The Eight Dresser Drawers

What's worse than waking up at 3 o'clock on a Sunday morning and not falling back to sleep?  Waking up at 2 o'clock and not falling back to sleep.

I am tired and hungry.  I want a piece of warmed apple pie in a buttery, flaky crust.  I have not yet learned how to make a kick-ass pie crust like I did with certain bread on my repertoire.  I told Eric that I would learn how to make the best pie crust, and bake him his favorite pecan pie.  I never did learn how to make pecan pies, and I don't want to anymore.  I don't even like pecan pies.  I hate breaking promises.   

I have successfully navigated through 28 days of unchartered waters in December. In many ways, each day was oddly familiar; yet, unfamiliar.  

Christmas Eve, I introduced Eric to somebody I just met as my "late husband," and it disgusted me.  I don't think I am ready for that term.  No shame for trying.  

Everyday past I looked at the dresser that Eric used, and wondered when it would be the "right" day to clear out the content.  I have tried it three times in the last two months.  Each time, I took out the Patagonia sport shirts, folded them - again - meticulously.  Then laid them right back where I found them.  Same drawer.  Same spot.  The only thing I could have done to make the sport shirts look even more meticulous was to iron them.  Thankfully, I still have a little pride and sense left in me.  

I made another attempt last night and used a bigger self-motivational tactic:  I need space for my purses and handbags…  

I folded every piece of clothing, again, and put in different piles:  Discard, Donate, Give.  Then I got to the small notebook Eric used for recording his pain level, the minor activities he could tolerate for the day, and the medication taken, or not, to relieve the agony; whether the pills were worthless or marginally useful.  I had hoped that I would or could stop breathing and die.  Right in my bedroom.  

All over again, I seethe all the gods-of-organized-religions who claim omnipotence, love, and healing powers. The self-serving "gods" who let my husband suffered never-ending physical and intolerable emotional and mental pain for years on end, while they looked away and controlled human emotions and fear.  I loathe and seethe them all, but to loathe them is to acknowledge their existence.  The intense, theological debate made me boil with anger inside my head.  Without reconciliation, my only release was to cry.  I sobbed on the floor for 15 minutes over a notebook and some damn gods I seethe, yet do not acknowledge.  It was a fine Friday night. Intense.  It was fine and intense.  

I fully recognize I may be offending others with my outwardly spoken sentiment.  I am very at peace with it.  Whether one agrees with my sentiment, my gratitude remains that my readers visit my blog and share my writing.  

I stood up.  Wiped my tears and blew my nose.  I took out the shirts, one at a time.  I folded every single one meticulously.  For one last time.  

Memories must be honored.  Materials must be released.  Pain must be destroyed, sometimes literally.  

I texted couple best friends about this momentous leap forward.  Then I talked on the phone for two hours.  Feeling hungry, I wanted a piece of really good apple pie.

I don't consider this a particular "accomplishment" - rather, another critical step towards finding my New Normal.  It's no bigger or smaller than stringing our wedding rings together.  Or releasing his prized possession.  Or tossing out his toothbrush, the first of many "momentous" moves.  I do believe, however, this surreal grief and healing is unexplainable and unreachable unless one has gone through a parallel experience.  

The biggest accomplishment on the first Friday evening post-Christmas was that my purses and handbags now have an organized home in my bedroom.  Now is that so bad?  














  

Ever Forward - 2014

I had wished for a simple, Normal New Year on January 1, 2013.  I desperately needed normalcy after what transpired during the latter half of 2012.  Not only did I not get a normal new year - or a normal year - for that matter, I got the most abnormal 2013 of all my abnormal years combined.  

Moral of the story:  Be careful what you wish for; you may get something entirely opposite.  

It is difficult for me to read my Normal New Year entry from merely a year ago.  I hung on to the last ray of hope that Eric's undiagnosed condition could still make progress.  Not through miracles or expert advice, but sheer persistence, pure sweat, and more pain.   I had hung on to any last shred of hope for us both, but that wasn't enough.  

I had wished for a dramatically different 2013.  I had wished for less pain.  

Moral of the story:  Be careful what you wish for; you may just get it.  

It is once again a new year.  I have been here.  For 2014, I am reluctant to wish for anything:  I may get what I wish for, or I may get something entirely opposite.

2014.  Why wish for anything when I can simply Be.  

2014.  I come first - Always.  Courage shall prevail.  Love shall be treasured and reciprocated.  Memories and friendships, honored.  My Gratitude Cup shall always overflow.  

2014.  My life shall remain Ever Forward.  And Eric shall always be there, in spirit, Without Bounds.  To watch over and protect.      

2014.  I am All In.  No matter what. 

Winter 2013
Skating by Alki Beach in Seattle 

Three More Minutes of Light

File:NASA-Apollo8-Dec24-Earthrise.jpg

The grand return of Winter Solstice symbolically brings me much hope and beauty.  I said "symbolically" because in reality, everyday brings me much hope and beauty. Yet, I need and look for significant milestones to mark progress in life.  We all do. Mine is Winter Solstice.  

Winter Solstice is one of my favorite events of the year, after my birthday, and the New year.  I'm a sucker for calendar dates that symbolize newness, rebirth, hope.  I always celebrate those days with reflection and gratitude, and secretly hope for mounts of presents… 

This Solstice, I don't have grand aspirations on how to live my life "more fully."  I think what I have been doing is grand enough.  This year's Return of Light symbolically gives me the grandest permission for rebirth.  The rebirth of relationships with myself and others.  The rebirth of perspectives and directions. The rebirth of my belief system.  The rebirth of love and intimacy.  The rebirth of rebirth itself.  

I now use the phrase "All In" with profound significance and meaning.  I have few reservations with my approach with life.  I think I am finally brave.

I recently discovered this short five-minute film and it captivated me, perhaps because I instantly saw Eric in it.  It's bravery, courage, All In. Let this film and its message be our grand aspiration.  

"My heroes are my belay partners.  Blind people who cross the streets by themselves.  And those who discovered that inside, we're all capable of surprising ourselves."   



     

Together again, our wedding rings

Wedding rings are meant to be worn.  Preferably on the fingers.

I have been wearing Eric's ring on my neck for months.  Feeling it against my skin brings me comfort.  I twirl it in my hand when I need an extra shot of courage. For months, I know the two rings would eventually come together.  

I never thought I would take off my wedding ring.  But today, I did just that.  I now wear his and mine, string together on a simple platinum necklace.  Together again, the bands.  

My ring finger feels naked.  It's missing the brave story.  My simple but beautiful band made a slight indentation on my finger.  I stare at my left hand; without the ring, it looks abnormally pale and wrinkled.  My thumb naturally reaches over where the ring once sat, searching for the familiar feeling of my band.  I have done that a hundred times a day.  Nothing.  It's bare.  Torn, I feel a trace of sadness mixed with a splash of guilt.  Gratitude.  My emotions are taking their sweet time to reconcile with each other.  My eyes well up.  I sat patiently and let this pass.  I've sat and patiently waited for it to pass, just like this, for more than a thousand times.  It is oddly familiar.  

I love my simple, well worn ring.  Full of scratches from everyday love. It's the only piece of jewelry I wear.  The small, pale blue Chatham diamond sits humbly but proudly, prominently, in the middle of my well-fitted platinum band.  I am proud of my lab-grow diamond.  It was the only diamond we would purchase.  My ring made me sparkle from within. It shone magic. It carried the bravest of the bravest story; our story. The ring has grown into my personality; it has become a part of me. Deliberate, purposeful.  Rebellious. Unconventional. Gentle as a whisper, tough as a warrior.  

Our wedding rings belong together. 

Photo courtesy of Katie Wat and Adrian Rus

It is symbolic as well as practical to string them together today - our wedding anniversary.  It is an act of remembering the blue bird winter day I married Eric. December 10, 2005.

I wrote a marriage manifesto on my blog as a celebration of our 7th wedding anniversary last December. I dedicated my manifesto to my husband, and attributed my growth as a person to the journey we shared together over the last decade. It was the best anniversary gift I could give him.  In Eric's honor, I read a part of the manifesto at his Remembrance. It was at once comforting but heart-wrenching. Most stabbingly painful.  I wished I had read it to him when he was alive. I am fortunate that I have very few regrets in my life.  This, I may have to live with for a while.  

There is no manifesto or celebration beyond 7th.  What needed to be said was said; needed to be written, written.  Love and adoration, expressed.  It was all done. He knew.  My husband had always known. 

Together again, our wedding bands, for one last time, on the day we were married. I was his proud wife.  Before, during, after.  Always.  Without bounds.   

I felt that I have taken the most deliberate, necessary, and courageous step forward and beyond.  Every bone in my body seems to hurt.  Frankly, it pains me.

But - still, All In.  

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

Daisy. Clarity. Rebirth. Connector.

I have never been "enlightened" in the conventional sense.  I suppose - I assume - Buddhism might say it is achieving a state of clarity.  I am not a Buddhist, but, SOME of its teaching intrigues me.  If I compare enlightenment as "a state of clarity in life," I would say that I have never been as "enlightened" as I am at this point in my life.  Sometimes things are so real and so clear they become surreal. 

On April 28 this year, I wrote a blog entry about a lesson on kindess.  I wrote about serendipitously discovered a blog on Kindness, written by the co-founder of Puget Sound Community School Andy Smallman.  The most important takeaway of Andy's writing was about reviewing an experience in your life that caused you pain in order to find the blessings in it.  I discovered Andy's blog barely two months after Eric's death.  I found myself drawn to the assignment, but was never able to finish reading the blog without completely filling my eyes with blur.  The assignment, however, was always in my head.  I constantly reviewed this darkest time of my life that caused me tremendous and unexplainable, exhausting pain, and attempted to discover the blessings in it.  The assignment has taken a long time.  

I think I may have finally found it.  I think I may have found the hidden blessing from the death of my beloved husband, the person I loved more than anything.  Anything.  It is so hard to type just this one sentence.  It immediately makes me tear up.  But I must write it to believe it.  

The blessing, as it turns out, is my rebirth.  

Eric's death turned my life upside down in a giant vortex.  My choice was to get sucked down forever in the abyss, or emerge.  I hate water; and I sure as hell will not die in it.  The only alternative is up.  A rebirth.

I have never been as clear about my life as I am today.  After an exceedingly difficult, stressful, and emotional week at work, example after example sends me the same message.  

I am a Connector.  

I am a connector who connects people - friends to friends; friends to strangers.  
I am a connector who connects people to humanity causes. 
I connect people to important issues about the environment, justice, life.  
I connect people to Puget Sound Community School.  
I connect people to discover their own passion. 
I connect people via all channels: my warmth, my laughs, my writing, my music, my presence. My bread.  
I connect people with my passion.  My passion in living my fullest life possible.  

I am a Connector.  We are all connectors; we have tremendous responsibilities as a citizen of the world to connect each other to humanity, in ways we deem meaningful.  

I am grateful to have finally found the hidden blessing in Eric's death.  There is simply no word to describe my gratitude.  The love.  Our bond.  My journey.  I am the single most fortunate person to have shared a portion of my life with my husband, exactly the way we did.   

I am to use all these for the greater good now.  And to create another beautiful and vibrant life for me.  The canvas is set.  Paint with gusto!

Winter Sojourn 2011
Ashland, OR

  

Godspeed

May you carry all your riders fiercely, bravely, safely. 

The warrior bike is on its way to Idaho today, where it all started.  Where it belongs.  I stole a quiet moment with it after it was loaded up.  Twelve hours later, it will be in its element.  Next weekend, it will be on the trails.  Rocks and dirt under its spokes and tires. Releasing joy and sentiment.  

I didn't want to see it go, yet I didn't want it to stay.  In my heart of heart, I know there is absolutely no better person to whom to release the beast.  

Alex will put the bike back on the trails, where it will carry all its riders fiercely, bravely.  Joyfully.  

My good buddy Andrew said it well.  Eric would not have anything to do with his unused bike sitting idle in the garage - he would have bartered it away.  Either that or my personal McGyver would remove the back wheel and devise a contraption for harvesting grapes using rubber tubing and a few pulleys.  Andrew always knows how to make me laugh with the strangest comment when nothing else would make me laugh.  

Emotionally, the beast is not a bike.  It represented an extension of Eric.  It was a vehicle that actualized his passion for graceful motions and the outdoors.  It is, therefore, even more suitable to release the bike to Alex.  I feel nauseous, sad, irrational, tearful, but above all, free and alive.  It is the starting point of a giant leap forward, into another brave new chapter.  I knew these emotions would surface.  I just did not know to what extent.  Now I do. 

I release you, so that you may let me go.  So that I may continue to live my full life.

Godspeed, my love.  Go. 

Top of Quest University
Squamish/Whistler, BC
Summer, 2010

The Yellow Mountain Bike

For as long as I have known Eric, he rode this yellow mountain bike.  It was a warrior pro bike.  There were plenty of colorful bike stories and human injuries.  He would set the bike up on a bike-tuning-contraption (which I am certain has a more proper name) each spring.  With his shop apron on, he spent the whole afternoon in the garage and meticulously tuned up his bike.  Spraying this, wiping that, cleaning every nut and bolt.  The man loved his mountain bike.  He loved bouncing his ass up and down the trails in the mountain even more.

Yes, collar bones were broken.  Both of them.  One time, I got a call while I was in class.  "Hone?  I'm in the ER.  Kirby cut me off on the trail and I rolled.  Yeah...I broke the left side this time.  Yes, it hurts like a mo-fo.  Can you pick me up?  Yes, hone, from the ER!"  I couldn't; I was in Seattle and he was riding in Idaho.  Perhaps he suffered a concussion and couldn't remember we were actually in two different cities at that moment...I'm sure it was the painkillers talking.  

The yellow warrior has been sitting in the laundry room for far too long.  Its spirit deflated.  It belongs to the trails.  It begs to be ridden.  

The yellow bike is the last of his four most personal items I want to release.  It is time to send it to its natural habitat.  Let it give joy to others.  Let its spirit soar. Let it be free.  Let it be a warrior bike again.  

Eric bouncing his ass up and down the trail
Circa 2002

You've Got Transitions!

The Fall season is finally here. I feel a transition again. You know how inspirational quotes are sometimes printed on large posters with a beautiful butterfly emerging from its caterpillar cocoon during its transition?  Well, this isn't it.  



My emotions seem more complex and complicated now.  Sometimes even a little delicate...  Each 30 days or so, I subliminally add another check mark on the calendar.  Time - and time lapse - is merely a human construct, so that we may define and measure our reality in the terms we could understand and relate. "Congratulations!  You have successfully negotiated seven months."  Seven months is truly phenomenal - if you are pregnant and on your third and final trimester.  By then you only have two more months to go and your child will greet you in person. Joy!  Not to be overly dramatic - I feel that lately, the more months I get through, the more adjustments await me, the more unfamiliar life gets.    

I suppose, when I make it to the first anniversary of Eric's death, everything thereafter will be more familiar.  By then I could safely say it has "already" been one year since Eric's death. 

Actually, the proper expression ought to be "it's been ONLY one year since Eric's death." ONLY ONE YEAR.   

At the beginning, the shock and burden was heavy.  I was constantly grieving, and nobody - including myself - expected me to be anything but sad.  I could literally be in a daze all day long, if I wanted or needed to.  I am well beyond that stage.  

But, I feel more "bipolar" than ever.  Constant transitions cause my emotions to fluctuate.  High one hour, sensitive another.  On my tough day, or tough hour, I could sit at the table, or my desk at work, drown myself in music, and let time passes slowly.  Then I emerge again.  I feel bad for my friends who have to negotiate my "bi-polarity."  I also feel bad for the few new friends I meet: death is not exactly an upbeat ice-breaker.    

At work, I am frequently balancing and adjusting my somewhat irrational and ultra-sensitivity towards people's passing comments or jokes on the topic of death.  I hear everything.  Perhaps because I behave "normal," people forget my husband had died really only seven months ago.  It's not their responsibility to remember such details.

In the very near future, I will start to organize Eric's belongings.  There is never any rush to do anything, but I'm not in a rush.  It is time.

In the near future, I will meet new friends who know little or nothing about my life with Eric.  It transitions me from the powerhouse couple-team "Eric and Daisy" to just "Daisy."  A powerhouse solo-team.  

In the near future, I will transition my emotions that Eric is always on my mind, yet he is in my past.  

In the near future, I will address my husband and my marriage in the past tense.  Words matter.  Proper grammar matters.  They tell stories.  

In the near future, I have to come to terms that I loved my husband more than anything, but I must no longer be in love with him.  The thought of this transition brings me to tears.  

In the future - at some point - I should find courage and stop calling Eric "my husband."  At this very moment, I want absolutely nothing to do with this transition.  

Emotions are non-linear.  Transitions are complex, intricate, and complicated.  











  

Full Circle

I have a piano student taking private lessons from me now, after my two-plus-decade hiatus in teaching.  The decision is easy - she is Addie - a gifted student who is a sponge for knowledge.  As for me, timing is everything.  

Apparently I make decisions slowly.  This one took me over twenty years.  When my good friend asked whether I would take his daughter as a student, somehow my mouth muttered "sure."  Thinking back, I am almost certain that I was possessed, perhaps by Chopin or Tchaikovsky's spirit...  Next thing I knew, Addie was sitting at my piano playing scales and finger exercises and Bach's Minuet in G.  It was the most exhilarating thing since sliced bread was invented.  

Classical music is my life blood. Make me a mute, but never take away my ability to hear music.  I could not possibly remain sane without music.  

I find myself effortlessly remembering the finger exercises that my teacher gave me when I was nine, and I gave the same exercises to Addie.  I wasn't allowed shortcuts.  I worked those damn fingers!  I couldn't crush walnuts with them yet, I'm still working on it...  "It takes a lifetime," she said.  But I can crush your hands; wanna try?   

Full circle.  

I started studying under Mrs. Jensen when I was 14, after my parents fired my first teacher when we landed on this land.  I excelled more in my four years of high school than many previous years combined.  I was exposed to all kinds of music compositions from different periods.  She gave me two private recitals.  I can still hear her singing the melodies while I played on her Steinway at my weekly lessons. I was a serious student, but she was an exceptional teacher.  Mrs. Jensen was magnificent.

"This are no bad students; only bad teachers."  Eric's words reverberated in my head over and over.    

I have my parents to thank for so many things in my life, but especially for my piano studies and for the love and appreciation of music.  They saw my potential, and had the foresight to relentlessly search for the best teacher for me.  We were not rich by any stretch of imagination.  We probably never went to movies or ate at restaurants, but I never stopped my piano lessons because we couldn't afford them.

Hail to all the parents willing to sacrifice, willing to invest in their children's curiosity and love for music.  And are patient and loving enough to tolerate all the wrong notes, bad tempo, terrible renditions of Für Elise, Stairway to Heaven, and cacophony of it all.  

A student learns from the teacher, but a teacher most certainly learns from the student.   Today, I am entrusted with a child's development for the appreciation of music.  Music opens doors to a lifetime of achievements.  It opens minds, souls, and windows to the world.  It's so much more than playing scales, finger exercises, and Minuet in G.