They Send Gifts!

There are only a few more days to the third anniversary of Eric's death.  My good friend Julie calls it my Brave Day.  I'm doing really well, and I expect status quo progress.  Perhaps 2016 is the year I finally embrace February 15.  This February 15, perhaps, will be uneventful and regular as a, say, Taco Tuesday.  And that I no longer feel a stigma  - self-imposed or not - carrying his life or his death wherever I go, whatever I do.  Perhaps Eric's death is slowly and permanently becoming my fiber.  Like the peppered strands of gray beneath my black coiffure.  I'm definitely maturing with his death. 

I have always felt strongly that I must create an active purpose, not merely accept a passive reason, for my husband's death.  It would eventually become my path to emerge victoriously.  It takes time.

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In the last few months I have received random handwritten cards and emails from parents, grandparents, and friends of students who have taken the Handwrite Thank You Notes with me at PSCS, a progressive school in Seattle where I teach as a volunteer teacher.  The message to me was always one of positive, encouraging, and thankful that the younglings had, at some point in the last year, hand wrote them a warm and sincere thank you note.  They wanted me to know how wonderful it felt to have received something in the mail from the youngsters.  How important this class was.  How much they are inspired, and that they, the adults, began to take time out of their busy schedules and express gratitude to others. The younglings have done the wonder of giving an unexpected gift to the recipients - the exact purpose of my class.  We surprise them with gifts!     

The Butterfly Effect:  A scientific theory that a single occurrence, no matter how small, can change the course of the universe forever.  

I don't usually discuss the genesis of this class, until last week, while I was casually speaking with one of the parents at school.  Her son loved writing thank you notes every week with me.  Needless to say, I was overjoyed to hear that he learned something in class in addition to enjoying the brownies I occasionally brought!  The parent is a professional therapist, and she asked how I came up with this idea.  So I told her my story.  

After Eric's suicide, I was relentless and determined to surround my 15th of each month with nothing but positivity, no matter how hard or impossible.  I sat at the dining table and I stared at a stack of blank thank you cards for what seemed to be eternity.  Sometimes with disdain.  Others with dread.  I always wept while I wrote, but I made certain to remember the charmed life I live, and the good fortune I enjoy.  I took my exercise seriously, deliberately, intentionally.  I knew it was my only ticket.  Nobody else could help me.  Remembering and expressing gratitude became my way to create and experience light and positivity.  The side benefit was an unexpected gift to friends.  I was able to recover as healthily and quickly as I had, and now live a happier and fuller life than I have ever lived, in no small part, was due to this focused exercise of Gratitude.  I constantly wrote thank you cards for a full year.  

I wanted an unique and useful way to connect with the younglings at school.  Last winter, I experimented facilitating a Handwrite Thank You Notes in a one-time block class.  Since, I facilitated a similar class for two full terms.  It's my way to be useful.    

The marvel of the Butterfly Effect.  

I don't have any grandiose goals of what this might lead to, nor am I attached to a specific outcome.  The class simply enables a few folks and service organizations to randomly receive an unexpected gift in the mail in the form of a handwritten card. Surprise and delight; that's what my students do.  They send gifts!

I have finally created an active purpose for my husband's death.  It's my way to continue to honor his life in any small ways.  

  

2015: The lessons

Facebook has a feature that conveniently publishes my "Year in Review" with pictures.  I didn't follow instructions, not willing to concede to the algorithm that randomly picks pictures supposedly important.  The feature did prompt me to examine my year, although not in pictures, but in lessons.    

Much has happened, yet nothing seemed truly significant in the grand scheme of things. I'm not sure what is in the "grand scheme" but it seems commonly referred to and understood.  Sadly I've lost a few (more) good friends.  I really hate losing smart friends.  It appears morbid that the first thing came to my mind in reviewing 2015 is mortality.  Losing good friends makes me pretty grateful that I get to wake up on the right side of the grass for another day.  I learned to be more grateful today than I was yesterday.  

I made a pretty good move in January.  After 14 years, I left Starbucks and finally retired from corporate America.  At 47, it seemed entirely too young and too early to utter the "R" word.  But, my desire to create a different kind of joy has simply outweighed a career in corporate America.  Besides, that path was no long relevant.  I am proud and grateful for all that I have "accomplished" - whatever that means.  But, I am more proud and more grateful that I stopped expecting myself to continue down an irrelevant path.  Of apathy.  I began to understand and appreciate not just who, but what I am becoming, and the courage it takes to live a life that matters to me.  I learned how to say "fuck off" more often.  

I released Eric's ashes in August, another good move.  The moment I released his ashes, my heart was at complete peace.  I felt nothing but love and gratitude.  I was all at once joyful, grateful.  I knew I did something for Eric that NOBODY else could do.  The moment was mine.  I learned that I had never been more proud of myself.  

True to my words, I traveled extensively.  I visited family, saw good friends and met new ones.  Two international trips and nearly a dozen domestic excursions later, I learned that I am a fantastic solo traveler, and an equally fantastic companion.   

I played many rounds of golf - the most I've played in twenty years.  I learned that using color golf balls, especially orange ones, makes a better game.  Every-single-time.  

As a volunteer teacher at PSCS, I learned more than I taught, and reaped more than I sowed. I laughed heartily with my students, staff, and fellow board members.  I learned that kids teach me stuff that I don't learn from adults, and they tell me stories that keep me curious.  I learned that I cannot possibly fail if I do things out of love.      

I don't feel that I have created anything extraordinary in 2015.  I have, however, lived another extraordinary year.  I woke up every morning, had coffee, and my heart went on beating for 24 hours without skipping a beat.  That, itself, was rather extraordinary.  Perhaps the ability to find the amazement in those mundane minutes is what makes life, extraordinary.        

My husband was a Pisces

About a month ago, it dawned on me that I forgot to write an obituary about Eric. It was probably a good thing.  I did not know how to write an obituary, but I would have insisted on doing it myself - doesn't seem like it's a task one would outsource. I would have to Google an example, but struggled incessantly that Eric would cringe on the formality.  I would bite more than I could chew.  When I told my dear friend Kevin about my miss, he said, "your blog and your posts were his obituary."  It was serendipity.  

I released some of Eric's ashes in Gig Harbor, Washington, from a sea kayak.  I picked a quiet spot facing the Puget Sound.  The sunny morning was peppered with lightning, thunder, and hail.  Maybe it was his excitement.  It started to drizzle as I released the ashes, as if it were a sign of his approval.  "'Tis a good spot."  The Pisces' ashes sank slowly with gravity, traveled with the current in clean, clear water.  Freely.  Gracefully.  "Finally," I smiled, "unconfined."  He had always admired and loved graceful movements.  I searched for the mental file where I keep pictures of him climbing, each step calculated, deliberate, unhurried.  It was dance-like, although the man honestly couldn't dance to save his life.  I had never seen Eric did anything in a hurried, uncontrolled manner.  Never.  It was maddening.  

That night, Eric came to my dream.  This was only the second time I had ever dreamed about him.  The first time being two months after his death, when he said he was flying me to Dallas for that month-long bad ass business trip.  I was certain he came to announce he was no longer in pain, that he was free to move.  And that I could rest assured.  This time, we were invited to lunch at our friend Judy's.  She made us Japanese ramen noodles - the real stuff, not the packaged crap - with Chinese preserved vegetables.  It was some seriously good eats.  He looked exactly the same.  Relaxed.  Dressed in his customary uniform: T-shirt and jeans.  And we slurped ramen at Judy's.  Unhurriedly.  It was good.  

I felt peaceful.  I was proud.  Of myself and my husband.  Grateful.  I felt brave and courageous, but with much humility and gratitude.  I reminded myself again that I live a charmed life with unexplainably good fortune.  

"It's good.  It's all good.  Keep on living."  He said.

Birthday Wishes

When I blow out the birthday candles on my cake this year, I wouldn't know what to wish for. I want nothing and I certainly don't need more stuff, except maybe an extra set of measuring spoons or a heat-proof rubber spatula.  Other than that, I truly need nothing. I wish I would get excited about some trendy Italian handbags or expensive jewelries or even a fancy dinner.  Or a puppy.       But I don't.  

I still love my birthday.  

Bryan died a few days after I last saw him at the hospital.  His memorial service, a celebration of his life, was the 8th memorial service I attended in two years.  B and I were not very close, but his wife and I are.  We have been buddies for fifteen years.  Of all my friends who passed in the last two years, Jeff's loss feels the most like Eric's death.  I have tears every time I think about Jeff.  It reminds me of what Eric had left behind.  It makes me angry my good friend has to go through this shit.

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I think it's time to release Eric's ashes this summer.  I am not ready, because I would tear up every time I think about it.  Every single time, without fail.  But I do not believe there is such a thing as ever being ready to release your spouse's ashes.  I reason with myself that it's not about me being ready; it's about Eric's ashes.  My husband was never meant to be confined in a box, so why should his ashes?  I reason that if I wait until I am ready, I would never do it.  I reason with myself that life doesn't wait.  

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I wish for peace and healing for Jeff.  I wish for familiarity.  I wish for tears, but that they would stop after a while.  I wish for gratitude.  That's what I wish for.  I wish for him new normals soon.  

I already made my wishes.  I don't need candles; please let's just eat cake.   

Seven In Two Years

On the eve of my four months retirement from corporate America, it happens to be the eve of the wedding of my two good friends, B and J.  B is very very ill, and will likely pass very soon.  Every fiber in J's body will then hurt.  Today, in my head, I said my goodbye at the hospital.  I felt dull and sad; I couldn't fake a smile.  And I listened to Mozart Requiem all day while I sent crab grass and dandelions to their demise.  

I counted.  Seven in two years.  I went to seven memorial services in two years. That's three times of funerals as weddings I attended.  I don't know what is the average number, but seven in two years seems a bit excessive. Some, I was very close to, including Eric and Julian.  Some, acquaintances.  The rest, somewhere in-between.  One would think it's somewhat natural to start attending funerals once you hit a certain golden age.  The problem is I hardly consider 47 that "golden age." I feel morbid.  

Inspirational posters often remind us to live life to the fullest because we don't know when we would, well, die.  That's why some genius made up a thing called the Bucket List.  "Before I die, I want to see or do these 85 things on this list." Faithfully, a check mark was ticked when an item was accomplished.  Like a grocery list.  

I realized, it's all wrong.  We go on with our days hoping and assuming "they" - others in our lives - will be around tomorrow.  Then the next day.  And the next. The "they" is unspecific - it can be anyone.  

I don't know when "they" will leave.  I suppose "leave" can mean anything outside the status quo.  Of course, it also means death.  When it happens, that leaves me. The one who didn't yet die.  With holes of various sizes.  Wishing to have asked "them" to tell me more stories.  Wishing to have kept that lunch date instead of finishing some "critical steps" in a project.  Wishing to have gone to that baseball game instead of making up some lame excuses to not.  Wishing to have baked "them" more bread.  Or pies.  It could be anything.    

A purposeful life is not about self-preservation so that there is no hole.  A purposeful life is about creating meaningful holes.  You constantly move forward to create a new life, and more holes.  Stopping is dying. 

"Living life to the fullest" is never about my last breath.  Its about "their" last breath.   

I never bother to keep a Bucket List.  I don't need to see the Leaning Tower of Pisa that badly.  A postcard will do.  I would rather be spending time and doing things with "them", and if it happens to be at Pisa, let's pack a picnic.  

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.   

I didn't carry it with me today

Here I am.  A little more than two weeks to the anniversary of Eric's death, I tried to remind myself that a date on the calendar is merely another date on the calendar unless I assign it a value of significance.  Doesn't an anniversary deserve commemoration?  Does it?  Why? 

I stopped recognizing the "15th of each month" after the first year of Eric's death because I decided the 15th shall deserve no more attention than the 14th or the 16th, or the 8th, or 22nd.  My pragmatism scared me.  I felt un-humanlike.    

Indeed, this February 15 marks another 15th of the month; it shall be the 24th one. It is the second anniversary of Eric's death.  I have not yet come to terms with what that means. How I want to memorialize it.  Or not.  I have not yet learned to be at peace with the date.  I am, still, Grasshopper.  I am at peace with being Grasshopper.  

My life did not revolve around Eric when he was living, so in all sound rationale it should not revolve around his not-living.  My being, however, is profoundly evolved and deeply changed by his death.  I took the last breath of my old life on February 15, 2013.  I had since deduced, almost to the minute, when that last breath was taken.  That knowledge sometimes taunts me.  In many ways, I felt that I had also died that day, and that's not necessarily a bad thing.     

Edward Hirsch's poems about his deceased son Gabriel resonates with me in the way he describes one never quite gets over the grief of a loss; rather, you carry the grief with you.  Wherever you go, you carry it with you.  However you evolve, you carry it with you.  And you evolve.  I would not have understood what Hirsch meant during the first year of Eric's death.  I am beginning to comprehend just a little more now.  

I need to turn the office into my space.  I had tried on two occasions this week to no success.  I compare the task to getting a colonoscopy:  nobody ever looks forward to one but getting it done buys you five years peace of mind.  This space needs to be transformed.  It is the last room in the house I need to mindfully make it mine, how ever minor the changes.  I am determined the room where Eric spent most of his time must become my own space.  

I need to carry it with me one more time.  But today, I just let it be.  I didn't carry it with me today.  

Do you remember how you got your ass out of bed this morning?

Most of us don't. Why would we?  

It's new year's eve.  Traditionally, symphonies perform Beethoven's Ninth Symphony Ode to Joy to welcome in the new year.  The subscribers email from the Seattle Symphony reminded me it's the "last chance in 2014 to see this performance live!"  The email reminded how I got my ass out of bed every morning for two straight months, after Eric died.  

Most things have become a blur, but some remain starkly clear.  Like the millions of stars in a moonless, cloudless night.  Perhaps in Montana.  Every morning, I blasted Ode to Joy.  It shook the walls.  My poor neighbors.  It worked like heroin being shot in the blood stream, I think.  When the chorus sang, I looked for that one small gleam of sunlight in the distance - that would be my sign.  I command myself, "get your fucking ass up."  

I didn't crawl out of bed.  I got up.  With my head high, back straight.  Tears would run down my face, but I stood up.  

I must not ever forget how to be courageous.  I have my mother to thank: she is the epitome of titanium backbone.  Lucky for me, I simply have the best example to emulate.

Every morning, for nearly two straight months.  That was how I got my ass out of bed:  Beethoven.

The Beethoven mornings are long gone.  I rarely think about them, but when I do, I shed tears of gratitude and commend myself with intention, "you have out done yourself, Daisy."  I reserve that comment for my proudest efforts, such as baking the most magnificent loaf of golden brown cinnamon raisin challah, or the tender mixed-berry pie.  

Or, about my retirement. 

I have ten more work days left with Starbucks before I look at corporate America in the rear view mirror.  It's time to be useful elsewhere now, I said.  Truth is, I don't know exactly where or precisely how I will be useful, but I think it is plenty smart to leave room for the unknown.  

I surmise I will miss nothing about the office, but I will think about everything in the office.  Is it ironic?  

I'm not certain how I will create my 2015, and I'm completely at peace with it. Luckily, I am pretty sure who I'm kissing to ring in the new year!  Lucky dog!!

Meet Me at the Library

There are days I would feel pronouncedly alone.  Not lonely.  Alone.  I feel I have to engage in a battle against the world, alone.  But, there is no battle.  There isn't even a squabble.  This charmed life I live has no real struggle of any sort.  

A few days ago, my mind wandered to emergency preparedness.  We had a meeting place in case "shit happens."  Eric, Katie, and I would meet at the library on 35th should something happen and we couldn't get home.  The library was our meeting place.  My mind wandered to the library but I realized, I no longer need a meeting place.  In fact, I must find my own way home if shit happens.  I need to remember the location of the water main and the gas shutoff.  The breaker.  How to operate the fire extinguishers.  My emergency bag and batteries and lighters.  The need to consider everything and make every decision on my own frustrates me and suddenly maddens me.  It maddens me, rational or not, that I am "abruptly left alone" to consider these decisions on my own.  

I realize millions of people - men and women - make these decisions, alone, everyday.  But that's not the point.  I was mad that I was left with "all this work" to do…  Alone.

That same day, I panicked that I have "forgotten" how old I was when Eric died.  I had to count.  I was 45.  I was 45 when my husband died.  I didn't know why, but that fact maddened me, too.  

"There is no right way to grieve, and you have to let people grieve in the way that they can.  One of the things that happens to everyone who is grief-stricken, who has lost someone, is there comes a time when everyone else just wants you to get over it, but of course you don't get over it.  You get stronger; you try and live on; you endure; you change; but you don't get over it.  You carry it with you."  ~Poet Edward Hirsch, author of Gabriel:  A Poem

I don't know if I am still grieving.  I know, however, that even I want me to get over my grief.  When I listened to the NPR interview with the poet Edward Hirsch, who lost his son Gabriel, the words struck me really hard that apparently I will NOT get over the death of my husband.  I will carry it with me, but I will not get over it. It comforts yet frightens me.  How long do I carry "it" with me?  What the hell does that even mean?  Why should I carry it with me?  I never asked for this burden nor did I sign up for this grief; yet, it landed on my lap.  Solely.  Squarely.  Solidly. Why is this mine?  Who died and made you king?  I was mad again. 

Emotions are mysterious.  I don't feel "grief" daily, but still, everyday - everyday - something will hit me and I shed tears over it.  Everyday.  I cannot label those emotions, nor is it necessary.  Perhaps, that's when I "carry" it with me.  I carry those sentiments when I go on with my day.  They may be sentiments of gratitude. Thankfulness.  Anger.  Abandonment.  Humor.  Memories.  Love.  Sorrow.  And yes, grief.       

I never regretted marrying my husband.  Never.  But how about that emergency bag?  Wish he had packed that damn thing.

Happiness is a form of courage

Courage is my character of choice. Everything I do, want to do, plan to do, I give partial credit to "Courage."  It may have something to do with Amy Cuddy's TED talk I watched long time ago.  Although her phrase "fake it 'til you become it" doesn't resonate with me very much, as I dislike anything fake - fake smiles, fake eyelashes, fake butter, fake boobs, fake characters - I understand her point.  I prefer "do it 'til you become it."  It infers a series of mindful actions rather than deliberate deceit.  Regardless of the word of choice, courage drives the doing.  

That brings me to Happiness.  

Is happiness a form of being?  Or do you create happiness?  Or both?

The Friday before Memorial Day weekend in year 2000, at the SeaTac airport, while waiting for my flight home to Boise after a long day of meeting, this man was eyeing me at the gate.  This man eventually became my husband.  He chatted up the gate agent and switched his seat so he could sit next to me on the Horizon flight.  Exit row.  

That weekend, we went for a hike at Camelback Mountain with Kida, the Black Dog.  The man discovered that I'm a classical pianist.  I discovered he spoke Russian fluently.  I also made belief he was a spy… 

A month later, I announced that I was moving to Seattle to chase the Green Siren (Starbucks) and to become a Purple Dawg (UW Business School).  August, we went our separate ways, with our respective dog.  That was the end of our summer romance.  

Four months later, the man got a job with Alaska Airlines flying MD80, based in Seattle.  The dogs were reunited, as did the man and the woman.  The rest was history.  Until the day my husband died, he said I created this whole thing.  

Best 13 years of my life.  BUT - but - the best, and the happiest, must still be yet to come.  It is yet to be created.  

Happiness is a form of courage.  

Happiness is shooting bull's eye

The Evolution of Me

I stumbled upon my Facebook entry from a year ago.  I remarked that I began to feel quite human again for four days in a row.  That was April 25, 2013.  My remarks prompted me to revisit my blog so I can appreciate the progress I have made, and the evolution of myself.  

Apparently I made hummus a la Eric's recipe for the first time.  It wasn't terrible, but it wasn't great.  It certainly didn't taste the same.  "What do you know; even garbanzo beans felt the void," I noted.  

I am grateful that I was able to express those vivid and raw sentiments so openly and honestly.  I think my ability to do so is a tremendous gift from the Universe. The way I express grief helped me evolve.  It continues to help me relentlessly focus on only the important things and my gratitude in my very charmed life, rather than Eric's death.  It was just so big to wrap my mind around the loss of a good man, my good man, in this world.

What a difference a year makes.  I feel very human.  Everyday.  I am acutely aware of Eric's absence AND presence in pretty much everything I do.  It is not a sad sentiment; rather, the awareness allows for a continuous evolution of my being.

I find that to allow myself to evolve, which is much more than to emerge from grief, gives me the courage to live All In with very little fear and reservation of the "what if's."  

My evolution gives me the courage to transform my living space from "our" home to "my" home.  It gives me room to uncover and develop my hidden talents.  It gives me the hunger to volunteer and serve at the Puget Sound Community School.  My friend Sieglinde asked why I continue to be involved in PSCS.  I think it's because PSCS brings out the best in me.  When I am at my best, I help others to bring out their best, to be at their best.  I feel strongly that "to help others to be at their best" has become my mission of my existence.  I am very grateful for my discovery.  

My evolution also opens windows and doors so I may enjoy a loving relationship with Ken, a very good, kind, generous man who, rightly so, thinks I am the best thing since sliced bread.  I feel fortunate that he also thinks I walk on water; I'll work on that, too.  More importantly, I feel peaceful and right.  And happy.  There is a loving sentiment of joy.

My evolution makes me face my passion, feed my hobbies, and refuse the myriad of excuses that are just that:  excuses.  To live in the present.  To not be attached to the outcome, but to go courageously into the journey itself.  All In.  Many would say "that's great, Daisy!  It's what Eric would have wanted you to do!"  That is wonderful.  But I think it's MORE wonderful and important that it is exactly what *Daisy* wants to do.  

I do know with certainty that Eric would say, as he always did, "very cool, babe. You have outdone yourself."  

Do you miss me?

Eric didn't use to "miss" me.  He didn't really "miss" anyone; he wasn't wired that way.  That didn't mean he didn't think of others, and it certainly didn't mean he loved me little.  He loved me plenty, likely more than anyone else he would and could love.  

I, on the other hand, used to miss him.  That's how I was wired.  

Now, I try not to miss him.  I had loved this man with every fiber and every ounce of energy.  Especially in the last few years.  It was profoundly powerful. Suddenly, I had an epiphany. Instead of missing him, I need to turn the energy around. Instead of focusing on his absence, I shall let his presence comes through.  I need to let his presence be my focus.  His laughs, his silence, his meditation, our conversations.  

I feel his presence in pretty much everything I do:  Every loaf of bread I bake, every round of skate on Alki, every French press on Sunday, every time I touch my bow and arrows, every piece of music I play on the piano, every piece of art I create, while I am in any corner of my house, when I ask "what should I do."  

I try not to "miss" him.  Me missing him somehow implies that I am focused on the past, what was lost.  He would not want me to "miss" him.  He would prefer that I remember him, but not "miss" him.  He would want that we apply what he has shared with us in our respective lives, in the best ways we know how.  He would not want us to miss him.  

Not "missing" my deceased husband, and putting it in writing.  That is so controversial.  And cold.  But it's not like that.  

It's about knowing that he is present.  

Then I discovered something I never considered.  What Eric and I shared was very powerful.  What I learn and intentionally apply from our love is more profound.  

My living may need to include not missing.  And that scares me shitless…  

My dear friend Janelle's corgi, Abby

"My Legacy"

A few weeks ago somebody at work asked what I would like to be remembered by when I leave my company.  "What do you want to be your legacy?" he asked.  It was one of those "self reflection" sessions at a meeting.  The kind you "take three minutes to ponder then write down your thoughts on a piece of paper" session. 

My legacy.  What does that even mean!?

I am not that ambitious.  I don't think about my legacy or what I want to be remembered by when I leave my company, or ever - it is just not that interesting and certainly not that important to me.  I try to make the best decisions for me, for my peeps, and and for the business.  That's it.  Why complicate things?  I stared at my note pad.  My mind wandered away.  I wondered what I should make for dinner; I wondered when it will finally stop raining.  I secretly chuckled how Eric would roll his eyes all the way to the back of his head if I asked him that same question at dinner.  Yup.  He, too, would consider this a frivolous question.  And then he'll say, "that's a deep subject."     

Tick tock tick tock.  I had better write something down.  I had one minute left. Still, my page was blank and I still couldn't think of what to make for dinner.       

I don't consider what I do for a living very important or meaningful in the grand scheme of things, although I would like to delude myself that at least a small portion of it just might be so.  That is, of course, if I assume correctly that there is indeed a "grand scheme" and that my presumed grand scheme is indeed THE grand scheme…  

I now had about 45 seconds remaining to scribble down something.  Quick!

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"I don't know what I want to be remembered by when I leave this company, or when I die.  I am a people connector.  I am to bring out the best in others in everything I do.  Let's not complicate things."   

Wild Camping with Eric between New Denver & Kaslo
(Beyond Jasper, Canada)
August, 2011

Random Babble

I made a decision last month that I don't want to count chapters anymore.  I think it also means I don't want to count 15th's anymore.  

In god's honest truth, I am physically tired of remembering Eric. Of compartmentalizing memories. Remembering is VERY HARD WORK.  I want to close the lid and say "I'm done."  I don't want to think about him.  I don't want to remember anything.  I don't want to talk about it.  I don't even want strangers to know that I had a husband.  Answering that requires factual information that is also respectful to his death.  Explanation requires lengthy sentences and careful thoughts.  Thinking gets better when there are good dialogues, but good dialogues are energy expenditures.  Now, I simply prefer listening to music over talking.  I don't like listening to my voice that much anymore.  

Perhaps it is a form of escapism.  I respect my need for space and an escape whenever I feel like it.  The fact is, I will never be devoid of memories of my husband.  An escape from it is not only smart and healthy, but brave.        

Ever feel like you're damaged goods?  I was talking about that with a friend and he said, "Daisy, we are all damaged goods one way or another."  There might be merit to that statement.  Since no person is "perfect," in essence, everyone is "damaged" one way or another.  It's not good or bad; there needs not be a value judgement.  

Winter Sojourn 2011
Ashland, OR

It will be Eric's birthday (again) in a few days, a day he never liked to celebrate in the recent near-decade because it painfully reminded him of yet another year passed and his inability to do anything he loved to do, to live life.  It was impossible for others to remotely comprehend even a hairline fraction of what that meant.  I hated answering the question "what did you guys do to celebrate his birthday?"  Sometimes I simply lied about it.  As much as I could, I avoided answering that dreadful question. Diversion is a great life skill.

I am immensely grateful that my husband is eternally free of agony of any form.  

Still, I find internal resentment that I cannot explain. I find myself extremely intolerant of whining, entitlement, laziness and incompetence.  Especially entitlement and laziness.  I find this world brutally unfair.  I feel Eric's life cheated and robbed.  I feel an overwhelming burden that I never asked for; cards dealt to me and a game I was forced to play in; strength and grace buried that would otherwise take me five lifetimes to uncover. 

I also honor completely that I have only one life to live:  mine.  There is no time to waste.  The illusion of control over one's own life is just that:  A complete illusion, and delusion.  The sooner we let go of the need to exert control, the sooner we can live.  It is that simple.     

Random babble. 

Ashland, Oregon
December, 2011

  

The counting has ceased

I decided I am going to stop counting chapters.  I don't need benchmarking anymore. I think I just made incredible progress.  

I went away for a few days for some sunshine and R&R in central California. Respite takes in many forms.  This is my fifth trip away in twelve months.  A friend asked how I feel coming home. There is no place like home, no matter what.  I follow my evening routine:  Open door, turn off alarm, wash hands, light candles in the living room, turn on laptop, select music.  It feels like a Taco Tuesday.  It's all good.  

You've got to leverage the good days to propel yourself to the next stage, or you'll risk being stuck wallowing in the same place.  Wallowing is bad juju.  

While watching the Winter Olympics games, I learned the story about Sarah Burke, a Canadian freestyle skier and a pioneer in superpipe, and her tireless work in lobbying the IOC to include women halfpipe into the 2014 Olympics games.  She succeeded, but died in January 2012 after a severe training accident in Park City, Utah.  At an interview, Rory Burke, Sarah's husband, said Sarah never asked why, but why not.  

Words to live by.  "Why not?"  Why not stop counting chapters?  

Why not a fountain in the backyard!?
Hearst Castle, San Simeon

    

Day 365: The dream

I've anticipated the arrival of Day 365, and it's finally here. 

I want to write, but I don't know about what.  I sit in front of my Mac and stare at the screen, wishing the Facebook "blip" would sound.  It would signify somebody makes a comment on my post.  Any post.  I take a sip of my coffee, let my brain runs around in circles.  It naturally goes to the warm, sunny day 365 days ago, and the Excel spreadsheet I worked on all afternoon…  The office was thinning out around 3pm - such would be the norm on a sunny winter afternoon - yet I decided to stick around until official quittn' time.  To finish the spreadsheet, I said.  At 5:15, I put on my turquoise Patagonia jacket, I waved "have a good weekend" to my gal pal Julie, and flashed a big smile.  I was going home to my husband.  My niece Katie was waiting for me downstairs; we were carpooling.  

I threw away the spreadsheet and I never looked at it again.  I secretly loathe Excel. 

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For all our years together, I never dreamed about Eric.  Not once.  How unromantic!!  But, why would I dream about him when he was already with me?   

That is, until a month after Eric died.  He came to let me know, he was completely pain free.  And fine.

I blog about it on this day because I need us to know, Eric is completely pain free. And fine.  In whatever form he is.  Wherever he is.  My good friend Ginny said, that a person dies is not nearly as important as how the person lived.  

I am very comfortable talking about Eric's death - and using the word died and death in conversations.  My husband didn't pass on.  He didn't pass away.  There is no need to soften anything with me.  Facts are facts - we need to be respectful in handling them.  I can handle facts like a champ now. 

I used to sleep through almost anything.  Thunderstorms, howling wind, earthquakes, barking dogs, neighbor screaming profanities.  That is, until Eric died. Melatonin worked its magic every once in a while.  

The night Eric visited, I actually slept.  In the dream, I found my husband sleeping in blue striped flannel pajamas…  WTF.  He never wore pajamas.  He didn't own pajamas.  And FLANNEL?  Really?  Who dressed my handsome husband!?  I was not pleased…  I was about to stop my dream and go straight to the one in charge of the sleepwear department.

I turned on the light in his dorm room; he sat up and complained, "HONE, you woke me up!!!"  He hated being woken up, because it took him so much efforts to fall asleep.  What an oxymoron:  taking efforts to fall asleep.     

"HONE!  You woke me up!  I have a trip tomorrow morning!"
"A trip?  Where are you going?  How are you supposed to fly?"
Silence.  Smiled.  "What do you think?" 
Stunned. "Where are you flying to?"
Smiled.  "I'm trying to get on the same trip to Dallas with you!" 

I broke down and weeped.  For him to sit in the cockpit and fly my plane to Dallas, it could ONLY mean one thing:  my husband was no longer caged in like a zoo animal.  My husband was no longer in pain.  My husband was free.  

Eric was a "Water Rabbit" - he was a Pisces, born in the year of Rabbit.  While on my business trip in Dallas, the Water Rabbit came to see me.  One morning at four o'clock, as I stepped out of the hotel lobby and went to work - there it was, a big rabbit in the bush!  Just sitting there, waiting.  Then slowly, he hopped away…  Sixteen hours later, I returned to the hotel after a long-ass day.  There it was again, the freakn' RABBIT!  Sitting there again, waiting…  Then slowly, he hopped away again.  

I never talked about my dream or my Water Rabbit story.  They lived solely inside of me.  Until now.

I don't know how dreams work; I don't care.  I don't want any "expert" to interpret my dreams.  I don't even know if the rabbit story has the slightest significance to anything - but who cares!?  I'm not trying to cure cancer and save babies - that's not my gig.  My gig is to be a "teacher" through my unconventional experiences, a role I never asked for, but it's the cards I've been dealt.  That's my gig.  

Find-Your-Gig.  Express it fully.  Dive All In. 

On Day 365, a much anticipated day, the anniversary of my husband's death, I am strong, soft, brave, graceful, vulnerable.  I am sad, and I am relieved.  I am immensely grateful.  My Gratitude Cup has never been so full, and that it perpetually overflows day and night.  

Water Rabbit
Dallas, TX
May, 2013

Acceptance

I saw a quote by Michael J. Fox this morning on Acceptance.  He said "Acceptance doesn't mean resignation.  It means understanding that something is what it is and there's got to be a way through it." 

Yes, there's got to be a way through it.  

In exactly six days I would have triumphed over a very difficult event in my life for one full year.  365 days seems like a lifetime to be alive without my husband, yet I am immensely grateful to be still alive, despite his absence.  Not just to be alive, but thrive. Not just thrive, but to do so bravely, victoriously, triumphantly.  To be Daisy.  I am immensely, immensely grateful for the ability to evolve.  To evolve as a human being when I have to get through it all.  I am most, most grateful for my parents for raising a daughter who is smart, funny, beautiful, and brave.  

To be brave.  That's the only way to get through it.  

Looking back, I have the faintest idea when mourning ends and acceptance begins. I know it was not sequential.  I don't think grief ever ends, but acceptance does begin.   I believe when grief becomes more familiar, acceptance sprouts.  When acceptance grows, you begin to get through it.  You muster up everything, every fiber in you - love, strength, courage, sticktoitiveness, friendship, faith in yourself, faith in others, faith in humanity, distractions, sheer stubbornness - and you trudge through it.  The process is like shampooing hair:  Wet.  Lather.  Rinse.  Repeat.  

To accept.  It's the beginning of trudging through it all.  

It probably wouldn't be an exaggeration if I call last year "the most horrendous experience" of my life, but that is not all accurate.  Yes, PART of the year was horrendous.  True, getting through it was f'nkg hell.  Too many days, I simply didn't want to get through it.  I wanted to dig a hole, jump in, and call it forever good. Like burying a dead gold fish.  My bones physically ached.  It felt like blood should pore through my skin.  Accurate, I could not possibly go through the loss of a husband again.  But through my spiral vortex I am emerging as the most beautiful human being I could possibly be in all my years combined.  

It wasn't my doing; the credit didn't belong to me.  It belongs to my family and friends who surround me with the most profound, unexplainable love.  Those who tell and show me over and over and over how much they love and support me; those who remind me repeatedly how much Eric loved and adored me, and all he ever wanted was for me to be completely happy.  My growth belongs to the Universe. My Universe.  The Universe that always provides.   

To know that you are enough.  It's the path to get through it. 

I have a fresh perspective on love.  On relationships.  
I have a fresh perspective on how to love, how to accept love, and how to ask for love. 
I find it perfectly acceptable and reasonable to ask for love.  In fact, humble.
I have a fresh perspective on life and death. 
MY life.  
I have a fresh perspective on living with courage in spite of fear.  Everyday. 
I have a fresh perspective on me. And what I am capable of.  
I have a fresh perspective on my desires.  
I have a fresh perspective on acceptance.  
I have a fresh perspective on my husband.  My love.  My hero - a term he would never accept.  
I have a fresh perspective on my husband's life.  And his death. 

I have developed a perspective on what it means to "get through it all."  

In six days, it appears I would have to relive all the moments on that sunny day.  I would remember our texts.  I would listen to Tchaikovsky.  And I would remember our final discussion on this great Russian composer.  His abnormally large hands, we joked.  Then I would watch the clock and count the minutes.  And I would hear my piercing screams replaying themselves like a broken record.  I would see what I saw. I would feel my body going into complete shock.  And I would cry.  Perhaps weep.  I would remember my breathing stopped.  The controlled chaos.  I would remember I wish I were dead, as well.  I would have to relive it all, minute by minute.  What I wouldn't give to bribe someone to knock me out cold with a two by four, just for a couple of hours.  But that's not Daisy.  It's not her style.  She will face it.  Minute by minute.  Head on.  And go on.  

She will look herself in the mirror, say, "you have done exceptionally well, triumphed victoriously, and gotten through it all.  I am very proud of you.  May you continue to discover fresh perspectives for another 365 days."  

She wouldn't have it any other way.  She is, after all, her husband's proud wife. 

Eric climbing at City of Rocks