at one point, he broke out into a 2-year old rendition of "Call Me, Maybe": "but here's my mumber, caw me maybe. . ." (don't know who sings that, refuse to Google it, for fear Miley Cyrus's photo will appear on my computer screen), punctuated with "where's my candy? wheeeere's my caaaaandyyyyy?!" referring to the candy he'd procured from the parade, which none of us could produce. We surmised it must have been dropped in the street as we ran for home, which didn't placate him one bit . . .

later . . . I went home, took one of my patented 10 Minute PowerNaps, then headed out for my evening walk with Rocco. On our final stretch for home, we ran into a woman who was dog-sitting for a 5 month old Golden Doodle (sorry, as cute as this dog is, those "designer dogs" are still every bit as mutt as Rocco is, in my opine. But no one asked me. . .) who, at five months old, is really is the cutest thing on legs—I swear, that doggie—Miles is his name!—how cute is that??!!—has springs for feet, he literally—and I don't mean that figuratively—bounds vertically, with every step, it's soooo fun and funny to watch, like Tigger! Anyhow, this woman was lovely, we spent a good 20 minutes condensing our life stories, ended up exchanging phone numbers, making plans to meet for coffee, and her parting words were that this neighborhood is the best place I could possibly be, right now, to reinvent . . . the slowing of handfuls of hair loss (and new growth that is finally appearing!!!) is but one piece of evidence of this. . . when I got home, I emptied my purse, to clean it out of the day's events. And found Otto's fistful of candy at the bottom . . .

Here's to community, peeps. Love your neighbors . . . xxoo

Be happy for no reason . . .

When I resurrected this blog several weeks back, I had every intention of writing on it regularly, but c'est la vie. . . that means "that's life," or something like that, in French. Because yes, ummm, yes! That's it! That's why I haven't written—bcause I've been learning French . . .

Or not. One of endless lessons I am learning is that—guess what??!! We have endless "do-overs" in life! How cool is that?! No one's keeping score! No one's going to punish us for starting over, RIGHT NOW. And we can do that till infinity! Overandoverandover, againandagainandagain, till we get it right. Or till we never get it right! Who cares, as long as we're trying, right??!! . . . So, in the spirit of that, let's just "do over" this blog, once again!

So, how 'bout that weather? Sure was windy today, wasn't it? (Where else in Beautiful Minnesota can weather be a seriously engaging topic of conversation?) Mid-October day, temps in the mid 70s, sun at least part of the day—but holy hell, the wind! My hair was violently wound around my head many times over, in every direction, at the same time, againandagainandagain, on my walk with Rocco this morning and then again this evening. . . when I got home tonight, I discovered that the front porch of my duplex had turned into a giant terrarium, as a big gust of wind, at some point, had toppled every plant stand lined along the porch railings, along with the plants standing atop them. I would have taken a picture of the mayhem, but I was so overcome with this immense sense that my plants were literally choking and suffocating under the mounds of soil and upturned pots, that I dropped my phone and began digging, as though on a rescue mission in the Alps. . .

Almost an hour later, all of my plants were upright, back in their pots (only one terra cotta casualty), all of us breathing much easier. I'm hoping for at least another few weeks of plants on the patio, but I'll take what we can get at this point, because even in her fury, Ma Nature is a wonder to behold. . .

I'll be honest, a huge part of me wants to just DUMP on this blog tonight, try to fill in all the missing spaces since I last wrote, because it's been so long and I have so much to say, so much time to make up, but good God! A girl's also gotta sleep sometime, doesn't she? And I do need to be kind and spare y'all the theatrics. . . As such, I will reign it in, with the hope that, instead of being daunted about the enormous prospect of DUMPING everything into one blog entry (and as a result, not write anything), that I'll just take it step by step. Bird by bird (a nod to Anne Lammott. . . ). And try to just show up every day. . .

With that, I will leave you with this little gem that flashed across my internet pan today: "Be happy for no reason. Like a child. If you're happy for a reason, then you're in trouble. Because that reason can be taken from you." ~ Deepak Chopra . . . wish someone had shared that one with me many, many years ago. But hey! Do-over, right??!!

Hopefully, more later. . . xxoo j

Always a process. . .

August 23, 2013

A week ago, or so, got an email from my lender, Shitty Porridge, asking for a cash contribution from me, in order to proceed with the deed-in-lieu of foreclosure on my Stillwater home. A DIL is a voluntary "agreement" between borrower and lender, to give a home back to the lender, free and clear, without having to pay the difference between what is owed and what the house eventually sells for, without having to pay taxes on the "profits" of the difference, and other eyeball-glazing details. Rumor has it, it's better for one's credit score and faster than than an out-right foreclosure, but I'm not entirely convinced of that, as this "faster process" has been over five months in the making now. And not just anyone can request a DIL, mind you. Many conditions must be met: one first try to prove a hardship through piles of submitted documents, then be denied a refinance, then denied qualifying for any of the mythical "hardship programs" offered by the government, and then fail to sell the house via a short sale, all of which take many, many months in and of themselves, in spite of proven hardship. Then, hardships must be proven, again, via more pathetic "hardship letters," followed by endless hoops that must be jumped through, piles of documents must be submitted and resubmitted many times over because they get "lost" or have "expired," or were not the "correct" documents, or perhaps were simply shredded by the maniacally laughing Head Shredder in the Shredding Department at Shitty. Oh yes, and the "Grantor" (that's me) must also contribute, along the way, lavish amounts of: blood, sweat, tears, hair, sleep, weight and sanity. In spite of all of this, there is no guarantee the DIL will be accepted, because ultimately, the lender is the deciding party in this "agreement," and I would venture to guess that the decision process is at the whim of the mood of the Powers That Be, who make the decision. Or a dart board.  

The email I received last week made no mention that my cash contribution was a guarantee that my DIL would be accepted, btw, simply a request for $$ on my behalf, to keep this process "moving forward." Thus far, my lender has done nothing to make me believe this long, dragged out process is going to end any time soon, or in my "favor." (Ending in my favor would have been the short sale that I had tried to do, for over a year prior to embarking on the the DIL. That route didn't work out for various and sundry reasons, main one being Shitty Porridge turned down a full-price offer on my house, because the buyers—who still loved the house, and I don't blame them, as it is an adorable home tucked into the hillside of a beautiful, restful country setting—discovered via inspection, that the septic system on the property wasn't up to code and needed to be replaced, to the tune of $20,000. Still in love with the house, the buyers adjusted their offer to reflect the septic issue, Shitty refused to negotiate, I raised my hands skyward in despair, hence the DIL route.)

Holding yet another clump of my own hair in my fist, I pounded out an e-mail response to Shitty Porridge, told them I'm done playing trained monkey in their game, they are getting nothing more from me because finally, four years into this insane, nonsensical process, I've figured out it's in my best interest to do what I have to do to protect what little assets I have left. The cash contribution they're asking from me would put groceries in my cupboards for months. It would pay half of my annual health insurance premium, or several more months of therapy, which I will need, after this week's events. Or buy me a stylish wardrobe of wigs. For sure, a few palates of spray-on hair. "From here on out," I pounded the words on the keyboard, "you people can figure out what to do with my empty house, because I am out, I am spent, I am not giving anything more." Especially not any more hair.

Two days after the extortion email (<----- okay, maybe that part is a tad hyperbole), I got a letter from Shitty, telling me my DIL request was refused, based on the financial information I had provided them (specifically because my mortgage is less than 30% of my income, which is $0. You do the math, I'm bad with numbers, especially numbers that don't add up), that my mortgage terms remain the same, that outright foreclosure may now be my only option (though the letter ends with, "However, you may be eligible for other short sale or deed-in-lieu options available from Shitty!"). Which means this letter was already en route to me, when I had received the request for the cash contribution. This resulted in the loss of another handful of hair, making me wonder what the hell would have happened to the money they requested of me, had I, in desperation, broken down and sent it to them? The very next day after I received the letter of refusal (I am not kidding, they are dated August 12 and August 13, respectively)—I receive another letter thanking me for submitting all my documentation, and my DIL request has been passed on to a negotiator for review. Still following me? Don't blame you if you're not, as I'm even following this mess any more . . .

Instead of pounding out another angry e-mail, I decided to volunteer at a Habitat for Humanity building site the other day--something I've wanted to do for a long time, have had many excuses not to. With all my own house drama dragging on, I though it might be a good thing to "step out of" my own shit for a day, and lend my services to someone who could use a little help. I can swing a hammer. I can operate power tools. I can follow directions like a trained monkey.

I literally sweated my ass off this past 90 degree'ed Monday afternoon, and I don't mean that figuratively. I stood up at one point to pull my hammer and a handful of nails out of my apron, noticed I was so drenched, it appeared as though I'd wet myself. Pretty as a picture. Felt good, though, to pound nails, drive holes into concrete with big drills that made my teeth rattle in my head, run power tools I've never used before (and maybe shouldn't have been allowed to use, given my mental state), even to get scorched a bit by the sun, in spite of multiple layers of SPF 50. My anger at Shitty Porridge and the big mess I've been dealing with for four years melted away in the heat of the sun.

But the irony of the day was not lost on me. Here I am, facing foreclosure, want nothing more to do with homeownership ever again—I never, ever want to be so helplessly, hopelessly tied to an inanimate object like that, with no way out—and there I was, eight hours in the scorching sun, helping build a house for a family who so desperately wants to own a home, who could probably do it no other way. I also thought a lot about the big ugly Myth that is the American Dream of Homeownership, but that's another post for another time. Or not.

This morning, as I'm packing for a weekend sabbatical from the insanity, I get phone call from the negotiator, saying my DIL has been approved. What. The. Fuck?! (I'm sorry, Mom, but heck just didn't have the most effective impact here.) I didn't know whether to cry or jump for joy, so as soon as I got off the phone, I did a bit of both. The ironic juxtaposition of finally waking from this nightmare, coupled with the sobering, aching realization that if this does go through, I will finally be severing the most tangible connection to my life with my husband is, right now, beyond what I can describe.

I need longer than just a long weekend get-away from this nightmare-covered nightmare sundae, topped with a nightmare cherry. . . maybe need to run away to Bali, live in a simple little thatched house, teach Pilates on the beach. hmmm. . . on second thought, maybe not. I keep forgetting I have translucent skin. . . even though I'm more than a bit suspicious that it's not quite over, this is tentative good news with which to begin my trip. Process, process, process...

The Unbearable Being of Lightness

August 17, 2013

I spent the better part of this past weekend, starting Thursday morning, addressing the holy mess that is my garage, with the lofty goal that it will be cleared out so I can park in it before the first snowfall. "But it's only August 17!" I hear y'all crying. "We have weeks of summer left, right??!!!" Oh sure, perhaps in other parts of the world, mid-August guarantees many more gloriously sunny days, but not here in Minnesota. And if you're from MN, you know better, that we know better, than to take Ma Nature for granted.

August 17 roughly translates to: stick a fork in it, summer is done, kids! in Minnesotanese. Christmas decorations have taken the place of Crayola Crayons and wide-ruled notebooks at Target. State Fair, the Official MN State Holiday, starts this week. School the following. Winter, next. I know you think I'm a doomsdayer, but just yesterday, I saw a teenage girl walking down Snelling Avenue with Uggs and shorts on! My first thought was, "That's still a 'style'?! Uggggg....." Second thought, "She knows something we don't know—by dinnertime we'll be knee-deep in snow!" Third thought, "Oh, yeah. Teenagers are always trying to be ironic, therefore by sheer virtue of trying, Uggs in August doesn't mean anything." What I'm saying here, peeps, is that life as we love it and so wish it could be forever, is pretty much spent, am I not right, fellow Minnesotans?! And Iowans and Wisconsonites, and Nebraskans, and Kansans, and . . . who else is considered midwest?!? Such optimists, we hearty midwesterners!

Most Minnesotans can and will provide a lengthy personal narrative, should you ask (if you dare), supporting the fact that we truly have no idea what cards we might be playing with in MN, after August 15 (or before, for that matter), when it comes to weather. Invoke the memory of the Halloween Blizzard of 1991, and you'll hear gut-wrenching stories of hearty, determined little trick-or-treaters plodding through chest-deep snow to fill their plastic pumpkin heads with fun-sized candy bars (or brave college student who couldn't make in to work on account of the raging blizzard, but through resourceful strategizing, found a friend of a friend with a 4-wheel drive pickup to hitch a ride to the bar. Someone I know personally? Nah. Just heard the story.). Or the May 15th blizzard just this spring. The flip side to the story can be as compelling: the heat wave that was nearly the entire winter of 2011/12, cruelly cheating snowmobilers and ice fisher-people from happiness, while the rest of us simultaneously gave thanks with turkey dinner on the patio and and celebrated St. Patty's with 85 degree temps. Play the wild card and toss out any year, and someone will have a bizarre weather story to relate. Short story: we're not in control.

No matter what Farmer's Almanac tells us, or what the Eastern Black Swallowtail caterpillar behavior or density of moss on the trees or whatever might suggest, we are not in control. No matter how much we prepare for, or how hard we try to control external factors, we're always caught with our proverbial snow pants down. Our summer started late this year—as I mentioned earlier, our last blizzard was May 15—and seems to be ending early, given the dip in temps the past few weeks (a friend of mine reported that just last Monday, it was a balmy 37 degrees at their cabin near Grand Rapids. For the record, Grand Rapids, MN is not anywhere near the Arctic Circle). Word to the wise: skip the beach Labor Day weekend. Stay home. Stock up on long undies. Slap plastic over the windows, hay bales around the foundation. Now. Don't say I didn't warn you. But, enough wallowing, back to my story. I do have a tendency to ramble off track, and there is a point to this story. At least there was when I started this. I kind of forgot what it was now . . . something about a garage. . .

Oh yeah, now I remember. See, in Minnesota, a garage is prime real estate. A major priority in house buying/renting. Having a garage is the difference between knowing that your car will start after a night of minus twenty degrees and having to call for a jump and wait six hours for AAA to show up because they have to get through the rest of the 999,999 metro residents who also don't have garages. A garage is the difference between pulling out of the driveway without breaking out the ice scraper, and having to excavate your vehicle from under a burial mound of snow using every tool in the car (which will likely consist of everything that is not an ice scraper—driver's license, road map, hair brush, checkbook, cell phone, laptop, textbook . . .) Not having a garage means running the risk of being towed because the requisite two-plus inches of snow fell overnight and today is an even numbered day on a full moon with Jupiter rising, which meant that yes, your street was, in fact scheduled for snow removal. But you forgot to move your car because you thought the rules were three inches, odd days, with Saturn's third moon waning. Whatever any of that means. Point is, I run the risk of all the above, if I can't park in my garage.

For several years (and many years prior to even knowing the existence of each other), before we bought hour first house, Bob and I faced the perils of living in Minnesota without a garage. I remember a winter when several inches of freezing rain hermetically sealed everything that wasn't under cover with a thick glaze of ice. Snapped trees in half, took down power lines, made everything so breath-takingly, if not lethally, beautiful. As though carving ice sculptures, it took several hours of painstaking chiseling to create the form of cars from icy blocks in parking lots and streets. "That's it," Bob and I collectively agreed after that winter. "We're going to buy a house, and it's going to have a garage!"

Not long after, we bought an adorable little house in Roseville, our first home—we were finally proud owners of not just a house, but a garage (and a yard, too!)! Great idea in concept, but we soon discovered we couldn't park it in. It had one stall which was soon piled to the rafters with camping gear, kayaks, Bob's work paraphernalia, patio furniture, work bench full of tools that we couldn't get to, on account of the camping gear, kayaks, patio furniture, work paraphernalia. Which is why we always hired someone to even change a lightbulb. Couldn't get to the step ladder.

"We'll have a bigger garage with our next house," we said, dreamily. And eight years later, we did. A three stall garage, into which we piled more crap. We were still able to park in the garage, though barely. The sides of my car bore at least a few scars the color of the garage trim, from the tight maneuvering I had to do, to wedge it into its parking place.

I did tell you I have this nasty little habit of digressing, right? A natural part of my nature, so please adapt accordingly, as it happens on a regular basis. I do try to reign it it and tie in all the rambling loose ends together when all is said and done. Unless I forget. Or don't care. Or keep rambling.

So, I woke up early Thursday morning, cleaned and purged the garage like a mad woman. Most of this stuff is the stuff from the three stall garage from our old house. Oh yeah, and the basement and closets, the extra bedroom, the family room, the roughly 1200 extra square feet that I no longer have. My mom and mother-in-law often comment with surprise, how much stuff "I" have. I have to often remind them that this is a twenty-plus year accumulation with another person (their son, son-in-law) who is no longer with me. Think about that for a minute. Think about your own house, how much stuff is in it, and what you might have to get rid of, should the person you love and live with up and die on you, and leave you with one big holy mess to clean up. Hate to say it, but, just sayin' . . .

Several hours later, no morning kindergarten, I jammed a huge load of stuff into the Jeep, slammed the tailgate shut and headed to the local thrift store. The Jeep was so full I maybe, legally, should've had extended mirrors and a second pair of eyes to watch for traffic. Next day, more of the same. And the following day. Doesn't really matter where we went, what I donated, or if I could see traffic in my rearview mirror. All that really matters is that again, a slice of my heart was carved out, dripping blood and donated along with the bags and bags and boxes and boxes that I handed over to the handsome young man and raven-haired, tattooed woman at the thrift store, waiting with open arms and beautiful smiles, for my stuff. Melodramatic to some, perhaps, but this is a two-plus year process that has yet to see an end. I completely get why so many people who lose a loved one put this task off for years, decades, sometimes forever. Because along with the purging comes a deluge of memories and emotions that nearly drown in their power, leaving a person sputtering and gasping in disbelief: is all of this really what used to be my life? These bags and boxes and piles of things?

Not that you asked, was just thinking. . . let's take inventory of all the stuff I've given away to family/sold/donated/might still have but is hidden from view in a closet, garage, basement, from my former life, shall we? Seems like it's a neverendingproject, so let's just try to put some end to it, with a list, with a beginning and end. I'm doing this as a public service announcement. Save and print for future reference.

Futon

recliner

living room chair and ottoman
Dining room table and 6 chairs.
Patio table and 4 chairs

6 plastic patio chairs
picnic table/umbrella
bird feeders/bird houses
Snow blower
roof rake
lawn mower
Queen bed (2)
Coffee table (2)
Office suite: desk, extension table, file cabinets, office chair
another desk
TV/entertainment stand (2)
tall book case
inversion table (I sure miss hanging upside down on that thing, all bat-like, a la Grandpa Munster . . .)
refrigerator
oven
dishwasher
washing machine
gas grill
power generator
oodles of garden perennials
file cabinet (2)
short book cases (2)
closets full of Bob's clothes
bags and bags of my own clothes

a carload of hospice equipment—walker, shower chair, 2 canes, orthotic boots/braces, handicap toilet seat, electric blanket, bags of adult diapers, bandages, tapes, wound supplies, hospital slippers, shower safety handles
camera and accessories
camping gear—tents, sleeping bags, coolers, camp chairs, misc. equipment
boxes and boxes of books, CDs, videos (yup, videos, as in VHS), DVDs
2 TVs
under-counter radio/dvd player
DVD/VHS player (for all those VHS tapes mentioned above)
boxes of dishes, wine glasses, kitchen stuff
microwave
excess bedding, towels
golf clubs
collection of Budweiser beer steins
several framed prints
many window's worth of curtains
shower curtains/bath accessories (I used to have 3 bathrooms)
barstools (4)
end tables (4)

telephone table
night stands (2)
dressers (2)
sofa table
room divider

2 computers

2 printers
various and sundry garage items (tools, yard tools, wheelbarrow—I totally miss my wheelbarrow!—extension pole for painting, shelving, endless piles of extension cords—why did we have so damn many extension cords??!!—circular saw, miter saw, chain saw)

Carved out. Again. And again, every time I make myself go through the detritus (my mom's favorite word!) of that former life. When will this end? Will I have a heart left, after all this carving out and reinventing? Will I need the Wizard of Oz, to give me another? In the not-so-distant past, I have believed the answer to those questions were, never, no, and and then some. But I am continually surprised to discover the contrary. No, it is true, this reinventing will never end. But that is true of all of us. And yes, surprisingly I still have a heart, no Wizard necessary. And with each act of giving up, I feel lighter, breathe deeper and easier, can think better, remember clearer, with more love than loss. Surprisingly, I smile even, feeling my heart swelling, growing, as I think of that young man and woman with outstretched arms at the Vietnam Vets of America thrift store, to the families who are helped by Bridging, to the Springer Spaniel Rescue in MN,so many lives who might be helped, so many people who might be very grateful to hold the things that I once held. And Bob once held. Circle of life.

My latest Zen experiment is this. It's only things, right? Just stuff. Not a living, breathing being in the whole great big pile of stuff. And who needs all this stuff, anyway?! It comes as a shock to sit and make a list of all the things I have given away since Bob died (and I thought Bob and I were such minimalists, compared to others . . .) Even more shocking to know that this is just the stuff that I can specifically remember; who knows how long the list would be, if it included the things I have forgotten . . . All of this stuff pales in comparison to the life and soul of the beautiful man that I will be forever in love with, to the souls of the young people who reached to take my discarded items, to the souls of the many who so desperately need stuff to begin a life. Does my husband's soul reside in the dishes we registered for when we got married? Or the quilt his mom stitched by hand for us, for our wedding? Or the Neoprene boots that he used when he went kayaking? I don't think so, as much as we want/chose to inscribe such a meaning. Holding onto all of that stuff is like trying to create a freakish Frankenstein version of someone who is no longer here . . . try as I might, to piece together my husband by keeping all of this stuff, it'll never, ever replace him, and in fact, inhibits me from truly moving forward . . . yeah, okay, I'm still working on that metaphor . . .

But everyone has to make that decision in their own time, if ever. Those things I donated still have lots of life left in them, can still serve another person, but no longer serve me. I can hold onto them till I take my last breath, but what happens then? My nieces and nephews may have to make the executive decision to haul all that crap to the landfill, cursing their crazy ol' aunt all along the way. Call me cold-hearted, but despite the deluge of tears and throat-clenching that happens with each act of handing huge pieces of my former life/heart over to those at the donation door, I also know it's time to let another layer go, to get to a deeper level of healing. One beautiful life handed to another. Anything truly shitty went straight into the trash, or recycled if possible, but the rest? All still beautiful, with many good years left to give. Just too tied to my heart. All that stuff holds me down. Keeping me from true healing. It's just stuff. Stuff that is not Bob. Bob's memory is safely ensconced in my heart. And his spirit is soaring. Not wrapped a quilt. Or hiding in the toes a pair of waders. Or in his golf bag. His spirit is free. Around me. Above me. Through me.

I would love to pass every last piece of everything I've ever owned, on to someone who would/could use it, if possible, rather than cry whenever I see it, and slam the box closed again, stuff it in the closet, or garage, or basement, for who knows how long. Usless. Just taking up valuable space that could be better used, in so many other ways.

On Monday, I volunteer for the first time, at Habitat for Humanity. If I don't drill my head to the wall with an automatic nail gun, I'll be posting soon on this super-exciting event! Huge smooches to all! xxoo

Gratitude trumps attitude, again. . .

August 11, 2013

Just got another email a few days ago, from my mortgage lender, essentially informing me that, once again, we have made no further progress on my house status beyond where we were four years ago. Back when Bob was first diagnosed with cancer. Back when he had to quit working because the tumor growing in his pelvis had completely disabled him. Back when I quit working to care for him full time. Back when I first contacted our lender in desperation, believing (foolishly) that I was being proactive in our finances, trying to stave off a financial crisis, on top of many other crises that were piling atop us. Back when we were living at the U of MN, in an unrelenting state of crisis—cancer, chemo, heart attacks, burning mouth sores, bowl obstructions, renal failure, adrenal insufficiency, blood clots, near fatal electrolyte imbalances, narcotic-induced catatonic stupors, gruesome surgery, lost jobs, shriveling bank account . . . all of this began back when we knew Bob's prognosis wasn't good. Downright grim, in fact. Back when we—the Couple Who Did Everything Right—didn't know when, if ever, either of us were going to be able to go back to work, didn't know if we were going to keep up with bills, didn't know if we were going to lose our house. Back when we watched our formerly plump bank account shrivel into near nothingness by the time he came home for hospice.

"You're making your house payments," our lender told us over and over and over, each time I called, hoping to try to talk to someone else who might know better than the last. "Your last year's W-2's look great. You're not a hardship." Cancer, unemployment, heart attacks, raging blizzards, revolving-door trips to the ER, endless months in a rehab hospital, home for hospice—none of that is a hardship to a mortgage lender, FYI. I'd have to refer to my old blog to recall the endless other crises—financial, medical, and otherwise—but my brain is telling me it's not a good idea to go down that road right now. Because even in the wake of our 18th wedding anniversary, even in the wake of an infuriating e-mail from the Lender that Shall Not Be Named (but rhymes with Shitty Porridge), even with dredging up those few sketchy memories, I'm feeling pretty damn good.

Instead of dwelling, I am going to try to shift my angry brain into a state of gratitude and begin ticking off all the things I'm truly, honestly grateful for, at this moment in time. I'm warning you right now, this could be a damn long list. And I'll likely append it as time goes on, and I continue to remember and encounter people and events and stuff for which to be grateful. And it'll probably be rather bizarre and nonsensical in order/rhyme/reason, as I have yet to sit down and write a complete list of all the amazing people, events and things in my life that I am truly grateful for, on this journey. Grief itself is a bizarre, nonsensical process, with no order/rhyme/reason, so there you go . . .

1. I'm grateful for my mom. I have many friends and acquaintances who no longer have their moms physically here on earth with them. I would be beyond heartbroken to not have my mom right now, or ever. I know her heart has carried and continues to carry many heavy load. Hers is likely the strongest heart I have ever known.

2. I am grateful for all of my family—my siblings, my nieces, nephews, my husband's family, the dogs, the cats—might be a few gerbils and goldfish in the mix, as well. Every last one of them. My brothers and sisters are rock-solid, their children have brought me joy at times when I thought I might never feel joy again. I know many women who have lost their husbands, and lost their husband's families in the process, as well. I am infinitely blessed to count my husband's parents, his sister and her beautiful family as permanent members of my tribe. All, beautiful, generous, genuine, huge-hearted souls that deserve credit for saving my own soul . . .

3. I'm grateful for my pup, Rocco. We adopted him the summer that Bob started showing signs of cancer (weight loss, pain in his right leg), and has been through a lot of trauma himself, being a rescue pooch. In spite of that, he's 90% awesome dog, 10% brat. But what kid isn't, 4 legged or otherwise?

4. I am still grateful for, and will be forever grateful for, the beautiful, miraculous benefit that friends and family held in Bob's honor, that allowed us to remain at home while he was in hospice, allowed me to continue to care for him full time (a job I would have selfishly held onto, for as long as I could, had it been my choice), that allowed us to be together, at home, surrounded by trees and owls, and family and love, till the day he died . . .

5. I am grateful for my friend Lisa, who also experienced the heartbreak of a lifetime with the unexpected death of her glorious son, Sam, just six weeks before Bob died. A few weeks after Bob's death, Lisa talked me into taking a kettlebell class with her. "For an hour, you will still think about Bob," she told me, "but you will also think about not dropping a 30 lb. cast iron ball on your toe—or worse—your head." I went, fell in love with it from the first swing, and thus began my journey back to health and wellness. A long and winding road, to be sure, but was absolutely the start. In fact, for over a year, swinging a kettlebell was the only thing I was doing to take care of myself. But it was something, which lead to many other amazing encounters . . .

5. I am grateful for Marty Larson and her studio, Uncommon Age, in Stillwater, MN. I found Marty's studio serendipitously, shortly after the first few kettlebells classes I attended with Lisa. Marty's "whole-" istic approach to health and wellness is life-changing, life-affirming, and she was the one who encouraged me to become certified to teach kettlebells (and subsequently, to get my certification in CrossCore, and eventually, Stott Pilates). She is a life-saver, no less.

6. I am grateful for my first grief counselor, Chris D, at Fairview Hospice, for astutely identifying that, after eight months of "grieving" the death of my husband, I was not grieving at all, but suffering acute symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It takes a very gifted, open-minded, loving and generous therapist to recognize the point where their skills are limited, and to refer a client to someone who may be better equipped to take over.

7. I am grateful for Laura P, the therapist Chris referred me to, who specializes in treating people with PTSD, using a therapeutic technique called EMDR—an astounding, life-transforming therapeutic technique that through a series of sensory techniques, helps the brain to "re-assemble" the disabling memories of traumatic events into more neutral ones. Just Google it, okay (or follow the link above)? Because whenever I try to explain it, people usually raise and eyebrow, take a step back and ask what color was the koolaid  that I drank. . . seriously, though, it is an incredibly successful treatment that is even endorsed by the US Armed forces, for veterans returning from war, suffering PSTD. And when has the US Government ever been wrong??!! Okay, don't answer that one . . .)

8. I am grateful for Nancy L, whom Laura P introduced me to, to continue/supplement my therapy and healing journey with HBL sessions in her Points of Stillness wellness studio at Healing Waters Health Center in Hudson, WI. Again, a life-transforming experience, but again, please click on the link above, or Google to learn more, because if you ask me to explain this one, you're really going to think I've lost my mind.

9. I am grateful for all the new friends that I've made on this "f'n journey," as I so lovingly, affectionately, sarcastically have dubbed it. Sadly, I've also lost many friends on the f'n journey—a many-fold process—partly self-prescribed, partly happens organically when a life-altering event occurs, partly because others decide I no longer fit into their lives. No one's fault. Just life, happening. But the endless, serendipitous encounters and re-encounters with new friends has been mind-boggling. Old high school friends have re-entered my life. New, deep friendships are being forged. Even casual encounters on the street (not that kind of casual encounter!) have revealed wisdom and awe.

10. I am grateful for my Jeep, that was once Bob's vehicle. It is nearly ten years old, has over 120,000 miles on it, but is paid for, and still runs very well, gets me where I need to go, makes me think of him and smile every time I climb into the driver's seat and feel my hands wrap around the steering wheel where his hands once wrapped. I still have 93X programmed on the radio, as much as I literally become nauseous over most of the playlist on that station. But every now and then, when I tune in, I hear Billy Squire. Or Rush. Or Kiss. And smile (while simultaneously gagging slightly).

11. I am grateful, oh so grateful, for the beautiful neighborhood and house that is our new home. I feel safe, feel like an active participant (most days) of life again, instead of a prisoner in a house that I couldn't afford—financially, mentally, physically. With this move into the city (and there's no moving back this time. I mean it! I swear! My family has forbade me to move any more in this lifetime . . .), I feel like I am finally, truly moving forward, that the fog in my brain is finally dissipating. I found a lovely little duplex that has everything I need—downsized enough so it's not overwhelming, a garage to park my car (as soon as I clear the last of the crap from it—hoping before the first snow fall), a fenced yard for Rocco, a very nice landlord who takes very good care of the property (he lives upstairs with his three kids and a sweet and crazy yellow lab puppy that torments Rocco to no end! Kind of funny to see him on the receiving end of annoying for once) I told someone just the other day, that these few months since I've moved, have been the first in four years that I finally, honestly, say that I feel mostly good, most days.

12. I am grateful for the gifts that my husband continues to share with me, even after his death. Because when our earthly bodies leave us, that is when our souls really get down to work. But those of us in our earthly bodies have to be open to this. Really, truly open to this. Otherwise, our real healing and real growth can never happen.

13. I am grateful that I have found the path to health and wellness, and to writing—two passions in my life that I am working hard at making my new hybrid career. Each activity makes me feel alive and whole, when engaging in it. I am continually astounded at what my body and brain can do, even at the ripe ol' age of 45.

Funnest day, ever! (a long overdue post, which I'd started many months ago, and then—oh! look! something shiny outside my window! Sidetracked, again. Imagine that. And speaking of long, I think this just might win the Longest Heading on Blogger award! If there were such an award—is there?!)

Disclaimer: Yes, I am back. Back to writing on this blog. Back in St. Paul. Heck, even back on the god-forsaken wasteland called Facebook, something I swore I was Never! Ever! Going! To! Do! Ever! Again! In the History of Ever! (But, feel free to "friend!" me! And give me lots of "thumbs up!") 

Truth is, I had to put this blog aside to do what some people might call healing. Or grieving. Or processing. Or reinventing. Or hurtling backward. Or moving forward. Or lurching sideways. Or living again. All synonymous, perhaps, all still happening. And taking care of a few other events along the way, because, guess what? Life doesn't stop when another life stops. True story. (Oh, just you wait, you will hear a-plenty the personal hell of my house "issue," among other things, in time). Grief is a strange journey through a strange land, with a landscape shifting and changing so frequently, often violently and unexpectedly, it was all I could do to to grasp at, cling to, something, anything familiar, to stay afloat, much less write about it.

As time went on, I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into the grief, making (and still making) the journey rather uncomfortable to share so publicly. Last thing I wanted or needed was cheerleading! or judgement, or words of "encouragement," or "wisdom" or "advice," or anything, well meaning as it may have been. Guess that's just me. We are all on our own snowflake journey, no two ever alike . . . That, and I despise the word "widow." So much that I needed to find a new way to deal with this new role, stop trying to force it to fit me, like a shrunken, misshapen satin "dry clean only" dress pulled from a hot dryer (yes, by the way, that's one reason why Bob and I did our own laundry. Marriage Saving Tip #1: Do Your Own Laundry). A dress, a life, that used to be so beautiful . . . instead, I had to separate myself from the ugly label. Or maybe finally come to terms with it. Figure out a way to allow it to fit, as it is, seeing that it can be beautiful again, on another level, shrunken, misshapen and all. Or maybe I just need another glass of wine. . .

Let's be real. I am a widow. That is a huge truth in my life and there isn't anything I can do about it, no matter how I try. I know I am a helluva lot more than a label—aren't we all?—yet I also know that this label and all that is tied it it, is exactly what defines, directs and continues to shape my life going forward. At once profoundly heartbreaking and profoundly awe-some. I used to get angry as all get-out when I'd hear someone say, "Everything happens for a reason!" and/or "God never gives us any more than we can handle!" {insert nauseating smiley face emoticon here}. "NOOOOO!" I'd scream in response. "That means you honestly believe that there is a reason my beautiful, life-loving husband had to suffer tremendously—the likes of which most of us will never know—and i the end, die a horrific death? What kind of f'ed-up reason could be behind that?! Hey! Let's play a game called Turn The Table—how about YOUR husband (or wife, or kid, or mother, or best friend, or YOU) be given that same lot in life?! hmmm. funny how it's not so funny, or precious now, is it?! Let's get one thing straight—sometimes shit just happens, for no reason. And y'know what else?! Sometimes, oftentimes, people ARE handled more shit than they can handle! Happens all the time! Look at the news! Read the paper/internet! Talk to your co-worker, or neighbor, or daycare provider, or car wash attendant . . ."  All of this—the good, the bad and the ugly {insert whistling here}—all part of The F'n Process, this insane Krazee Karnival Ryde of Lyfe. . .

Funny thing is, recently, I decided that I want to start writing about all this crap again. Life, with all its heartbreaking ways, can also be incredibly, astoundingly funny, charming, disgusting, alluring, shocking, amazing, gut-wrenching, terrifying, exhilarating. And so steeped in love. Often, all at the same time. . . at the risk of sounding like a nut, it's something I've known all along: there's a helluva lot of shit in life that we don't have any control over. At all. No amount of praying, believing, head-in-the-sanding we do, it's all pretty much out of control. Horrifying thought. But you know what is pretty cool? The fact that we can control our response to the out-of-control stuff. Trust me, it's pretty simple yet powerful. Trouble is, it doesn't always fit so neatly into conventional ways of living, believing, whatevering. So maybe that's been part of my own F'n Process, to come to accept this, fiercely embrace it, no matter what. I tell my mom, over and over again, I may as well get a tattoo of it: "It'll be just my luck that I live to be 95 years old. May as well figure out how to enjoy the ride. . . "

Anyhow, the entry below was written many months ago ago, but I didn't post it. I'm pretty sure shortly after I wrote it, if I remember correctly (which could just as easily be incorrectly), I bailed on this blog and went deep underground with my writing/healing/grieving/processing/living. It made me smile tremendously as I rediscovered and reread it this morning, reliving this day, and the many days that have followed. Not all as fun, not all as memorable, but all part and necessary of The F'n Journey. Since today is the first day of September, such a gorgeous cool day, I'm suddenly in Fall Mode: sick of shaving my legs (and pits) and painting my toes to peek out of sandals, and tank tops and shorts, and sweating from every orifice, and running the AC for days on end—I am so ready for another phase. Sassy boots and jeans. Sweaters (light ones, just after sundown, right now!), windows open, cool night air billowing curtains. And because the entry below was kind of a "heralding moment," a turning point, on this journey of mine, I thought it'd be a good one to start with, even though it's "old news.")

January 6, 2013 Okay, I should clarify the heading for this entry: First of all, I know that "funnest" isn't a grammatically acceptable word (yet), okay?—I'm an MFA graduate student in Creative Writing, DUH!! But to clarify further: what I should say is that today was the "funnest day, ever, in the past three years of my life!" I can with all truthfulness say that not one whole day in the past three years can hold that title, not for the entire duration of the day. Oh, there have been moments, here and there—hours, even—even in the midst of great sadness, trauma, grief and horror of the past three years, that have been truly astounding to behold, but an entire day? Nope. Hasn't happened in three years . . . so why was today so different than any other? Well, let's back up and examine it, shall we ('cause I know y'all are just dying to find out . . . and so am I . . .)

So, this morning, I got up early for a lovely, invigorating Pilates class in St. Paul (I'm pretty sure, thanks to my very sporadic posts, that I haven't mentioned in any previous post that I will soon be starting the certification process to become a Pilates instructor—but that story will have to wait another couple months, till I have time/interest to write again . . . ). I was meeting a dear friend for breakfast afterward, but had nearly an hour to kill before we were to meet, so I buzzed up to Roseville and ran the Jeep through a do-it-yourself car wash, scrubbing and soaping and hosing off weeks upon weeks of salt and crud from the exterior till Bob's dark blue Jeep actually looked dark blue again, not grey . . . even taking time to vigorously dry off the doors, windows, mirrors, etc. to keep from freezing, I still ended up being early to the restaurant (another first, peeps! I'm never early for anything, a poor habit has gotten even worse in the past years, mainly due, I quite certain, to my serious aversion to being around most people for the past few years. Nothing personal, you have to understand, just kinda how it's been on this journey for me . . . ).

Okay, so anyhow, I met my friend at the Cheeky Monkey back in my old beloved Selby Ave. 'hood, where we partook (wait—is partook a word? hmmmm—spell-check isn't calling me on it, so yes. Yes, it must be.) of good grub (both of us were licking our plates clean at the end, it was that good—nothing like Eggs Benedict and a slab of hash browns to undo a good Pilates workout! But really, it all evens itself out, in my book . . . that's my rationale, anyhoodles), good conversation, lots of good laughs, but before I knew it, we were hugging our goodbyes in the parking lot, and I was off for home, to get Rocco on a walk before Jill and Amelia came over, as we had plans to head to Afton Alps to go tubing for the day, something none of us have ever done before! Yikes!

Let me first say this about tubing: if you've never done it before, get your ass out to Afton at least once this season, before winter is over! Holy cow, tubing ROX {insert arm pumping, air guitaring, whatevering here}! I have to admit, I didn't have that opinion when we arrived at Afton Alps, when Jill  parked the car and we started toward the base of the tubing hill. In fact, as I shielded my eyes from the sun, gazing Heaven-ward in the direction of the top of the tubing hill, I suddenly felt a little queasy as I sharply recalled our sledding days back at Sibley Park in Mankato, where the long, steep ice-packed hillside was honest-to-God splattered in bloodstains from sledders colliding, cracking open heads like eggs, snapping limbs—possibly even losing a few here and there . . . and for once, I'm not exaggerating. True story. Ask anyone you know who has ever lived in Mankato and survived Satan's Tongue. (Okay, I did make that part up. As far as I know, no one called it Satan's Tongue. But it should have been called Satan's Tongue, because it was that evil. And because it sounds cool.)

Anyhoooooo (this story is getting to kinda be like that song, "this is the song that never ends, it just goes on and on my friend . . ." isnt' it? Just stay with me, folks—the end is in sight. Maybe.), we went into the little warming house at the base of the hill to get our passes for the day, hooked 'em to our zippers and then back outside to pick out our tubes. Big rubber inner tubes in our mitts, we began walking toward the hill, which is when my pulse really began racing. Beneath the many layers of winter wear I had on, I started sweating profusely, my heart was drumming in my chest, and my breathing had become shallow, bordering on hyperventilating. As I looked around, I watched people of all ages—kids even smaller than Amelia—tearing down the hill, at break-neck speed, all hootin' and hollerin' like crazy at the bottom! Smiling and laughing, even! And not one was wearing a helmet! Gulp! Well, it's gotta be safe then, right?

Amelia stopped in her tracks as we walked toward the conveyor belt that would bring us to the top of the hill—yes, I said conveyor belt. Because the hill is that high. Satan's Tongue didn't have a conveyor belt. Then again, Satan's Tongue was maybe a quarter the length of what we were about to ascend . . . "I'm scared, Mom!" Amelia's sweet little voice squeaked with fear. "I don't want to go!" Oh no! We've come this far! (50 yards from the car . . .) I had to be brave for my niece, and perked right up, "Don't be afraid, Amelia—look at all the little kids going up and down the hill! They're all smiling! They're having fun! And look! You and I can hook our tubes together and go down at the same time, like those people streaking by us just did! Won't that be fun? What do you mean you didn't see them, because they were going so fast?" We reached the conveyor belt, gingerly stepped onto the moving surface and began our ascent. I turned to again look at the long line of people forming behind us. No way we could turn back now. I looked down and gave Amelia a huge smile. She didn't smile back. I then looked at Jill, who was staring over Amelia's head at me with huge eyes, very distinctly mouthed the words, "What. The. F*ck. Are. We. Doing?!?" It didn't help our situation at all, to hear a man in line behind us say, "Why do I feel like we're a big heard of cattle, being lead to the slaughter house . . ."

"C'mon, you guys! This is gonna be fun!" I sang, my voice saturated with the most artificially-enhanced enthusiasm I could possibly muster. I might have sounded slightly insane. Jill rolled her eyes at me. Amelia stared straight ahead.

Slowly, we ambled our way to the top of the hill, carefully stepped off the conveyor lift and shuffled to our place in line behind other tubers. The tubes had long straps attached to them, so I looped Amelia's tube and mine together with the straps and we slowly made our way to the top of the hill. A young man with "STAFF" emblazoned on the back of his jacket pointed at us and said, "Are you two going down together?" Yes, sir, I said to this young man who could easily be my own son. "Well, just position your tubes at the edge here, and have a seat. I'll give you the signal when it's clear for you to go, okay?" Okay! I said with far more conviction than I felt, which was none, so we can only go UP from there, right? Umm. . . yeah. I couldn't stop the barrage of images assaulting my brain, all involving massive amounts of blood, all graphically portraying the potentially horrific ways we might die in the next 45 seconds. Amelia still wasn't smiling, while I was grinning like a homicidal maniac. We set our tubes down, parked our butts inside the round opening, our legs dangling over the edges. Amelia took an immediate death-grip to the handles on the tube and clamped her eyes shut tight.

All too soon, I heard the words, "Okay, ladies, your turn!"And the young man who could be my son waved his arm at us. Jill got behind us and pushed, as I used my hands and feet to drag ourselves along the snow-packed hillside closer to the edge. As we scraped ourselves closer and closer to the precipice, resistance suddenly gave way to the pull of gravity and we began to slide down the surface of the hillside, rapidly gaining speed by the second. My throat constricted so tight, I couldn't even squeak out a pathetic version of a scream, but Amelia took care of that—she was screaming loud and enough for the both of us. Surprisingly, I kept my eyes open the entire time as we whizzed down the hill, watching the smeared line of people slowly gliding up the hillside for their turn as they watched us sail by, not because I wanted to watch the scenery streak by—but because they were permanently blasted open by the g-force. I was terrified, I was certain all blood had rushed from my head, had pooled at the bottoms of my feet, and any second, I was going to pass out, my limp body catapulted from the tube, leaving poor Amelia to fend for herself on this Hill of Death. No, that can't happen! I screamed inside my brain. Or maybe I screamed it out loud—I have no clear recollection, but I did know that I had to be strong for Amelia—I had to remain conscious and survive this ride, for her, to save her, if need be!

Our tandem tubes at some point on our deathly descent somehow decided (seriously, are these things remotely controlled??!!) to rotate in their path as we sped down the hill, so for the last half of the ride we careened down the hill backward. If we were going to plow into the guard rail or into another unsuspecting tuber at the bottom of the hill, we wouldn't even know it, until impact . . . I don't know if it's good or bad to not see the pending crash occur . . . Amelia's piercing scream trailed behind us like a wind-carried scarf as we reached the bottom of the hill and plowed into the huge crash pads that lined the far edge of the tubing path. I sat in stunned silence, head in my hands breathing heavily, absorbing the peace and stillness around me that might easily be Heaven. Before I could speak, Amelia sprang from the tube, gave a couple of fist-pumps in the air and screamed, "That was awesome! Let's go again, Jen!" Shit. I sometimes hate this role of Awesome Aunt.

We did go again, and again and again, for nearly two hours straight. I can't say tubing won me over immediately, as it did Amelia. It took switching lanes—over an hour into our day—to the side of the sledding hill that was punctuated with deep, undulating peaks and valleys, that made me a complete convert, though not before Jill and I had a serious discussion with other veteran tubers, of the implications and ramifications of big dips versus flatter surfaces, projection vs. velocity (ummm, yea? Hell to the what??) And the conclusion: less dips=lightning bolt speed; more dips=serious air time (tubers become literally airborn as they and tube shoot over the dips in the run). I prefer the weightless airborn sensation to flat-out breakneck speed, I discovered. Spoken like a true tuber. Hang ten, dudes.

Finally, we broke for hot chocolate and vending machine brownies (yum! Not!) in the warming house, and before, Jill had to play bad cop and cut our tubing escapades just shy of our 2 hour pass, as Amelia was heading back to school the next morning, after the long holiday break. We ended up back at my house, where we made maple-syrup roasted Brussels sprouts with cashews and a killer salad of roasted squash with greens, dried cranberries, toasted pecans and a home-made citrus vinaigrette. Amelia took two bites of our gourmet dinner, wrinkled her nose and asked, "Jenny, can you make me some peanut butter and jelly toast the way you did last time I was here?" Anything for you, precious Defier of Death. . . I was sad to see Jill and Amelia finally head out, yet after our patented, 20 Minute Hildebrandt Good-bye™, my feel-good day continued until I brushed my teeth, donned my jammies and slid into bed. blisssssss. . . 

So why is this day so remarkably different than any other? Since Bob's death, I've been a part of endless  joyful events—countless music concerts, earning my motorcycle license, getting together with family and friends more now than (I think) ever, am in grad school and writing my heart out, teaching kettlebells—even went to the Caribbean with my youngest sister, Gretchen, over Thanksgiving. On the outside, one might believe that widowhood shit suits me quite well. Yes, all of those events had joyful moments, but are still, very heavily overshadowed by immense darkness and sadness. For a year and a half, most of what I've done is just going through the motions, hoping, hoping, hoping that some day, something will click, and I will be back to my "old self" again. But along with all of the above, has come tremendous work on my behalf. Oftentimes, begrudging work, frustrating work, disheartening work. Work that doesn't give me a 100% guarantee that when it's done, I'll be "all better." If that's not reason enough to quit, I don't know what is.

I have been taking part in some pretty unconventional therapy that I give enormous amounts of credit to, for creating this shift in my life. It's not your run-of-the-mill talk therapy, I'm not on medication (and I'm not knocking medication, either, just not the path I chose to take. As you raise the eyebrow at the three empty wine bottles in my recycling bin. From this week. And it's only Monday.). I began with the talk therapy route and am pretty sure I scared my first therapist shitless with the story I dumped on her. Very quickly, I learned that I can sit and talk till the end of time about what Bob went through, what I watched him go through, what I now have had to deal with, and never resolve anything to my satisfaction. "Giving it up to God" means nothing to me other than rolling over and playing helpless victim. God (if there is a god) doesn't want a bunch of victims in his/her/its flock. Trust me. God told me. Yup, me.

This day was freakin' awesome, because it is the first day, from the time I opened my eyes to the sun to when I slipped into bed at night, that I absolutely, genuinely felt pure joy in my life. Start to finish. A bizarre juxtaposition of tremendous sadness alongside tremendous joy was laced throughout the day, as well, and get this: I survived this surge of emotional overload! I was completely bowled over, that the two polarities could coexist peacefully, and reveled in the discovery. Yet, there was a sense in my very being, that this wouldn't be "the norm," that many difficult days may follow. Over and over and over again. But a settling in my cells, to know this, explicitly. That may be very difficult for some to believe, and even harder for lowly me to explain, for whatever reason and I get that. I don't expect anyone to "get" my journey, my experiences, or ever fully understand what I've gone through. Same as I would never believe I could possibly understand anyone else's earthly journey. For me, this didn't just "suddenly" happen with time, overnight, due to some kind of "miracle" or whatever. But it does start with an open heart.

On any other roll-of-the-dice day, the previous sentence, with a little revision, could also read, with adjustments: Today, I didn't get out of bed at all, didn't go anywhere, didn't do anything, can't stand the thought of seeing anyone today, cried for so long, I thought my eyeballs would shrivel up and fall out of my sockets like dried peas, went to the bathroom and back to bed and pulled the covers over my head till the next morning.

Okay, that was maybe a slight exaggeration, peeps. But not by much. Point being, I still wouldn't say I'm "getting better!" or that "things" are "getting better!" for me, mainly because that implies that simply by the passage of time, the pain of a great loss "gets better!" No. As a very astute aunt of mine (who had lost her own beloved Bob when he was in his 40s, over 20 years ago) told me at Bob's St. James memorial service, when I tearfully begged her to tell me that some day this will all get easier, "No, Jen, it never gets easier, you just somehow, miraculously, learn to live with the pain." My grief therapist said something incredibly profound to me during one of our sessions: that even if a person does nothing after a tremendous loss, they will still move forward with their life, more like dragged forward, like a pebble under a glacier. And at the pace of a glacier.

But as always (so comforting to know that some things will never change), I digress. Why today felt so different, I'm not sure. Maybe because I went AWOL on facebook a week or so ago, and now have an inordinate amount of free time?! Haha. Just kidding. Kind of. I mean, I wasn't joking about the f-book exodus—I did bow out quietly from that time-sucking social media vampire a short while back, which has resulted in a surprising cleansing feeling of its own. I honestly would not have been on it as long as I have been, had Bob not been so sick for as long as he was. For nearly two years, it was my only connection to the "outside" world, while we were living at the U during his tortuous treatments, and then in our isolated world of hospice. I stayed on after Bob's death, more so because it was (and more often than I care to admit, still is) easier to "connect" with people electronically, as most days, I couldn't stand the idea of being with people. Kinda comes with the Dee-Lux Grief Package. Which I didn't order, for the record. I wanted the Quickie Grief Deal, which must have been mixed up with someone else's order . . .

Anyhoo, I'm giving f-book more lip service than it deserves, and rambling on for more than I intended. I have an inkling, and even though I'm hesitant to say, I will. I do believe, at least part of me does, that my response for this day has been the result of a damn lot of work on my part. Therapy (for months, twice a week, now down to once), upon therapy upon therapy . . . and the resignation to keep trying, keep trying, keep trying, going through the motions, faking it till I was making it again, till something clicked, till I found something that resonated with my soul again. Even doing what I felt in my heart I have had to do, to go underground, to protect myself, and really dig in and process the events of my past three years. And being gratefully surrounding by a tremendous support system—my family, friends, lots of new ones also made along the way, that have had a tremendous job holding me up as I stumble forward. So, when I say that I had the funnest day ever, it's not just that I was doing fun things with fun people—it's that, for the first time in three years, I felt pure joy in my heart. All day. Like I used to when Bob was alive. From the moment my eyes opened this morning, and still going strong. The fruition of hard work. . .