Thanksgiving 2013

If I must give myself a grade for Thanksgiving 2013, I'd give me a generous A+.  I passed with flying colors. 

I shared the table with "Crab Cakes Todd" and his family.  Todd, my white-version cousin, owns a wok and three rice cookers.  Puts Sirachi in everything.  Meals at the McCormick's never sucks.  Company is even better.  I can swear like a sailor or dress to the nine.  It makes no difference.  I feel like a part of that Irish family. 

5:30am.  As I was enjoying the morning stillness with a cup of joe, serenaded by Sarah McLachlan's Angel, I dipped my hands in the flour.  Parker House rolls are on the menu.  They were stuffed with my magic ingredient:  Daisy Love.  I was savoring the moments with Eric, smiling, missing him.  I miss cooking with him; I miss his presence in the kitchen.  Him doing dishes.  I miss him being my biggest fan in everything I baked and everything I concocted.  "Babe, you've outdone yourself!" He was my hugest supporter in every pursuit, big and small.  Tangible and intangible.  With him, I could beat anything.  He was my man.  
  
However, despite missing my husband, I feel no sadness today.  Instead, I feel a sense of complete gratitude. I am immensely grateful for my incredibly charmed life.  I am so loved by all who surround me, near and afar, to a point of unexplainable mysteries.  Together, my friends bring out the best in me. 

If I leave this world tonight, I could honestly say, I have no regret.  I am doing my best living my life All In.  Except, maybe I should have had another helping of Todd's turkey. 

Todd - 1
Turkey - 0
Thanksgiving at the McCormicks - Perfect 10

I wish December would disappear

I warn myself time and time again, the problem with making good progress is that I and others expect me to be on a perpetually upward trajectory with my grieving and healing.   

I haven't had a meltdown of any size since August 15.  Any good statistician will tell me one is due, and I should prepare myself.  It's like a seismologist predicting the biggest earthquake ever.  "The big one is due any day now!"  

I wish December would disappear.  It's freezing.  It's dark.  It's wet.  Feliz Navidad on every radio station, and if you're unlucky, you get Michael Bolton.  December is also my wedding anniversary, which I opt to no longer celebrate.  Then there is the monthly 15th.  And Winter Solstice.  

Eric and I always celebrated the solstices with our version of fanfare.  Winter Solstice trumps Christmas at the Gilmans.  The only days you get better meals are birthdays.

The seasonal significance of the winter solstice is in the reversal of the gradual lengthening of nights and shortening of days.  Many cultures hold a recognition of rebirth.  I love the symbolism, the representation of the circle, and cycle, of life.

For me, one of the most welcoming parts about Winter Solstice is, still, the absence of commercialism.  There is no obligatory gift giving.  Hallmark has yet to flood the card aisle with "For My Dear Wife, Happy Winter Solstice" cards. There is no Winter Solstice wrapping paper.  Or catchy tunes about a flying ungulate with a glowing red nose.  To a simple mind like me, it works.  

This holiday season, like any holiday season in past years, I need no gift.  What I want most, I will never and can never have back.  So, I must look beyond.  To evolve the love that was, into what is and what is to come - and what is to become. My dear friend Suzanne understands this well; she recently lost her mother.  It is easy to text about it with her about death.  The concept of death is so profound and so definitive that it won't hit you until it hits you.  Then, the finality of its silence is deafening.  

The definitive nature of Eric's death has started to hit me, when I made a conscious decision that I shall no longer celebrate the day I married him.  This day will always bring fond memories of deep love, but it will no longer be celebrated.  Nor will I mutter the words "it would have been 8 years…"  Those words are unnecessary.    

December will not disappear.  It arrives in eight days.  Darkness, coldness, dampness, the memories of my wedding day, Ten Month, Winter Solstice, Feliz Navidad, and yes, Michael Bolton.  And, the potential of a big meltdown according to a good statistician.  

Exactly one month to the Season of Rebirth, I do have some things to wish for.  I wish for a full year of paradigm-changing experiences.  A year of unconventional thinking.  A year of just the right amount of meltdowns.  A year of courageous decisions and behaviors.  A year of standing tall with my spine straight-up.  A year of great health, glowing skin, belly laughs.  A year of loving fully, freely, fearlessly.

Above all, I wish to live another year "All In" in life.  

Winter Solstice 2008
on my street

A Letter to My Husband

I debated for the past 48 hours whether to publish something as personal as a letter to my husband on my blog.  After a lovely dinner at my friends Andy and Melinda's home last night, I got an answer.  My blog has always been an extension of me.  My writing mimics me.  I am open, expressive, warm, vulnerable, loving, a person with gratitude and integrity.  These characters are exactly why this blog exists.  My writing will always be my mirror.  Expressing love and gratitude through my writing, regardless of the intended recipient, is always honorable.  

I feel strangely strong and confident.  It is beyond the "return" of strength; it is new strength that creates possibilities.  It is new strength that will carry me through this phase of my life with purpose and grace, and playfulness.  

I am not fearless, nor am I invincible.  I am purposeful.       

My new strength prompted me to write this letter to my husband, Eric Gilman.  

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Dearest Booh,

Two months ago I decided it was time to start organizing your personal belongings. I call it the Release.  I began releasing, what I consider, some of your most prized possessions.  Prized, not because of their monetary value, but the deep connection I feel in them.  Your iPhone; your Yellow Warrior Bike; your blue winter knit hat; and your collection of Patagonia jackets.  

The thoughtful and methodical release of these items to a select, special few is one of the most positive and definitive steps forward for my healing.  My rebirth.  

Your death put me in the worst possible bone-breaking vortex.  But as you had predicted, I refused to give up, or give in.  As you had predicted, I emerge.  What I went through with you in the last near 13 years, but especially the last eight months - your death - may be more than what an "average" person would ever experience in a life time.  I am grateful for every event, every laughter, every tear shed with you and for you.  I am who I am, and the mere fact that I refuse to give up or give in, is a direct result of what we had been through.  Facing the wind.  Together.  

You showed up in my life for very specific purposes, and made the most profound impacts on me.  Without a doubt, I was the same for you.  

I released a few jackets to Scobie.  He wore them with pride, love, gratitude.  I couldn't think of a more deserving and loving human being to wear your red fleece, one of my favorites.  I wanted so much to keep it, but I will always be held prisoner by it.  By you.  I will always try to seek you, seek myself, in the fleece.  I am no prisoner of anyone; not even you.  

I still don't know whether to call you my husband, or my late-husband.  On one hand, it's just words.  On the other, words matter.  It seems trivial, but I still need to decide. 

I miss you.  I think of you.  All the time.  I want to trace and touch your face.  I want you to hold my right hand when I go to sleep, like you had always done.  Every night.  Your blue knit hat seems to be losing your smell; that infuriates me. Yet, I must release you now, bit by bit.  So that you release me.  So that I can still live my best life. So that I can be the best possible connector that makes positive impacts to lives around me.  So that I may laugh and love:  Freely. Fearlessly. Fully. 

I love you. Without bounds.  Always and always.  Now GO. 

The lush red fleece looking swanky on Scobie

The Kite Girl Who Also Skates

I'm a late bloomer:  I flew my first kite at the ripe age of forty-something, at least one that successfully made it high up in the sky.  It had nothing to do with my skills - it was an easy-to-fly, beginner Prism box kite, gifted by my dear friend Scobie, one of the original owners and designer of Prism Kite.  The kite was so easy to fly "even a caveman could do it," as the Geico Insurance commercial would say.  The experience was one of  exhilaration and excitement.  Pure delight etched deeply in my head.  It was magical.  


The Girl Who Flew The Kite also loves to inline-skate.   I am convinced that if a clumsy person wants to move gracefully, it can be achieved through proper movements with lots of good music. And lots of practice.  I am also aware that the older I get, the more clumsy I will become.  I am determined to move through life with grace, metaphorically and physically.  And so I skate. Summer and winter, as long as the pavement is dry, I do my hour-plus skate by the beach in a tank top or a jacket.  The arrival of winter means I will need to skate in the dark, if I want to de-clumsify my body and bad posture that is burdened by the office work during the day.

Still, it is a definitively worthwhile endeavor.  

November 1.  I skated for an hour and a half in the dark on this calm evening with the exact attitude I flew my kite:  Present, care-free, magical.  Joyful.  I skated to New Soul by Yael Naim, moving and dancing along Alki Beach with the sunset, then with darkness.  Even a rock would want to dance to that song.  I skate-danced, although my technical abilities reminded me that I should stick with the basics… There were people along the beach, but I saw nobody; I didn't care if anyone was watching.  Then strangers smiled and waved.  They knew, then they caught on - there was joy on my face.  And at that moment, they wished they did, too.  

That very night, I noticed.  The Girl Who Flew the Kite has returned.  She has taken another very positive step towards emerging from her vortex. She has summoned all her playfulness to replace her seriousness.  She is getting ready for November 15, and is determined to fly her kite, metaphorically, on that day.  And the day after. And December 15.  And January 15.  February 15.  So on and so forth.

I was incredibly thankful for my friend Ken who somewhat stunned me with his question just two weeks ago: "Where's the Daisy who flew the kite?  I want that Daisy back."  I believe Ken's question expedited Kite Girl's return.

I believe she may be making a permanent cameo.  And I have Ken and my skates to thank.  

Welcome home, Kite Girl.  

Small Things Matter

Every once in a while, I come across the reading that was chosen for our wedding.

At some point, I am to come to terms with the fact that I no longer have a wedding anniversary to celebrate.  It stopped at Seven years, and didn't make it to Eight. The opinionated, stubborn, black-and-white side of me will insist that there will be no celebration beyond Seven.  I do not want to be in the "it would have been Eight" state.  I don't even like hearing those words.  You either are, or are not; have, or have not.  Like pregnancy, it is all very black and white.

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Small things matter

Small things like never being too old to hold hands.

Like remembering to say "I love you" and mean it as you say it.

It is never going to sleep angry at each other.

It is keeping a sense of appreciation for each other while giving yourself fully.

It is having a mutual sense of values and common objectives.

It is standing together facing the wind.

It is creating a circle of love that draws in family and friends.

It is doing things for each other, not in attitude of duty, but in the spirit of joy.

It is expressing gratitude in thoughtful ways

and not looking for perfection in each other.

It is cultivating flexibility, patience, understanding, and a sense of humor.

It is fostering the capacity to forgive.

It is giving each other nurturance and space to grow.

It is finding room for the things of the spirit.

It is a common search for things positive and beautiful.

It is not only marrying the right partner, it is being the right partner.

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I hope I never stop learning how to be the right partner.  I hope I never forget, nor do I need to remember.  I hope it all simply becomes the fabric that makes up who I am.

It all just becomes me.  

His Jackets

I washed them.  Folded them.  Took a picture.  As if I would forget what each one looks like.  But, what is the point?  They are jackets.  On the other hand, they are my husband's jackets.  Were.  Were my husband's jackets.  

Such is a typical and somewhat pointless conversation inside my head. 

These jackets will find their ways to my friends' closets; make themselves useful elsewhere.  It's a way to honor Patagonia's philosophy. 

Godspeed.  


I proceeded with other items in Eric's dresser.  It's a No-Go.  I put everything back in the drawers.  Not ready.  Can't do it.  

Jackets are released a month after Yellow Warrior Bike, all before the One Year mark. Not that there is a timeline nor is it a race.  Still, I think it is incredibly strong progress.  Very grateful.  And proud. 

Then I got this from Kevin.  About letting go.  There will be progress again next month.  

    

The Girl Who Flew the Kite

"Don't be so serious all the time!  Where is the Daisy who flew the kite?  I want that Daisy back." 

There she is!

The innocent question hit me hard.  I don't know where the "Daisy who flew the kite" went. She who was completely carefree, at least momentarily. Flying her kite with pure delight.  With an open attitude that was the envy of all attitudes.  She was exhilaratingly present on the beach. Made her prominent mark.  She also seems to be slightly preoccupied at the moment. She may return tomorrow; maybe Monday. May be next March. Who knows.  But she'll be back when she's back.  

I aspire to live a playful life, with intermittent moments of seriousness.  It is just not very much fun the other way around.  It's easier said than done if you want to do it artfully and meaningfully.  To not use humor as a mere distraction.  Distractions are fine, as long as you are fully aware what they do for you, to you, and against you.

So serious...

I have been in the middle of an "intermittent moment of seriousness" for months. It's where I am with my life.  The death of a spouse does that to people, I think. It forces me to deal with my core and everything caught in my web with a different lens.  I desperately want to emerge from this vortex.  Some days, it seems like an uphill trudge to just smile at puppies, as I untangle life.  Everything seems mundanely frivolous on those days.  There is little energy left to be playful.  Luckily, those days are farther and fewer in between. Other times, being playful is a cakewalk.  I can banter with friends for hours, flirt with waiters, and get comp'd on desserts.  To me, that's an example of being playful.

It is exhausting to be around me sometimes.  I get that.  Heck, it's exhausting for ME to be around me sometimes.  I can only imagine how confusing it can be for a new friend to "drop in" in the middle of my life.  There is no other word for it but "exhausting."  I feel bad to be emotionally unpredictable.  I don't have a solution.  Life is messy.  My life is, at the moment, a bit messy.

"The Daisy who flew the kite"
Copalis Beach, WA
September, 2013

I remember asking Eric "why do you have to be so intellectual all the time?"  I remember feeling the dichotomy of his intensity being the greatest blessing yet the biggest curse. "It's how I'm wired, hone."  Our talks would interweave seriousness with playfulness. I desperately want to fill those holes, but the efforts become forced and unnatural. Then I realize, these holes are NOT meant to be filled; or replaced. These holes are meant to remain.  

I am to create new interweaving of seriousness with playfulness with others now.

"Where is the Daisy who flew the kite?  I want her back."  

There is a time and a place for everything.  In the continuum of seriousness until I fully emerge from my vortex, there is plenty of room for playfulness.  Work on it. But not too seriously. 

My very own Prism kite