While I was away in Miami the week before last, I came to a sobering realization: I've been half of a couple essentially all of my adult life, almost two-thirds of my years. (I'm 55 years old. Richard and I were together nearly 29 years, and I was married once before.) There's nothing wrong with that, if couple-dom is healthy and nurturing, and my time with Richard was certainly that. Still, what it means is I have no practice in living alone.
It's not that I'm not independent and capable. This morning when I got up and opened the blinds, clouds masked the eastern horizon–there would be no solar energy to heat the house. So I put on my bathrobe, cleaned the ash pan in the wood stove, took the ashes out to the metal bucket on the back porch, and then chopped kindling and firewood, and made a fire.
Then I checked the temperature in Richard's studio to make sure it was warm enough (there's a woodstove there too), did yoga, cooked my hot cereal, and got on with my day.
Which included finally taking the lights off the solstice tree and hauling it down to the creek bank to re-vegetate an eroding area, hosting our little Quaker/Buddhist silent worship time, replacing an attic vent that chinook wind gusts blew askew, paying bills, filling out yet another after-death form (I swear that paperwork is the only eternal thing about our lives!), adjusting a squeaky door hinge, calling my dad and helping him sort out problems with his computer, and making dinner.
Once I would have had Richard's help. I can do many of the things he used to do, but there's a lot I can't do: I'm not Ms. Fix-it (though I'm learning); I can't use power tools (Raynaud's syndrome long ago took the nerves in my fingertips, so I don't trust myself); I couldn't design or build my way out of a paper bag; I'm neither big nor brawny.
But I'm smart, determined, and I have friends and neighbors who are happy to help. (Thanks especially to Maggie and Tony, Jim and Rynn, Kerry and Dave, Bev, Lisa and Tim, Jerry, Susan, Toni, Doris and Bill, Grant, Bob, and Mark and Brenda. You all are wonderful!)
Still, at the end of the day (and the beginning, in the middle of the night, and much of the time in between), I'm alone. On my own with whatever decisions, fears, challenges, and issues that may come up. That's new. Richard and I handled most everything together. Sometimes that made things difficult, but we worked it out; we learned to forgive, and to trust each other.
Even when he was bedridden, and frustrated that he couldn't do the things he had always done, we talked everything over. His brain might have been severely impacted by the glioblastoma that killed him, but his mind never lost its brilliance.
Now he's gone. At first I assumed I would simply continue on the path we walked together. Now I realize that since his death blew a hole in my life, I have an opportunity I didn't anticipate: I'm no longer part of a pair. I'd rather be with Richard, but that's not an option. So I'm going to explore what this new role of "Woman Alone" holds.
That title, by the way, comes from Margaret Coel's Shoshone/Arapaho Reservation mysteries. Woman Alone is the name bestowed on one of Coel's main characters, Arapaho lawyer Vicky Holden, for her solo status. It's not necessarily meant as a compliment. But it could be. I like Woman Alone better than "widow," a word that comes from an Indo-European root meaning "empty." Just because I'm without a man, and specifically, without the love of my life, does not make me empty. At all.
When Richard was healthy, our path was was a matter of mutual adjustment to reconcile sometimes divergent needs. After his bird visions revealed his brain cancer, our direction was guided by helping him live well for as long as possible.
Now I'm alone, charting my own life-path. On I go, mindful of the grace in this ephemeral gift of life…
being aware each day is your biggest ally…you’re doing well
“Widow” is definitely the wrong concept here, in so many ways.
Your creative spirit is the continuity in all of this path you have walked and will walk. You have, now, new materials to work with. It’s a good thing we’ve already figured out that life’s all a learning process, with the familiar and the unfamiliar constantly blending.
Good one, Susan. You’re continuing to carry a torch to light the way for . . . who knows how many others besides me.
That is most beautiful and most comforting. There was a moment in time many years ago when it looked as if we would lose my daughter, who was ten at the time. I’ll never forget the horror of the moment, but what I’ll also never forget is that during the darkest depths of that experience I was struck with the knowledge that we (I) would be okay. I didn’t want that alternative, didn’t plan for it. But there would always be a new road laid out before us (me).
You reminded me of that. In your words, “the grace in this ephemeral gift of life.”
Thank you for sharing your story.
as soon as i read *woman alone* i thought of vicki…and the appropriateness of that title. women alone have a different path, so to speak, and it will threaten some (be prepared for that). i imagine there will be times in the night when you reach for richard and the space he occupied will be enormous in every way. you have lived this death fully, no hospital robbed you and richard of that. but you still have to learn *woman alone*.
Susan, I stand with Maria when she says that it is you who have been chosen to carry the torch which lights the way for many of us. You are the teacher and are showing many of us by your fine example of how to live a beautiful and gracious life no matter what that life may throw at us. Our culture does not teach us how to behave in beauty when faced with the death of a loved one. You are showing us that way. You did not choose this position for yourself but having been given this position you are a superb teacher and I thank you for this gift.
As an aside, I have read nearly all of Margaret Coel’s wonderful Wind River series. I love the way Coel interweaves the history of the Plains Indians, specifically Arapaho, throughout this series.
Sending love and hugs to you.
A beautiful and thoughtful post. It sounds like you make the most of each day, each experience no matter what it is.
My mother-in-law, who is divorced, has mentioned several times how much effort it takes just to keep one person going–having someone to share the “burdens” of living with is something not to be taken for granted, yet it’s not the only way to live a rich and happy life.
Thank you, William. I can’t imagine not being aware of every day–that’s not living!
Deb, “Widow” isn’t a word I would ever use, but it keeps coming up on forms and elsewhere. So it’s in my face, as it were. You’re right about how much it helps to have already realized life is a learning process (both “learning” and “process” are critical there). I’m in process until… I’m dead. So I’ll keep embracing both the learning and the process, and working to make beauty with these new tools.
Maria, Bless you! I don’t think of myself as a torch-bearer, but if I can illuminate any dark corners of life, that’s something I’m proud of.
Jennifer, What a terrible time that must have been! I think losing a child is every parent’s worst nightmare, and yet we do. I’m glad your daughter is still here in this life, and that you can remember, and feel grateful for the gift of her presence and for this life.
Velma, You’re right: I do sometimes reach for Richard (literally or figuratively) and the space he left is enormous. Fortunately, I like my life even as woman alone. So far my two biggest challenges are learning to pace myself and helping my friends here, wonderful as they are, realize that I actually like being solitary… ;~)
Lindy, Thank you. I agree that our culture doesn’t teach us how to die in beauty or even to accompany another’s death in that state of balance and harmony that the Navajo word for “beauty” implies. I think we rob ourselves of peace by denying death to the end, and we rob ourselves and those who accompany us the richness of understanding life as a cycle that carries what was “us” on in other forms. BTW, I also love Coel’s Rez mysteries, and having met her a time or two at Colorado Author’s League events, can add that she’s a lovely human being as well, thoughtful, funny, and gracious.
Kathy, I sympathize with your mother-in-law. It is more work to be one in some ways, and less in others. It’s a huge adjustment, and making it well involves learning new habits and ways of being–for me, I’m learning how to ask for help, and also how to assert that I actually like being alone, probably more than most people.
Hi Susan, Before I met Rudy, I lived alone for four years, and it was one of the most satisfying times of my life. Not that I don’t love living with him, or my life before, but I learned so much during that time that I could have never learned if I’d been part of a couple then. I jumped at opportunities I couldn’t have if I’d been with someone, and even now I wish I’d been a bit more brave at that time and explored more. Just remember, right now you have no one else to please but yourself. Take time and explore your options. Happy trails from Texas!
At the large church I attended, back when I lived in Colorado Springs, one of the Sunday school groups was named, Pairs and Spares. Oh, how calling those not encoupled, “spares,” rankled me!
I work in a kitchen where there are coworkers, except for my final hour or so. At times, I can be thrown a bit when there isn’t another “somebody” in the room. It’s not the silence or whatnot that catches me off balanced, but the loss and vacancy of another person’s being there. If a single working day of time can occasionally throw me when I’m alone, how much moreso must it toss you, Susan, after nearly twenty-nine years of Richard being alongside. Not to mention, as you have here, of there being a substantial change to the whole you’re part of.
Torches can weld together, or they can cut openings, burn down obstructions. And, yeah, they also cast a volatile light—but that’s not what a torch is for.
Bobbi, Thank you for that wise advice/encouragement. I am working at keeping myself from jumping into too many commitments right now, so as to allow myself the “space” to see the opportunities in my newly solo life. I’m used to doing, and right now I need to be, or at least write–my own stuff, not things for anyone else. It’s interesting how many things we get involved in without realize it, and how much time all of those commitments take.
Eduardo, “Spares” is definitely not appropriate for anyone in the solo state. We hope to be whole no matter what our relationship status may be (in fact, in my experience, no relationship works unless both partners are whole and not spare!). I actually like being alone–perhaps too much for my own good. As I’ve said elsewhere, part of the reason that Richard and I paired so well is that we were good at being alone together, which may sound paradoxical, but what it means is we could be silent and occupied in different things most of the time while still being close. Welding is another one of those skills Richard had and I won’t ever, but I still understand your torch metaphor…
I like the term “Woman Alone.” It works for me. I was never fortunate to find a Richard. Even my kids admit my taste in men, including their father, was atrocious. The day I finally decided my life was great without a man was one of the best days of my life. I’m so glad you are looking ahead, despite your great loss, to what can still be a great time ahead of you.I wish you joy and peace in the road ahead.
I definitely resonate with your words, “our path was was a matter of mutual adjustment to reconcile sometimes divergent needs”. I feel most of my life path until recently has been all about adjustments to divergent needs, as a mother and wife. But, my life is changing now, and it’s time for me to chart my own life path on a different level.
I love the term, “woman alone” and I understand your comfort level with solitary space.
Your words as always are wise and wonderful and encouraging lighting the way for many of us as well.
Blessings!
Thank you for reminding me of Margaret Coel’s work, I read her books years ago and somehow forgot how much I enjoyed them.
Alone is such a big word. I was on my own for a long time before having a serious relationship, and it was empowering. If I survive beyond Oscar, it will be a very different feeling, I imagine. I will also be very much stronger than I was before I met him.
Thank you again for sharing your journey, we are listening.
Gorgeous piece of writing, Susan. You might think of sending this to http://www.handprintsonmyheart.com, which is facilitated by my dear friend Marlene Moore. I think it would help so many people to read this, and Handprints has a huge audience. In fact, Marlene is looking for regular bloggers. Perhaps you could do a monthly “Woman Alone” post. Tell her I sent you…With every good blessing, Heather
Pat, You are too funny! I love that you and your kids can admit that your taste in men was “atrocious.” Good for you for recognizing that and realizing that you could live happily and healthfully on your own–and for finding your life on the road with Maggie. My taste was atrocious too, but I learned with practice (and fortunately, survived the practicing!).
Susan G-T, I think we’re trained as girls to consider everyone else’s needs before our own, and that training makes it hard to even hear the inner voice of our spirit, much less heed its “leadings.” I’m glad you’re able to practice listening to yourself now, and I’ll look forward to see ing where life takes you on this new path.
Diana, I’m glad you’ve got Oscar, and I hope that the strength and love you’re finding in yourself (which I expect you already had, you just didn’t know it) carries you gracefully through whatever comes. Your work is so beautifully creative–it blesses us all!
Heather, Thank you. You are so generous! I’ll look at Handprints and contact Marlene if it seems right. Blessings back to you, and to Len too.
I’ve no problem, either, being alone (and also, “perhaps too much for my own good”). Sometimes, though, it’s because I’m so viscerally conscious of the other person in the room, calibrating and accommodating for that other person, that when I don’t recalibrate upon their departure, it’s much like when I miscount stair steps, and I’m thrown by the sudden unexpected emptiness.
Susan, re-read this blog’s responses and tell me again you lack the talent of welding…. (And, forging, which I didn’t mention, but shoulda.)
Thanks so much for your great insight. My husband died on Thanksgiving Day last year and I am exploring life alone also. I have taken a few classes which I wanted to take earlier but my husband needed my energy during his fight with cancer.
I miss him so much and I am also finding life is still very good. My friends, neighbors, and family helped me through this whole process. The CUCC church in BV has also been instrumental in. This healing process.
Betsy Neas
Hello, Betsy,
My sympathy on your husband’s death. Richard died the Sunday after Thanksgiving, so we were on parallel paths there. I am glad that you have a supportive community to buoy you, and also that you are finding your own joys. I think we carry our happiness within, and that is what sustains us. I hope that you’ll continue to find the resources you need to explore your own “woman alone-ness.” Blessings to you on your journey!
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