Dreams . . .

A few days before Easter, I had a dream about Bob, a beautifully complicated dream about which I won't go into details, except for the ending. I had my arms around Bob's neck, I could feel him, just as if he were alive and well, I could touch the exact lines of his neck, his silky hair in my hands, everything about him was so real, I couldn't believe it's been two and a half years since I last held his whole, healthy body next to mine, without causing excruciating pain, without cancer. That Bob died over two years ago, the Bob I have yet to mourn, still so buried beneath the trauma of his illness. In the dream, my head is on his chest, I am sobbing. "I miss you so much, I want you here with me, I can't do this by myself any more. . ." He just held me, saying over and over quietly, "I am here Jen, I am always here with you, I will never leave you." His voice was so soft and soothing, so full of love. But of course, being of pathetically earthly mind and body, I had to argue with him, crying even harder, "But you're not here with me—I can't see you, I can't feel you—this, right now, this isn't real!" He just held me, stroking my hair, allowing me to cry and carry on, saying softly, "I'm always here for you, I'm always here . . . " When I woke, my pillow was soaked with tears.

Dali's The Burning Giraffe

I've had several such dreams of Bob, each time, I wake myself with my own crying. I never had such vivid dreams before Bob died—wait—I take that back. Often, my dreams are vivid, but not in a linear, literal, message-delivering kind of way. Usually, they'd give a Hunter S. Thompson novel a run for its money (sorry for the lame wikipedia link—it was the best I could do in short time), without the aid of hallucinogens . . . there is never a story line, and often involve random, Salvador Dali-esque settings with talking goats, peeing in public, or my teeth falling out . . . my recent vivid dreams aren't frequent, maybe once every several months or so. At this point on this f'n journey (F'NJ, for short), a dream about Bob mostly feels like a form of torture—to see him, hear his voice, physically feel his beautiful, whole, well body, and then wake up empty-armed leaves an oppressive heaviness with me that lasts for days, reminding me, with deep clarity—this is my life now. Without Bob. A tiny part of me feels comforted by the dreams, and I hope in time, I'll open myself even more to that peaceful comfort, and to the possible meaning and messages behind them.

By now, I could write a nice little volume about Bob dreams—some that I've had, some that family members have experienced—nearly all with the same message: "I am always here with you, I'm healthy and whole again, you know this, don't you?" But right now, they are at once, confusing and precious, cryptic and sacred. I shared this one, only because it was so recent, had such an impact and that maybe in time, in a future blog, I can expand on these in more depth and detail . . . I do find it beautifully ironic, that the least religious, yet most spiritual, person I have personally known, would come to me in a dream, just before Easter, with a message of eternal life and love. I know that some, at best, may dismiss all of this as cuckoo for cocoa puffs, and at worst, be completely offended, but I guess that's not my problem, just sharing what I know right now. My hope is that more will find the beauty in the ethereal connection we all have with our loved ones—those who share this earthly life with us as well as those who have passed, that life doesn't end with death . . . I'm still wrestling with so many pieces to the puzzle—so many intricate facets to every relationship, the journey doesn't follow a linear path, doesn't follow anyone's path, anyone's prescription, no one can really, truly tell anyone else how it is . . . unique as a freakin' snowflake, we all are which just adds to the astoundingly confusing impressively infuriatingly, and sometimes brilliantly stunning nature of the journey. If only there was a specific recipe to follow, would make this whole damn thing so much easier . . .

Gibbons are scary.

So, on the topic of dreams (yea! for staying "on theme" for once!! Therapy might be working!), my sister, Jill, called this morning to tell of a horrible dream she just had about me being attacked by a gibbon. Not a plain ol', generic, run-o-the-mill monkey, not a boring textbook ape, but specifically, a gibbon. Yea, WHT??!! was my first response, too. I actually had to Google it as she was telling me this, to verify that it indeed is a monkey-like creature. Anyhoosies, in the dream, she, Bob and I were walking down a street when suddenly this gibbon (makes me giggle, just typing that) comes out of nowhere, grabs me, hauls me up into an abandoned bus up a hill, and starts beating the daylights outta me, I was crying, trying hard to fight back; Bob and Jill could see the gibbon and me through the bus windows as the killer monkey continued to maul me, but couldn't get to me, they could only watch from a distance, helplessly horrified . . . Eventually, I somehow got away from the vicious simian (learning and growing in vocabulary, peeps, thanks to Hamline University), to safety, Bob held me as I cried, trying to explain to them the terrible ordeal, showing them my cuts and bruises . . . Everyone was bewildered at what had just happened . . .

Jill was mortified by the dream, but I was laughing, a lot. During the telling of the tale, I had to have her repeat much of it because my laughter kept interrupting her. Jill finally said, "What the hell is so funny, Jen?! It was awful, just awful! You were being beaten so badly, and all we could do was stand there and watch! It was horrifying, it felt so real—all of it—Bob was there, as real as anything, he was his old self, whole and healthy again, but neither of us could do anything to help you—what could it possibly mean?!" I said, "Are you kidding?!? It's so obvious! It means I must never go to Como Zoo again!" Just kidding, peeps. I actually said, "Are you kidding?!? That monkey is grief, Jill! I've been trying so hard, without success, to come up with just the right metaphor, but you and your gibbon beat me to it . . ."

Grief is an ambushing gibbon (wouldn't that make a great bumper sticker?), impervious to anyone's efforts but the one going through it. No one can do this for me, not even Bob. It's my own journey and a tough one it is. But we can be here for each other, to help pick up the pieces, and continue on. I am so close to my family, and all adored Bob, became so intertwined with his ordeal, deeply affected by his illness and death, as well; but it's still astounding that they, too, would have such intense dreams relating to his ordeal. The interconnectedness of humankind is mind-boggling . . . well, that, and my sister is a natural born worrier, as natural to her as breathing. Believe it or not, she has an even worser case of worstcasescenarioitis than I do—in that respect, I'm not surprised she would have such a dream. She takes on the world's problems, adding them to the already heavy load she carries, feels very deeply for others' struggles . . . But I'm no dream analyst—maybe it meant something else entirely. Still, what an amazing analogy, regardless—that grief does appear so violent and dangerous at times, it feels like a vicious battering. By a gibbon. And how amazing that Jill's subconscious mind picked up on my grief so vividly and accurately, as well as the helplessness of loved ones surrounding the one grieving, too . . . grief is astoundingly universal, but we don't always know it, because it's often a hidden journey . . .

The monkey could also represent what those who practice mindfulness/medication call "monkey mind," referring to the incessant chattering, inattentive, overactive worrying, fretting, giving in to doubts and fears of our mind that we all engage in from time to time, but can be especially pronounced when processing a huge loss . . . the really funny thing about Jill's dream came about when I called my mom to tell her about it. She listened intently, astounded at Jill's perceptive story, as well. Later in the day, my mom called me back, and said, "Jen, when you told me about Jill's dream, I kept thinking, 'why does the word gibbon sound so familiar?' Later, it dawned on me—the doctor who delivered you was named Dr. Gibbon!" Seemingly random, but it could easily be entwined into the dream meaning, as well . . . the cool thing about dreams—so many facets, layers, symbolisms, one could spend days picking just one dream apart . . . of course, it doesn't help that I just spent the past week reading and analyzing a collection of short stories by Argentinean writer, Jorges Luis Borges, who delighted in concocting wildly bizarre labyrinth-ical stories that blurred fact with fantasy . . . holy hell, that's enough thinking for one day, and it's only 9 am. . .

Widow doesn't (w)rite

I'm thinking of changing the name of the blog, since it appears I don't write any more . . . that couldn't be further (farther? I think my first guess was right . . . MFA much, Jen?) from the truth, but y'all wouldn't know that, by the lack of entries lately (and by "y'all," I mean the three of you who are still following my diarrhea of the keyboard—Mom, Jill, and . . . who's that third one again . . .)? Believe it or not, school is kicking my butt—it's only one class, I'm not working (well, I do watch my awesome nephew, Otto, two full days a week, but can I call something that brings me pure joy work?!)—you'd think I'd still have monumental amounts of time on my hands to ramble along here, even with schoolwork. I do, but I don't. . .this whole grief thing is a pretty big deal, intensely personal, insanely life-altering, a full-time job, it feels like some days, a sacred journey, on others; as such, the intricacies of it difficult to share, especially when I am not even close to understanding the the whole big mess myself. It's been almost a year since my best friend was taken from me, but I still have much work to do. I am hopeful to one day be at a place where I'm not "living and reliving the past" but instead, "living with my past, moving forward;" I see little glimmers of this happening now and then, but it requires so much work, work that is all consuming and so often feels like it just doesn't fit into the context of the world as I once knew it. Just where I am on the F'N Journey as I so affectionately call this (F'NJ, for short . . .). As much as I long for the CliffNotes to grieving, there's no shortcut. I'm still not okay with any of this "reinventing." Not one bit. Right now, I'm still in the mindset of "I'm doing all this shit because I have to, not because I want to." But I'm also trying to be okay with that, too, respecting it as part of the F'NJ. I like to fool myself into thinking that by getting crazy out of the way in the beginning here, I'll spare myself from being taken out by it sometime down the road, unexpectedly . . . work with me here—just smile and nod, okay? Thanks.

In my writing class, I'm actually required to write things other than a blog—real stuff, that requires heavy editing, purposeful stuff, stuff with a point, with structure, meaning, use of real literary elements and all—a beginning, middle and end, even). Not only that, I am also required to read things other than grief self-help books. Holy hell, that's asking a lot of me, especially without that prescription for Ritalin. . . but I am excited to announce I got an A on my first big writing assignment, an assignment that threw me into such a tailspin, I nearly gave myself a heart attack over the whole ordeal, almost dropped the class entirely, I was so worked up over the thing. Overreacting, perhaps to some, but not in this world. Overreacting is still part of the full meal deal (which makes it easier to avoid most human contact, at this point . . .)

See, we have to read our pieces in class, after which we get to endure "constructive criticism" heaped upon us by the other class members. Can we say Firing Squad?! I ended up being 20 minutes late the night our first big assignment was due to hand it (which is highly unusual, since I've earned the reputation of uber-geek in class, arriving 20 minutes early, sit right in front, next to my professor). Turns out, we ran out of time, and I didn't have to read my piece that night; in fact, have yet to read my piece—I will finally get my turn this coming Monday. The big trigger is that I had this lofty aspiration of starting the "first chapter" of Bob's story in this class (which was my big ol' goal when I applied to Hamline—to eventually tell Bob's story—at least that's what I wrote on my application materials). What a great opportunity to start, here in this first class, I thought! Well, "thinking" and "doing" are two hugely different activities . . . I encounter that damn lesson every day, you'd think it would start to sink in by now. I'm a slow learner. . . halfway through, I panicked and decided I just can't share his story in public yet, to a room of young—20-something—strangers who are going to tear it apart. I'm already torn wide open . . . so, what do I do? I change my mind in the middle of the whole deal, and instead, start a whole new story—abou Gaia dying. And can we guess what happened? Ultimately ended up being a story about Bob, anyhow . . . which just goes to show me that still, everything in life, and I mean everything, is so tightly wrapped up with Bob, that I cannot extricate them, yet . . . I don't expect anyone to understand this, just sharing, for what it's worth. But, I got that "A," and even though my paper was so marked up by editorial comments by my prof, he ended it with the underlined words, "Powerful piece. You have talent." Thank God I waited till I was in my car before reading his comments because I started sobbing immediately . . .

Not to change subjects on you so quickly, but we're all used to this by now, right? I had a couple of deeply touching e-mail exchanges recently, first one from an old grade school teacher of Bob's (and by old, I don't mean OLD—this man is still teaching; I simply mean, from Bob's past!); this teacher wrote to tell me a story about a bench . . . a little over a year ago, at the benefit for Bob, there was a cute little wooden bench on the silent auction, made by Bob's dad. This teacher (I'm refraining from names, to protect the guilty!) was very interested in the bench, but because of his (and I quote), "dumb ass second guessing bidding techniques," he lost out on the bench. In his e-mail, he told me that he hadn't forgotten about the bench, or about Bob and me, and the closer we get to the anniversary of Bob's death, this teacher said he wanted to do something more than just think about it. So he asked Jim to make another bench for him. And this teacher had his 4th grade class finish the bench—sanded, stained, signed all their names on it, couple coats of protective finish—as they did, this teacher talked about Bob a little bit, to the kids, what he was like at their age as a student, said the stories probably meant more to him than they did to the kids, but who knows . . . he also added Bob's name, along with the other kids' names, on the bench, and the year 2011 . . . then, they offered the bench as a silent auction donation, a fundraiser for the school, ended up snagging something like $165 or so for the school . . . (The sign on the bench reads: Presented by Grade 4 with the generous talents of Jim Andrzejek.)

I told Penny and Jim about what this teacher and his class did with the bench, so they went to the auction to see it "in person," and were so touched by the act (Bob's name is in the upper left corner, next to the "Grade 4"). They've been in Montana for the past week, visiting Nancy, Brian, Claire and Grace, and Penny got the great idea to make another bench while they were out there, as a family project. Penny's initial idea was to paint it, then decorate it—maybe with everyone's handprints, maybe some flowers, or owls, along with the words "Uncle Bob's Bench". . . I got a text from her a few days ago, that they were heading out to get the supplies for the bench, and another just today, saying it's painted, but not yet decorated. I don't know how the finished project will turn out, but I'm looking forward to see what they come up with . . . which has me thinking, they could be onto something here, a line of memorial benches in Bob's honor, or for others' loved ones . . . but, I shouldn't prostitute Jim's time and talents, without running it by him first, so please don't bombard him with orders, just yet!

Second exchange was from a cousin of Bob's in Texas, Anne, who shares a deep connection with Bob, through her love of nature, wildflowers and photography, among other ways . . . I've never met Anne (but I hope to, some day!) and it's probably been decades since she and Bob spent time together, but she has been one of our most "vocal," (via e-mails and blog comments) and endearing supporters, and continues to be . . . she e-mailed me not long ago, asking for a digital photograph of Bob, because she's partaking in her local Relay for Life again; this year, they're doing a memory garden and she wants to honor Bob by including his picture in the garden. She's also photographing the event, because, in her words, "it is how I want to honor Bob, by using my talents with my camera." I first "met" Anne when I started the Sofa King blog over two years ago; she always has such wonderful, positive things to share; she sent Bob a beautiful self-published book of her wildflower photographs when he was in hospice; she often shares stories of her love of nature, about how Bob has been such an inspiration for her getting into photography, though "getting into" doesn't do her justice. She is and continues to grow as a gifted artist, and I have to share her website, www.anneelliottphotography, because I'm so blown away by her stunning work, and know Bob would be, too . . .

It moves me beyond words, to know that people carry Bob so close as these two do, two people who are virtual strangers to me. . . I know life moves on, people move on, it's how life works, but to get tangible little tidbits like this now and then is such a gift, it helps to underscore the impact my beautiful husband had on others, how his presence continues to reverberate within others . . . this is how he lives on . . .

Random ramblings . . .

I went to the emergency vet clinic the other day, to pick up Gaia's remains. I was crying—no make that hysterically sobbing—almost the entire way, once again, could barely see the road. I thought about  reigning it in before I got there then thought, What the hell? They must see this sort of scene at their clinic on a regular basis, so I just let 'er rip . . .

Once again, the staff at the Animal Emergency Clinic in Oakdale was so kind and compassionate, allowed a grown woman to blubber and babble over her beautiful old dogs ashes is just another day at the office for them . . . of course, I cried even harder when I saw the velvet bag that held her remains, embroidered with the words, "till we meet again over the rainbow bridge . . ." If you've never read this before, The Rainbow Bridge, get a box of kleenex now, before you start. Only someone with a cold stone for a heart would be dry-eyed after reading it . . . first time I heard of this poem was when our beautiful Liddy had to be put down, 4 1/2 years ago now; someone had given us a card with the words printed in it. Even had Bob in tears, "cursing" the card-giver for making a grown man cry. . . I couldn't read through this whole poem for the longest time after she died . . . still chokes me, and now, has even more poignancy to its words . . .

Along with Gaia's remains was a flyer for a pet support group held at the vet clinic. I had to laugh, in spite of my tears. Just what I need, more therapy. Between grief therapy, post traumatic stress therapy, widow support groups and all my informal little get-togethers with new-found friends of the "lost" world, who has time for a real job . . . no, I am not going to the pet loss support group, by the way. I could have used that when Liddy was sick and had to be put down, but I believe I said in my posts dedicated to Gaia, she lived and died about the best way any living creature could have . . . I miss her immensely, but I once she died, I felt immense peace. . . she had a long, beautiful life, she held on as long as she could for me, I know that in my heart, and when she was ready to go, she was ready . . .

On a totally unrelated note, I was just informed that the old house in St. Paul has been rented out! I was so relieved to hear this news, I would have kissed my landlords full on the lips, had they told me face-to-face. As such, it was over the phone—lucky for them. They have been so understanding and compassionate with my situation, and accommodating in helping to find a new tenant, allowing me to be totally relieved of my obligation, even though I signed a two year lease (I was that horrified and determined to be out of Wrenwood, I would have moved anywhere—even a cardboard box under the 494 overpass would have been a reprieve. . .)

The old house in St. Paul was definitely a reprieve, necessary for self-preservation, I know this now. It was a safe haven, in endless ways, but I knew, initially as the tiniest pinprick of "knowing," that I wouldn't be there long. My only regret was signing a lease for so long, but there's that crystal-clear hindsight . . . what's done is done and now, it's a little bit of weight off my shoulders, one less thing to keep me awake at night. Just keep plodding forward. . . If there is one rule to this widowhood shit, it's that there are no rules—wait a minute, isn't that a line in a movie? If it's not, it should be . . .

I have been loving this spring weather, I have to keep reminding myself it's March, not May. . . have the yard 75% cleared of leaves, the last 25% is clogging up that god-forsaken "rock garden" that the previous owners put in. I hate that thing, always looks like a mess, river rocks tumble into the front yard and I often don't see them, so I end up mowing over them . . . I'm surprised I haven't taken out a window yet. . . but with the nice weather brings another season of change, more reminders . . . this f'n journey never ends. . .

Little Green fer y' on St. Patty's . . .

Feeling rather hermit-ish lately, could be a number of reasons—season changes, creeping up on the "one year" mark, could be that a year ago today, Bob was still with me, we had chips and guac, and a beer on the deck on a balmy St. Patrick's day, after the most horrific winter we have ever known . . . two days later, my dear friend, Lisa and her husband Dale, lost their beloved Sam, and at the same time, Bob took a turn for the worst in hospice, thus ensuing our month-long rapid descent . . . then again, I'm on the rag, so what the hell do I know about anything anymore . . . I do know that I love this picture so much, the expression on Bob's face speaks volumes to me, such a beautiful expression, almost startling peacefully content, given the immeasurable hell he had endured for a year and a half and would endure, for another month and a half. . .

Bit of green spotted today, on my "living wall!"

Along with hermit mode comes a lot of spring cleaning, though it feels like I've done nothing, with how much needs to be done. The inside of the house continues to grow messier and messier as I continue to play and play out in the dirt outside. I'm taking advantage of the amazing weather, have been clearing the yard of old leaves and other debris, had a tree trimming company out to finally trim back the two old oaks that flank the house (one was the big one that, during a terrible storm the summer of 2010, launched the Maryland-sized branch onto the deck and crushed our patio table and chairs, so can't believe that was already two summers ago), a job that should have been done ages ago . . . tree guys said they are very healthy (yea! I was worried that maybe they were diseased, due to the big branch breaking off as it did) and will hopefully remain intact for a long time to come. I learned white oaks can't be trimmed in the summer—the fresh cuts make the trees susceptible to disease and bugs . . . dragged the patio furniture out of hiding, washed it all down, and unofficially have my "outdoor office" ready to roll, though I don't have the stomach to sit out there alone, yet. Trying to organize the garage, clean the gutters,  clear the screened deck, rake/ blow out the rock garden, trim all the junk that was neglected in the fall/winter . . . I've seen bits of evidence of spring—some of my outdoor plants are sending up shoots, the vines on the "living wall" that my friend, Allison, erected for me last year, already have little buds popping up all over it . . . spring at Wrenwood is definitely appearing early this year . . .

Today, I wanted to take Rocco on a long walk outside the 'hood, to take a break from all the heavy manual labor of the past few days. I am trying so hard to get my poor pup to "love!" the Jeep, to recognize that the Jeep is a magical thing that brings him to happy places—parks! The butcher shop! Other houses with other dogs! He still ain't buyin' it, shakes like an epileptic as soon as he's in (I'm allowed to say that, btw, I have epilepsy. Or at least I did—haven't had a seizure in over 10 years, so I like to believe I'm "cured," though I also know enough about the disorder to know that it can rear its head at any time, without warning. One more of my "worst case scenarioitis" issues that sometimes keeps me up at night—if it isn't something else—is that I'll suddenly start having seizures again, out here, all by myself. One of my widow friends, a woman who fosters dogs, told me that one of her foster pups was from a guy who had died alone, his dogs had to start eating him, because no one checked on him for days, they had run out of food, which lead to a horrifically morbid conversation about what would happen to either of us, should we die at home . . . at least I have family that checks on me several times a day, via phone. She has no one, and it's a very real fear of hers . . . yup, the conversations widows have, not just with themselves, but with other widows . . . ).

ANYHOOOOOOOSIES, I was going to take a quick jaunt to Lake Elmo park, to get back and continue the outside cleaning frenzy, but before I knew it, the Jeep was heading north, toward William O'Brien State Park. Must have been the pull of the Irish holiday upon us, and get this—I even had a green tank top on, totally unplanned and totally unnoticed by yours truly, until we got back to the car after our 3 hour hike. . .

If a man pees in the woods . . .

Last time I remember being at William O'Brien was the winter before Bob got sick, January 2009. We went snow shoeing, just the two of us—we left Gaia back home because the snow was deep and she was already showing signs of painful arthritis, the deep, heavy snow would have been tough for her. It was a beautiful day, we didn't take many pictures, just got off the beaten track and wove our way in and out of the woods on our snow shoes, traipsing up and down hills, along a beautiful little creek, cutting through the snow, babbling and tumbling along the hillside, over wet, shiny rocks . . . at one point, Bob asked me to hold his camera while he went to see a man about a horse (whatever the hell that means, dudes), so I took this picture of him—I know, totally inappropriate . . . I did that a lot to him, since that was usually the only time I got the honor to hold his camera—when he had to take a leak. . .We may have taken Gaia and Rocco to W'm O'Brien once that following summer for a walk, but I'm not entirely sure about that memory—I remember stopping for ice cream and sitting at a picnic table behind the Brookside Inn at Marine on St. Croix after one such hike, for some reason I visualize Rocco being so freaked out, he wouldn't even eat the ice cream. But I can't say for certain if it was Rocco that I'm remembering—it might have been Liddy, we might have tried taking her for one last hike, during her last months on earth, not feeling well enough even for ice cream. . . hell, I might be making the whole damn thing up . . . it's these fuzzy, almost unreal memories that drive me crazy. . . did it happen or didn't it? I have no way of knowing . . .

Rocco and I had a good walk today. It was warm but the wind kept us cooled . . . I remembered to bring water along this time, but Rocco gets so one-tracked minded on these walks that he simply refuses to drink any water. He does try to drink out of the murky, stinky, stagnant river water, but I discourage that behavior (until we get his heart worm medication and other shots up to date). We encountered many doggies, to Rocco's utter delight, lots of people out and about, but the beauty of a state park is it's expansive enough to still feel solitude, to still feel blissfully insulated, isolated . . . It's a tough endeavor, to head out to these parks that I used to share with Bob, alone. But I also feel compelled to do so. A strange sensation, almost like an out-of-body experience, to walk along land that is at once so familiar yet so foreign, to approach a curve in the path and know that a stand of birches will be found around the bend, or come to a hilltop and know a large oak will be stretched out as though greeting me at the top . . . but to see all of this, without Bob along side me—seeing everything again, yet for the first time, alone, is a startling sight. 

Lake Elmo Park Reserve, Afton State Park, revisited

Tree on prairie, Afton State Park

I decided to shake up the ol' morning routine a bit this weekend. Oh, don't get too excited—I still had my requisite three cups of chest-hair-stimulating coffee each morning, still had to check in on the internet for good hour or so to see how the world is surviving without my presence (it is)—but instead of walking Rocco up and down the streets our our quiet country neighborhood, I hog-tied and corralled him into the Jeep (he'sl still having issues with cars, we're still working on it) and headed to Lake Elmo Park Reserve on Saturday, and hit Afton SP this morning. Lake Elmo PR, just down the road from our house off County Road 10, is a huge county park and rivals many state parks in heft and girth, as well as solitude (if you can transcend the intermittent gunshots puncturing the silence from its neighbor, Oakdale Gun Club). Supposedly, there's no chance of being hit by a stray bullet, but I tend to avoid the path that is directly adjacent to the range. At some point, the shooting eventually ceases, literally or figuratively, and the park pulls you in to its beauty.

LEPR is an astounding, beautifully blended melange of vast wild lands and equally vast, well-planned development, something for everyone. A person could lose herself among the expansive hills and valleys and woods and swamplands (and I have), if not for the castle-like state-of-the-art playgrounds and picnic shelters that pierce the horizon now and then, divulging safety and civilization and thus, saving and re-orienting my sorry ass. There's even a swimming "hole" in the midst of this immense wilderness—a ginormous man-created, sand-bottomed, perfectly circular body of water that looks more pond than pool, complete with filtering system, loaded with "locals" from a 25+ mile radius on any give day that temps rise above 80 degrees.

Afton SP was a local favorite hiking spot of ours for years. An east day-trip from our house in Roseville, an even easier trip from Wrenwood. I'd pack baggies granola and mixed nuts, baggies of dog treats, Bob would fill water bottles, line the Jeep with dog blankets, make sure we had all other dog stuff—leashes, water bowls, poop bags. He might pack his camera and a lens or two, but more often not—it was difficult to take photos with anxious dogs and an impatient wife in tow. That, and we never left early enough or stayed late enough for the really good light, the sweet light, as Bob called it. He got his best shots heading to the park on his own, on his time schedule; our outings were "scouting trips," he'd call them. Depending on the season, he'd scope the landscape for spring wildflowers, or fall colors, or locations that might provide a stunning backdrop for whatever it was that he was imagining. Afton has various topography in which to get lost (and well-placed maps along the way, to find yourself again)—thick, damp woods, vast, airy prairies, trails along the river—hours of hiking pleasure within a short drive from home.

I haven't been to either park since last year. When Bob died, for months, I was of the walking dead.  One day, a week after his death, awash in disbelief that he really, truly is dead? I forced myself to walk the trails of the parks. At the time, I thought I would make it a regular occurrence, that I'd force myself to embrace the life and loved that Bob and I once shared, but alas, it happened just that one time. You can't force healing, it has to happen on its own time, its own terms. I didn't write much about those hike, I barely recall them (I only have his blog to tell me that it happened, and after reading that entry, I still only "kind of" remember, in flashes). I don't know if I took one of the dogs along or not—I might have taken Rocco, but no empirical data exists to prove this. I didn't have much to say or think while on auto-pilot, I didn't know the language of my new world yet. Numbed and horrified by the culmination of the events of the year and a half, all I knew was: I have to start over. No wait—I get to reinvent. That coveted "do over" that's titillating to anyone but the person who has to do over.

The only intent of that walk, nearly a year ago, was to try and anchor myself to something familiar, something beloved, something close, something that would stir up memories other than cancer, suffering, hospitals, hospice, death. But even our precious parks were a cold, alien land, a year ago. As I walked a year ago, I was not comforted. I was abandoned (by everyone—especially Bob—after all the "miracles" he had survived, he wasn't supposed to die), failed (I had failed to save my beautiful husband, his doctors failed in giving us choices), bewildered, suspended in midair, walking just to walk, clawing for a translation in the leaves, a message from the sky, desperate for anything from the natural world that used to speak to Bob, that now surrounded me, to gently convey that Bob is really, truly gone and my life—our lives—as I knew it, gone, but all will be okay. But nobody was talking. The landscape was familiar yet foreign. An abandoned barn, a stand of birches, a lone oak tree that I knew would appear on the hill up around the corner. Familiar. Mocking. Or maybe not even mocking. Maybe just there, offering no anchor. That day, nearly a year ago, I didn't get the message. That day, and endless to follow, all was simply gone.

But along the way, in an order that I didn't ordain, with events I didn't plan, much less expect (because if I had any say in this journey, things would be much more predictable, it wouldn't continue to be this hard), days and weeks, and months and now going on almost a year later, we received and continue to receive, in no particular order or discernible pattern: owls and music and random coins—and people, and messages of patience etched in rocks, and connections and reconnections to more people, places and things that would eventually, painstakingly anchor me, and at the same time, set me free. Don't ask me to explain that one. . . at once, gently pulled back to earth, where my life lessons continue to unfold, sometimes baffling, sometimes in glaring clarity, but shattered wide open at the same time . . .  Always here for the open hearted. Patience. . . but I am not patient by nature. I don't like cryptic language. I don't want to have to work so hard. I worked so hard for a year and a half, continue to work so hard . . . but guess what? I don't have a choice. Not if I want to move through and with . . .

Thankfully, neither park is too far from our house, Lake Elmo maybe a 10 minute drive, Afton a little farther, but not enough time for Rocco to succumb to vomiting (though to get to Afton from our house means taking the windy, twisty, up and down, back and forth backroads, which certainly can't help my neurotic dog's delicate stomach). He was already trembling when I walked him out to the Jeep this morning, such a nervous mess, he tried to jump into the back before I had the tailgate up. CLUNK! Kissed the back door HARD. Thankfully, I had him clipped to his leash, or he would have bailed on me for sure. But as soon as we got to the park, {{poof!}} he transformed into a bloodhound the second he leapt from the confines of his torture chamber, nose to the ground, nearly tearing my arm from the socket as he bolted down the trail, only to be stopped quick by the length of the retractable leash and my anticipatory full-body bracing.

Lake Elmo and Afton parks are in-between seasons, both melting, sloppy hot messes. Trees and ground bleed themselves into the snow and trails, staining the ice with melting rust-colored ribbons that swirl and spread into a mix of sloshy mud on the outside, slick-as-snot ice with an ankle-deep layer of chilled water on the inside. This is time of year when most avoid the parks, much less clomp around in it, till things melt and dry up more and hiking/biking/horseback riding is much easier. Between mud that powerfully suctioned to my shoes, low-lying icy puddles that offer no way around them but through them, snow compacted to icy slabs that offered no traction whatsoever and Rocco straining the length of the leash, I thought for sure at some point I will face-plant into the hillside. I finally broke the parks' rules and unclipped Rocco from his leash, to lessen the chance that he would be responsible for dragging me down on Nature's Obstacle Course. But the sun was brilliant and far reaching and magnetic, a day that Bob and I, in our former life, would have welcomed the pull and packed up dogs and selves and headed out, mud be damned, to have a state park almost all to ourselves, before the desirable season set it.

I slopped through cold mud puddles up to my ankles, filled my shoes and soaked my socks with icy wetness, to feel alive. I let naked, bony tree branches comb my hair and scratch at my face, to feel alive. I overdressed so the sun could overheat me, bake me and make me sweat, make me feel alive. I turned off the ringer on my phone (but kept it on my person, should I wander too far and lose myself completely, and need to call for a search-&-rescue party), to feel alive. I touched crispy, crinkly, crepe-papery rusty oak leaves still clinging to low hanging branches, to feel alive. I slipped and tripped along treacherous trails, arms flailing, hands grabbing, just to feel alive. I traipsed up slippery slopes to examine the lichen-crusted guts of old foundations of what—an old farm house? A barn? to feel the spirits of the souls who lived above these foundations. To feel alive.

Hiking along the prairie loop at Afton State park, I trudged up a hill where I knew a bench would be waiting at the top,. The sun was much more intense than I had anticipated, soaking me in late-winter warmth, intensified by the open prairie with nothing in the way to impede its mission. Even Rocco, by this point, was slowing down, panting deeper. The bench I was looking for was one that Bob and I often stopped at to take a break, take in the view, give the dogs some water, catch our breath. As we rounded the top of the hill, I spied the bench, anchored to the place it has been for years. I suddenly recalled a memory of hiking in Afton with Bob and the dogs, Gaia and Liddy. We had stopped at this bench for a water break, to catch our collective breath. As we stood on the top of the world that overlooked the expansive St. Croix river valley, we spotted a lone hiker down at the bottom of the hill that we had just scaled. Normally, our dogs wouldn't pay too much attention to any hiker, unless there was another dog in the bunch. Today, Gaia stood still, facing the direction of the hiker, watching him intently. As as he crested the hilltop, I immediately thought, odd, he's wearing jeans, flimsy loafers and a sweater. This park bench was situated deep within the park, no easy stroll to get to it. And it had to be well into the 70s; we had already peeled off light jackets and tied them around our waist. At the same time, a deep, rumbling growl rolled through Gaia's throat, tumbling out as several deep, muffled woofs, as close as she ever came to barking. The man glanced our way, said a quick hello and quickened his pace, rounding the bend and disappearing over the next hill. "That man is a serial killer," I announced as soon as he was out of sight. Bob laughed at me. "Why would you think that?"

"Are you kidding? Did you see what he had on—who wears jeans and slippers to hike way out here? And you saw Gaia's reaction—she's never barked at anyone in her whole life! Yup, serial killer. I wonder where he dumped the body . . ." Bob joined in, concocting an elaborate story about this man's existence. . . . standing on the hill today, I am at once, awash in amusement and heavy with sadness, recalling this and endless other memories shared with Bob in this setting . . .

Today, I noticed a curious little bouquet of flowers hanging off the back of the bench, which faced Afton Alps (and yes, crazy skiers were still out today, even though temps had to have reached above 60! What could the snow possibly be like, other than treacherous, on a day like today!). I wondered who left the flowers, what could they possibly be for. The memory of a loved one who also loved this scenic, restful point? Someone else searching? I saw a card attached to the flowers, tucked between the dried, ribboned stalks and the bench. I slid it out and read this message: "Each day, well lived, makes yesterday a dream of happiness & each tomorrow a vision of hope. Look, therefore, to this one day, for it alone is life." (Sanskrit poem) Love, Susan & Kim

A year ago, Bob was dead. I was dead. The world as I knew it ceased to exist. I walked these trails bewildered and alone. At the time, I needed to be bewildered and alone. A necessary step, among hundreds and thousands of steps, to today, among hundreds and thousands more, to tomorrow and beyond. But all that matters, really, is today. Bob is still dead, a part of me still feels dead, my world is not the same, will never the be same. But a part of me, today, felt like the uncertain icy-watery trail beneath my feet, with oak trees pressed into its surface, as though their very energy were melting through, full of potential, full of life as much as death. Today, a little bit of me felt Bob walking with me. When he and I walked these paths, I often walked ahead, because Liddy always had to be the lead dog. Every now and then, I'd turn to talk to him, to hear something he said to me, to share a sight, a thought. Today, I felt I could do that again, to stop, turn around and talk to him, point out something that caught my eye, share a though. I did that, a lot today. A little bit of me felt alive. This one day—today—I am alive.


I am heeding a message sent to me from the most beautiful of messengers: To find peace and calm and enjoy the scenery again. To get outside and breathe again. But just in case anyone is thinking that {{{poof!}}} this suddenly happened, that suddenly my life is "back on track," and I'm "all better!", lemme tell you, that's not the case. Far from it. I still have many more steps to take, many more messages to find, many more memories to unearth.


Every step of the journey has its place, its purpose, its mission . . . the protective, mindless, almost forgotten ones, as well as the sloppy, muddy, icy, precarious ones . . .

Suicidal Squirrel Cripples Household for 2.5 Hours, story at 10

Woke up this morning, slid feet into gray fuzzy slippers, arms into one of Bob's fleece jackets, wrapped it tight around me and padded into the kitchen to get a pot of water going for coffee. I bought a French press a few months back and am in love with the flavor of coffee it produces. Rich, unrefined, full-bodied caffeinated goodness. On one of our endless trips to the ER during Bob's nightmare, I remember sitting by his side, holding his hand as he lay on the ER bed, IVs puncturing the tissue-thin skin of his skin-on-bone arms, eyes closed, face occasionally contorting in a grimace as wave after wave of pain rocked his body. It was very late at night, I don't remember precisely what crisis this was, after his second heart attack, I know that much . . . at one point, a nurse or technician, or maybe a doctor, asked if he could get me a cup of coffee. By now, I had learned the coffee in the ER was something to be avoided, watery brown liquid served in a styrofoam cup, adding a pronounced plastic overtone to the nauseating flavor. I politely declined his offer. "You look like you could really use a cup of coffee. I make a damn good one—got a French press at my station. Gimme a few minutes—" and he was gone. Many minutes went by, and I thought he had forgotten, which was all right, I know how these ERs can get. But a few minutes more and he returned with a steaming cup of black, opaque coffee, and he was right. Best damn cup of coffee I ever had in all our time spent at the U. The only good memory I have of that place. I'd made a mental note at the time to invest in a French press, but that, like countless things, it ended up on the back dusty recesses of my mind, till just recently.

I turned the burner on high before following Rocco downstairs to let him out. He leaped off the deck in a swan dive, landing just short of some half-dead shrubs and burrowed under them after an unseen rodent, maybe the resident chipmunk that's back to torture him. I stood at the patio door and watched him for a few minutes as he raced around the backyard, sniffing bushes, peeing on deck posts and tufts of winterized grass. We need another dog, I thought before turning around to head upstairs and finish my coffee. At that moment, these things happened almost simultaneously: a loud, muffled boom from outside, Rocco frantically clawing at the downstairs patio door, and the steady, high-pitched beep of the surge protector power strip from under my desk, warning me the power was out.

I let Rocco in and he tore past me up the stairs. I could hear him scramble into the bedroom and claw his way under the bed. Odd, I thought, though he is an odd dog who does odd things, all day, every day. Could the boom outside have been related to his frenetic actions and the power aborting? I briefly pondering the cause-effect, then just as briefly left my mind. I'd never get anything done if I sat around trying to make sense of my crazy mutt's behavior.

I walked into the furnace room and instinctively flipped the light switch. Duh. The sun pouring in through the east-facing windows partially spilled into the furnace room, but not far enough to reach the fuse box on the far wall. Like another appendage, my cellphone is always on my person; I dug it out of my jacket pocket and quickly flipped through the screens to the flashlight app. And Bob used to call my iPhone a useless, mind-numbing gadget—now, I felt like Macgyver as I held the white screen up to the fuse box, squinting at the rows of illuminated switches. They all looked the same. Running my finger down each row of hard plastic levers, maybe my sense of touch could better tell if a circuit had been tripped. Like an obedient little marching band, they were in perfect alignment.

It's a beautiful, sunny March morning—what could possibly have caused my power to go out? I wondered if my neighbors were also without power, but looking at my phone, it was too early to call. Instead, I went back upstairs, found my Xcel energy bill and the 800 number to call for power outages. The voice on the other end told me that I was the first to call from my area, that there were no area-wide outages reported, but they'll send someone out right away to check things out and get my power back on. By the way, the voice on the other end asked, did you happen to hear a loud boom or other loud, strange noise outside when the power went out? Yes! I cried, practically jumping up and down in acknowledgement. What's the connection? Well, it's likely that a squirrel bit through a line and blew a transformer. Winter is prime time for squirrels to be chewing through power lines and causing outages . . . So there may very well be a connection between the earlier, seemingly random events. . . Someone will be out in my neighborhood within the hour, I was told. Rocco crept out from the bedroom, still visibly shaking from his early morning wake-up boom, came and sat by my side like the most passive, obedient dog on Earth. If it had been a transformer blowing, it must have sounded really loud outside to freak my poor little sound-phobic pupster so terribly. He intermittently followed me around the house and hid in the bedroom all morning . . .

The first summer Bob and I moved to Wrenwood, a huge storm blew through and knocked out power for several days. We sat on our deck the first night, sweating our asses off, drinking beer, laughing and having a good ol' time, thinking for sure we'd have power by evening. Several hours passed, and  eventually, I announced that I just had to take a shower to try to cool off, and get ready to go to a wedding reception later that evening. I peeled the sweaty clothes clinging to my body, stepped into the dark shower stall and cranked the faucet. The water burst out in a full spray then quickly shriveled to a trickle, then nothing. What?! We've run out of water?! I suddenly comprehended, with blinding clarity, that we were no longer city folk with such modern conveniences as magic water. We have a well, with a pump that runs on electricity. Not only can we not shower, I quickly assessed, but we can't use the sinks, we can't flush the toilets. The water dispenser on the fridge won't work. No laundry. Anything that requires water was now impossible and suddenly, I felt a little panicky.

I put fresh clothes on and joined Bob outside again. We sat on the deck, drank more beer (why let that go to waste?), eventually noticed that we were surrounded by the low hum of what sounded like small engines. Or a swarm of killer bees. Curious, Bob walked up the road to find the source. He met a neighbor who informed us that our area is often one of the last to have power restored after a storm, so everyone around us, all ol' timers of the 'hood, have power generators hard-wired to their homes. They could run everything except their central air off their generators. We lost a fridge and freezer full of food that storm. Bob went to Mill's Fleet Farm shortly after and purchased a shiny red generator for Wrenwood. . .

Funny, all the things one can't do when the power goes out. One can't shower or flush toilets, at least not out here in the boonies, where our water comes from wells that operate on electric pumps. Can't make coffee. Can't connect to the internet. Can't do laundry. Can't open garage doors (I know there's a way to bypass the automatic opener, but I forgot how. Add that to my growing "Things-I-get-to-learn-because-Bob-isn't-here-to-do-them" list). Can't turn on lights, even though every time I entered a room or closet, I compulsively flipped the switch. Every flippin' time, pun intended. I didn't dare open the fridge—who knew how long I would be without power? It could be days! I need to be resourceful. Oh well, I wasn't really hungry anyhow.

So, I resorted to cleaning the house. Even that was a limited endeavor—I couldn't run the vacuum, which was the thing that most needed to be done. I haven't vacuumed since Gaia died, a week and a half ago, haven't had the heart to suck up the last remnants of my beautiful girl, lightly dancing around in furry tufts on my floor. But I could dust. And sweep. And fold the laundry that was in the dryer. And pick up and sort piles of miscellaneous junk that's been accumulating around the place—books and papers for school, bills to be paid, receipts to be filed. And balance my checkbook.

An hour ended up being two and a half by the time I heard the Xcel Energy truck rumbling down the road in front of our house. By this point, it had dipped to 55 degrees in the house. I had switched from my pajama bottoms into outdoor fleece pants and another layer under the jacket. I saw the truck drive by the house, turn around in the cul-de-sac and drive past the house again in the other direction, stopping a few doors down. A man in a bright yellow vest hopped out and crossed the road to another neighbor's property. Hey, wait a minute, I though, I was the first one to call—I get first dibs on power! I traded my slippers for a pair of shoes and trotted up the driveway and down the road a bit, till I spotted the yellow jacket among the shrubbery of my neighbor's backyard. I hoped he wasn't given the wrong address—I didn't want him to think nothing was amiss, and leave me stranded. I called out, asking if he happened to be here to check on the outage down the street, perhaps? He looked surprised.

I did not climb on roof to get shot; image stolen from interwebs.

"You're without power, too? I just got a call for these two properties—where are you at?" I pointed toward our house. "Well, I'm doing a quick preliminary check right now, but my guess is you all lost power due to a squirrel chewing through a line, which blew a transformer. Gimme a few minutes and you all should have power back, if that's the case. If not, I'll let you know what the next step'll be."

I wandered back to the house. Few minutes later, a loud beep from the carbon monoxide ejected Rocco from under the bed again, trembling and shaking. We had power again, but poor dog was a nervous mess. Few more minutes passed and a knock at the door. Rocco was so freaked out, he didn't erupt into his usual barking frenzy. Man in yellow jacket was on the front step.

"Your power back on?" He asked. I confirmed it was. "Pretty sure it was a squirrel that chewed through a line and blew the transformer, that's sure what it looks like anyhow," he said. "This is the worst time of year for this to happen." Would that account for the sound I'd heard earlier, I asked. "Oh you bet—it's pretty loud, like a gunshot. It was the one right up on the road in front of your house." He pointed at a pole up on the street, a few hundred feet beyond our house. No wonder my dog is so freaked, I said, bending down to rub Rocco, the velcro dog's head.  "No kidding—you should hear the big ones go off—like an explosion! Squirrels are persistent, destructive little buggers, but they usually don't survive a transformer blowing. Fries 'em instantly." He thanked me for my patience and headed off for his truck. And with that disturbing visual, I turned back into the house, started my laundry and took my nervous nelly of a dog for a long walk.

A redhead walks into a bar . . .

 . . . she scans the joint, looking for faces she came here for. Heart racing, eyes flashing, breath shortening, steps quickening. She darts through the bar, glancing back and forth at tables, booths, breath sucks in with eyes that stare back. She finally sees a face that lights up in a smile. Relief. She slide onto a stool, apologizes for being late—had to let Rocco out, tripped and fell in a puddle, back into the house to change clothes, corral Rocco back into the house, you know the usual stuff, but thank you so much for the phone call, for inviting me out, so great to see you guys again, it's been forever . . .

Order beers, two for one. Her lucky night. No sooner does the foam hit the lips when a stranger appears at the end of the table. "What the hell! Why didn't you guys tell me you were bringin' a gorgeous redhead with you! Where you been keeping her!" Beer almost shoots through the nose. He's clueless. He continues. "I love redheads! L-O-V-E love em! You know," his voice lowers, he looks to the left and then to the right, "I'm kind of a big deal in this joint." Then the direct eye stare. She gives a smile that is more like a sneer. He has crooked teeth. Her husband had crooked teeth, but they were beautifully, endearingly crooked. Not lecherously, snarling crooked. He doesn't translate her sneer into, "Shut the fuck up," and continues. TMI. How much money he makes, how the woman he's with isn't really his woman, just a friend. Suddenly, he asks to see her hand. Hand? What the hell? Oh, my left hand, she realizes. Thank god, this'll shut him up. She slides her left hand out from under the table and flicks it toward him. "Of course you're married! The cute ones always are!" He doesn't know that the band on her left thumb is her dead husband's band, but she has a strong desire to tell him this. "Why didn't you guys tell me this before I wasted my time?" He slaps Pete on the shoulder. But he doesn't stop there. She doesn't hear anything more, just mentally begging her friends to not out her, please don't tell him my husband is dead, that I'm widowed, anything even remotely close to that. Tell him to get the fuck lost, give her breathing room, the air is getting viscous. . .

"So, even though you're married, I still think you're good lookin', and maybe—" even though your married. . . at least someone knows this, even though he doesn't even know what he is saying . . . He leans across the table, slides a beer out of the way, drunk watery eyes trying to find her face. Damn the friends who can't read her mind and come to her rescue. "Listen, asshole," she finally spits. "Ring or no ring, you'd never stand a chance." She turns her attention to her beer, friends burst into surprised laughter, asshole steps back, truly shocked "Hell, yeah I would," he sneers, before slinking away.


Few weeks back, my sister ran into an old friend from high school . . . a loose connection to Bob's family, St. James, I don't quite recall the details. Jill mentions Bob and me, friend confirms she knew we were married, Jill says Bob died in May, friend is surprised, shares a few sweet memories of Bob—he was so handsome, had such sexy bedroom eyes, she says. . . "How's your sister doing? Is she dating yet? Remarried?" My sister almost choked on her own tongue. "ummm. . .wow. . . not sure how to answer that. . . you know he just died, right?" In everyone else's mind but mine, it's ancient history.


Not long ago (which could mean two days or two years in my world), met a friend for pizza and beers; known him for years, used to be a client of mine, until he finally figured out he could shave his own near-bald head for free, instead of paying me 30 bucks every two weeks. . . Bob even knew of him, though they had never met. Perpetual bachelor, enlisted on every online dating service known to humankind. . .  an over-all good person, kind heart, sensitive, a social worker and a "good listener," but holy hell, every time I see/hear from him, he's dating a new woman. I tease him that he changes women more often than he changes underwear, and that his dating escapades serve no purpose for me other than to convince me to get another dog. "But what about your physical needs," he pleads, as though I'm dying  . . . I stab him repeatedly with my eyes. . .

Short of wearing a sandwich board, or hammering heads with a sledgehammer, how do I tell everyone that even though my husband is dead, I am still very much married . . .