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.  

"All In"

My good friend Ginny said my life is brave and "all in" right now.  I truly appreciate her generous and encouraging comment.  Bravery and being "all in" are particularly important attributes and I aspire to become that.  Perhaps bravery and "all-in-ness" needs not be behavior-driven; it can be an attitude thing.  I should just keep living the way I have been living.  If some ways I behave somehow resonate with others and make a positive impact, that would be a tremendous side benefit.    

Night Watch
July, 2012

I struggled with writing this post.  It was incoherent.  I could't grasp what and how I wanted to express the ideas in my head.  I published it but awoke in the middle of the night and deleted it.  The writing must have really bothered me.  Even the picture didn't make sense.  What does the picture of my painting of a cat has anything to do with being "all in"?  It doesn't; it was just a pretty cool cat and I like the color composition. 

Perhaps  I feel it important to blog about today because today marked my first day at Puget Sound Community School as a volunteer teacher.  Teaching at PSCS has significant meaning in my life now.  I consider it brave.  The attitude  with which I approach my life points to a certain sense of "all-in-ness."  I want to remember this period of my life despite its profound darkness, and how I overcome it.  I want to remember this period with nothing else but gratefulness, gratitude, love, bravery, and a sense of "all-in."  

I must remember that I did not, and could never have done this, on my own.   

Sure, I'll keep the picture of the cat.  I need something colorful to spice up this post a little.  

An Honest Look at my Journey to Become a Volunteer Teacher

"There are no bad students, only bad teachers," Eric used to say.  Eric loved to share what he has learned, and he was really, really talented in teaching.  I think he was one of those teachers whom students either loved or feared. There was no middle ground.  He challenged you to reach deep, to express, to communicate.  To take a position, to negotiate, to stand ground.  To explore beyond conventional beliefs, to act courageously despite fear.  "No free lunch" was his motto.  He was a caring, fantastic teacher.  

Eric also encouraged me to become a volunteer teacher at the Puget Sound Community School (PSCS), where he taught for a few terms.  "It'll be good for you," he said. 

My copped out answer was always the same:  "I don't know what to teach."  In reality, I KNEW I would love to teach a few subjects, but I was too afraid.  Afraid to look stupid, afraid no student would sign up, afraid of the time commitment, afraid to expose what I don't know, afraid of being - a bad teacher.   

PSCS was Eric's gig.  It was his relationship with the school.  The good people were his friends, his students.  I didn't have my own relationship with PSCS.  The PSCS Seed, like many other seeds he planted for me, never sprouted until his death.

After Eric's death, my relationship with PSCS sprouted overnight, then it took on a life of its own.  My friendship started with one extraordinary human being, Scobie Puchtler, a teaching staff at PSCS and a dear friend of Eric.  Then it spread to others.  It was then I realized and eventually accepted, my husband's death has profound purposes.  Not just a reason, but a purpose.  To each person he touched, the purpose may be different.  Each will uncover at his own timing, through his own experience.  My realization and acceptance prompted me to write a heartfelt blog entry, Please Take a Deep Breath on July 15, the 5-month anniversary of Eric's death.  

After his death, my fearful attitude towards worldly, mundane things started to dissolve.  I have not become fearless.  Rather, I become free of the frivolous troubles and worries.  The general bullshit games.  The corporate handcuffs and correctness.  I take on a gentle but powerhouse presence that I have not recognized.  It's much more than "finding my voice" - I wasn't missing a voice.  Eric's death exponentially magnified and exposed my inner strength like a beautifully sculpted naked body.  I strongly believe my gift of inner strength has a profound purpose in humanity.  I have a responsibility to use this gift.  My strength is given to me to create butterfly effects.  

The wonderful thing about keeping a blog and a journal is that it keeps record of my progress and gives references to my milestones.  As I work silently to remove my fears, one by one, I came across an old blog entry about my virtual bakery, Daisy's Bread 'n Barter.  I wrote about the healing powers of my cinnamon swirl bread on Freddie, and a discovery of my tipping point - "the healing powers in all things have always been love, care, and passion.  We cannot possibly fail when we do things out of love.  When we deeply care about something, yet doing it with no attachment to the outcome, that's where magic happens."  

Eric wrote me a short note afterwards that it was the best blog post I have written. Naturally, I kept the note.  That was the beginning of a pivotal, defining moment for me.  That was January 28; 19 days before my husband died. 

My friend Andy Woo's coffee tree

I consider it pure magic now that I am a volunteer teacher at PSCS for the 2014 Fall Term. Somehow, the fear of being a bad teacher has dissolved, as did the rest of the self-centered concerns.  I love coffee, so I pitched a class about coffee.  The students responded.  Next thing I know, I am writing a syllabus and lesson plans for twelve students.  My class starts next Thursday.  

The 13 of us cannot possibly fail if the class is conducted with love, care, and passion.  Magic will happen.  It already has.   

I am immensely grateful for uncovering one of many purposes of my husband's death.  I am forever grateful for the many seeds he planted for me.  That was pure love.

My relationship with PSCS is my gig. Not Eric's.  And it makes me feel, exhilarating.  

Eagle soaring.  Pure exhilaration.
Decatur Island, August 2013

Past tense? Present tense? What should it be?

Every month, right about now, I start to hyperventilate just a little.  My desire to hear Eric's voice becomes more intense.  That's because I haven't heard his voice for nearly seven months now.  I think it's perfectly normal I would miss it.  

How I would negotiate the next few days is becoming more familiar.  The peaks and valleys follow a repetitive, irregular pattern - an oxymoron - but I know what it looks like.  I can feel it.  I anticipate and recognize them all.  By now, the pattern and I are intimately familiar with each other.  

My dear friend Scobie gave me a book When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times by Pema Chödrön, after my incredibly difficult time negotiating the 6-month anniversary of Eric's death on August 15.  Without hesitation or embarrassment, I called that night my meltdown, because that's what it was. Things fell apart.  I started reading my book very slowly.  After nearly four weeks, I barely started Chapter 3.  There is so much meat in it. 

"Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing.  We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don't really get solved.  They come together and they fall apart.  Then they come ogether again and fall apart again.  It's just like that.  The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen:  room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy...Letting there be room for not knowing is the most important thing of all."  

I profoundly appreciate her calling out candidly that things don't really get solved. The way to negotiate my grieving pattern isn't to rid the pain; it simply doesn't go away.  Things come together; things fall apart.  True healing allows room for things to come together, then fall apart, then come together, and fall apart.  Shampoo, rinse, repeat.  Shampoo, rinse, repeat.  It's profoundly complicated, yet plainly simple.  

When I experienced my meltdown last month, I needed my sense of abandonment and devastation acknowledged.  I wanted somebody to acknowledge that despite those "remarkable progress" I have been making, it came with a hefty price - I paid full price, in cash, for it all.  And that I was spent.  I wanted somebody to simply recognize, without giving me an ounce of advice or solution, that I felt completely abandoned and alone that night.  I didn't want any advice. Any solution.  I didn't need any.  Some things cannot be solved.  Things don't really get solved!   The most important thing I wanted was somebody to simply acknowledge and accept that despite all the devastation and the pain Eric's death had caused, I love my husband.  Singularly. Unwaveringly. Stubbornly.  In spite of it all.  

Time, introspection, openness, and meditation is the most remarkable natural remedy for the broken heart and soul.  In the last month, I have eventually realized and reached a pivotal moment, perhaps I will call it clarity.  “Eric is very much in my mind, but he is in my past.  I am most certain, unequivocally, that he loved me, and I loved him.  Knowing and believing that is ENOUGH.  That was where we parted company.  Past tense may be difficult to grapple, but it is the most honest, and what is true. Always side with the truth.  And so it shall and needs to be:  Past tense."
  

My pivotal moment of clarity has arrived:  It's time.  It's time to let Eric go.  It's time to start using past tense.