Costa Rica Sunset + Catamaran Cruise = Medusa Moment

We've enjoyed hundreds, perhaps thousands, of sunsets.  It's the same yellow fireball that goes up and down every 24 hours, for millions and millions of years. Yet, we snap pictures of it as if it were the first sunset.  Or the last.  Sunsets are mesmerizing and mysterious, like Medusa's crazy hair.  I had a Medusa Moment in Costa Rica.  

The sunset I saw while on the catamaran cruise was both mesmerizing and mysterious. Yet, defining.  The defining moment gave me this message, "thanks for all the adventures.  Now start your next one."  

Life adventures come in all shapes and forms, and obviously not limited to tropical vacations.  The defining message had more to do with "who" and not "what." 

Sunsets used to be simply beautiful to me until the last two years.  Now, sunsets become "meaningful" as if they carry special messages from my husband.  I say "as if" because they *don't* actually carry messages; I just make belief they do.  In time, I have become increasingly aware and grateful to my acceptance of a few facts of life.  One, I have become very aware that not only I am alive, but that I FEEL incredibly alive.  Two, I never felt the need to lament "why" or "why me" despite my husband's death.  The answer(s) to these questions did not and do not exist.  I have cognitively refused to trap myself in such fruitless agony.  Three, I have come to full acceptance that my husband's decision to die was his, and his alone.  It was NEVER my right or my place to take on any guilt or blame, nor is it my or anyone's right to cast guilt or blame on him.  I have come to realize that I will fiercely defend his decision until the last cow comes home.  Lastly, and probably the most important fact, was that I have unequivocal certainty that Eric loved me deeply when he was alive.  And without bounds.  These "simple" facts of life propelled me to live a determinately full life no matter the circumstance.    

So what do all these have to do with anything?  Or a Medusa Moment?  The moment that was mesmerizing and mysterious, yet defining?  I'll get to that.  

I went to Costa Rica with my boyfriend Ken, who is one of the most considerate and solid human beings I have the good fortune of dating.  We come from two distinctly opposite - not opposing, but opposite - worlds.  Yet, we couldn't be more compatible despite our polar differences, complemented by many similar values and viewpoints about the world.  I believe Psychology 101 has a layman term called "opposite attracts."  Frankly, "why" we complement each other is irrelevant.  What's relevant is ridiculously simple:  We are good to each other, and good for each other.  Together, we are happy.  Isn't that enough?  

But that's what I struggled with internally and battled fruitlessly:  My current adventures and my past adventures.  I need to reconcile the two.  The Facts of Life I've accumulated should have prepared me for my next stage of life.  And the next stage of life is obviously here.  Within reach.  It's right in front.  

I just needed a little bit something.  Like a small bite of brownie after a good meal...  

And there it was.  The Medusa Moment.  The mesmerizing sunset gave me the message:  Thanks for all the (life) adventures.  Start your next one now - it is here! There and then, the sunset gave me permission to make my new life with Ken official.  I felt at once incredible and free.  

Like a chrysalis just morphed into a butterfly, I fly.

Sensible Ramble

I have been staring at the computer screen for 30 minutes.  Nothing.  I feel hypocritical.  On one hand saying I don't want to treat February 15 differently than any other day; on the other hand, I force myself to remember all the details about Eric's death.  I'm no dummy.  I know February 15 can never be "just another day."  

Somebody called me a widow earlier this week.  I almost kicked him in the knee, but then I realized, that would be like spitting at somebody who calls me Chinese. Hey, I didn't say I am a sensible person.  Pragmatic, maybe.

(Speaking of being pragmatic, I then wondered if I am supposed to file my taxes as a single or as a widow this year.  Is there such a thing, filing as a widow?  I protest silently that I should be at least 78 to qualify as a widow.  I feel ripped off.)  

The thing about keeping a blog is that I can go back (and I often do) and read my entries to appreciate how much I used to ramble in my writing, how much I used to ache and hurt, how stubborn I became to not be coddled, how determined I was to emerge victoriously.  I had so much pride in me.  My blog was my path to heal. Tonight, I re-read the entry Acceptance, written just a few days shy of the first anniversary of my "widowship."  I wrote about the many fresh perspectives I gained in the first year - especially the perspectives on honoring the way Eric lived, on accepting his decision to die, and my wicked determination to emerge bravely and victoriously.  

Soon, the second full year of Eric's death will come and go.  I have learned to never hide or lie about my emotions, or his death.  I think about my husband everyday in things big and small.  I miss his presence, and feel his absence in everything I do. Everyday, I will remember something about him or us that causes me to shed tears. However, one's life must not be defined by another's death.  My life has moved well beyond.  

I think I have accepted my new normal.