Richard on the Big Sur Coast, California
A year ago, Richard and I were in Denver at what turned out to be his last appointment with Dr. Klein, his oncologist at the VA Medical Center. We looked over his most recent MRI, taken the day before. Dr. Klein pointed out that the rapidly growing tumor in his right brain looked stable for a change, a surprise, given his increasing difficulty with his left side and the skin sores that had appeared since his last visit. His mind was still clear, his sense of humor quick, and his smile positively incandescent. But his body was clearly beginning to fail.
That physical decline, she said, indicated it would be best to cancel his monthly chemo infusion. “Are you okay with that?” she asked. Richard looked at her, his gaze straight, understanding the implication.
“It’s not working, is it?” She shook her head, and after a moment, passed the box of tissues. We all sniffled and blew our noses. Richard and I held hands.
“I’ll call to check on you in a few days,” she said, after asking if we had any questions or needed anything else. “You can always reach me.”
We hugged her and left, Richard walking slowly but strongly, using the cane he needed then for balance.
I think back to that day as the wind howls up the valley and the temperature plummets because the nasty weather reminds me of the drive home after that visit with Dr. Klein. A frigid wind buffeted our Subaru, as if echoing the grief chilling my heart. Richard held my hand even when he slept.
Kayaking on the Columbia River off Portland, Oregon (Photo: Molly Cabe–thanks, Sweetie!)
He and I were partners in ways that are difficult to explain without sounding trite or sappy. We let each other in more deeply and trustingly than anyone before or since.
That kind of heart- and soul-connection is rare and precious, a gift I didn’t expect to receive and one I don’t imagine will come my way again. Which is okay. I say that only to explain why I haven’t, as some have asked lately, “moved on” yet.
We had almost 29 years to grow our love and partnership, and those years and that deep connection are not something to move on from. It takes time to sort out what my life means without Richard, just as it took time to grow what he called the “body of love” that sustained us, especially through the journey with his brain cancer.
Me in Alaska. Photo by Roberta Smith (Thanks, Roberta!)
It’s not that I’m not living fully. But learning how to be me without him involves a lot of trial and error, thinking–and practice. Decisions that once would have been simple are not. The path forward isn’t clear.
Over the past month, while part of my mind has been focused on moving Dad and then on catching up on writing deadlines and readying the garden, house and shop for winter (Which seems to be blowing up the valley today in roaring waves.), my subconscious has been sorting through decisions I need to make.
The first is whether or not to apply for Social Security Disability Insurance. I’ve decided not to–at least for now. Applying feels wrong, and I can’t really say why. It just does, and I’m honoring that strong, gut-level sense.
The second is adopting a Great Dane. The first dog I was interested in was a sweetheart, but had long-term health problems that felt overwhelming. The second had some pretty serious socialization issues. Considering the two forced me to admit my own limitations. Selfish as it may sound, after a decade of increasingly intense care-giving of various family members, including my love, it feels good to be responsible for just me right now.
As I was writing this post, I found a quote from the late Steve Jobs in my journal that’s just the reminder I need as I feel my way forward….
Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become.
Susan, you wrote a lovely post as always. I think you are wise in taking things slowly, seeing what you yourself are like, now that you are alone. And yes, I don’t think you need another caregiver role any time soon, be it human or canine. The perfect canine companion is out there, I’m sure, but just not yet. And there may well be another human companion out there too, but I fully understand your slowness in “moving on” toward a replacemnt. You indeed are moving on, whether you want to or not, but very wisely you you are choosing to move on alone. Savor this bittersweet time. It provides its own pleasures.
Joyce, Thank you for responding with the wisdom of your experience, and your characteristic warmth. It’s funny how life opens up in ways we don’t necessarily think we want or need, but it turns out to be just the perfect thing. I expect I’ll find my Big Dog once I have figured out a bit more about where I’m going and how to get there. (Wherever “there” is!) I do savor this time, and in fact, I’m not sure I would have ever realized just how much I love my solo time if I hadn’t walked this particular way….
My first reaction was “What is there to move on from?” No need to leave what you and Richard shared behind, it is forever part of your life. Acknowledging that fact is a far cry from clinging to it which (in my limited experience) is what many people mean when they ask questions about moving on to those going through the life change of grief, loss and rebirth. It has not quite been a year, and you are in a different place than you were a few months ago. Just as it took time to grow the love, it took time to acknowledge the coming loss, and more time yet to regain a modicum of balance once Richard left this life. You are regaining balance, and as every mother of a toddler knows, balance is needed before walking, unless you propel yourself at so fast a run you cannot see the obstacles before they stop you in your tracks. So wise to trust your instincts, especially about caring for the dogs. They will find the right homes with people who need them as much as they need those people. Anyway, those are my thoughts today. As always, I send hugs.
Diana
Diana, Wise words–thank you. You said so well what I think, which is that my 29 years with Richard inform who I am and where I’ll go in my life. There’s no “moving on” from that. I have come to think that when people criticize me for not leaving behind that part of my life, not turning a new page quickly enough (to trot out all the cliches I can think of!) they’re really saying that they have not dealt with Richard’s death and don’t want to think about it. It’s funny how we try to ignore pain, and of course, it’s there to get our attention, literally to get us to attend to something. It doesn’t go away if we ignore it, it just turns up the volume to get our attention. You are right too, about the Danes I looked at. The first one has already found a new family, who I hope will be able to give him the time and care he needs. The second is in behavioral training, and who knows, when he’s learned what he needs, perhaps it’ll be my turn then…. Hugs back!
Might I suggest a cat instead of a dog? Cats are much more independent.
I wonder at those who have asked if you’ve “moved on.” It’s only been a year. I’m sure you still need time to grieve, and to find your own way, as you mentioned. I am of the opinion that women need to live alone at some point in their life—it’s so different from living with a husband/significant other. My friends who’ve never done that don’t seem to have the same perspective as those of us who have. And doing so will give you a feeling of accomplishment, too–you’ll learn that you can handle things alone, if you want to. Then it will be Your Choice. Hugs from cool Texas! bobbi c.
Bobbi, Thanks for the suggestion of a cat; they are indeed more independent. Sadly, I’m allergic to them, so that’s not an option. And I do love great big silly dogs, which I suppose says something about me. So be it! I agree with you about living alone. It’s good for all of us (both genders) to learn self-sufficiency, and to learn ourselves well enough to appreciate our own company. And I am learning to handle things on my own (finances and regular household stuff was never an issue, nor was travel of that kind of thing), even tools and building stuff. You would have been proud of me today: I installed a medicine cabinet in the shop, plus two paper-towel holders, measured and calculated how many corrugated PVC panels I need to finish the upper walls in the office and bathroom there (corrugated PVC to admit light but allow privacy by closing off the space between the top of the eight-foot walls and the slanting roof), lit the pilots on the three natural gas heaters I tend (one each in the shop, house, and guest cottage) and figured out to rebuilt a cattle-panel bean trellis damaged by the winds from the huge storm passing to the north of us. I may never be the Tool Girl like you and Susan Tomlinson, but I’ve learned a lot, and I enjoy it. (Mostly.)
Susan – I don’t think you need to “move on” from anything. We should never leave behind being loved and loving. I think you should embrace it for all that is was and is. 10 years from now I hope you still have not “moved on” but fully integrated “what is”. We should get together for tea one of these fine autumn days. I would love to pick your brain about dry-land landscaping on my hill of sand with an iffy well.
Laurie, Integrating is a great word for what I’m trying to do as I feel my way along. I certainly don’t want to leave behind all I learned and shared with Richard. And yes, let’s get together for tea one of these days. I’d be happy to give you ideas for your yard with the great view and dodgy well!
I agree with your other friends. There is no “moving on” from the love of your life. He will always be a part of you, as mine is with me. I am lucky, like you, to have a love with whom I share my life on a deep level. Take your time, Susan, to decide about dogs or anything else. Your intuition is a good lead to follow. We think of you often and will see you in Albuquerque. I am impressed with how much you do accomplish with tools and measuring and installing and such. I did live alone for a number of years . . . and it is good to find out about yourself. I do recall that you also lived alone for a time. But how nice to have Molly now–and all your friends. We look forward to seeing you and maybe spending some more time together. With much love . . .
Julie, I feel the way you do–lucky to have had such love in my life. I am figuring out, I guess, what to carry on and what to let fall away. When two lives are so tightly integrated, it isn’t easy to let go of one without letting go of pieces of yourself as well. On tools and building, I’m really enjoying learning how things work, and finding that I learned much more than I realized from watching Richard design, fabricate, fix, and build just about anything, from cabinets and houses to tools for his sculpture. I’ll look forward to seeing you and Gerry in Albuquerque for the Women Writing the West conference!
That body of love is yours to carry with you forever. And can only nourish you wherever and whenever you move from now on. As women care-giving becomes such a big part of our lives, I think, and even when there is no one else to care for, we still have feel that desire. Yes, caring for ourselves is also a big part of what we all must do, and there’s no better way to do that than listening to our own hearts and intuition. But sometimes, grief and loneliness can make it hard to hear. May you have the peace that you need to hear and listen.
And, when you feel it’s right, the right canine companion will arrive. I’m sure of it.
Ok, I’ll make this one extra suggestion because it popped into my head reading your comments about the Great Danes. Maybe a retired greyhound? They are calm and sedate after several years racing and come with quite a bit of training. If this feels like a good suggestion, you can contact your local greyhound rescue group. For us, our dog came to us in an unexpected way. I am the lucky companion of a Guide dog career changer, Jilly came to us because she di did not work out in their training program. She was 14 months old then, and had her issues, but with work, she is now a wonderful, sweet, member of our now much smaller family. May you have such a wonderful synchronicity yourself, when the time is right.
Blessings,
Susan
Susan G-T, You are right, that body of love is mine to carry with me forever, and it continues to inspire and nurture me. And I am fortunate for it! I am interested in what you said about caregiving. It is so often “women’s work,” you’re right, but I have never had a desire to do it. It’s just been what came to me, and to turn away would have left someone uncared for. Moving Dad to Washington really feels good, like I’m setting down a burden (the burden being the responsibility for his care, not Dad himself!).
On dogs, how lovely that your Gilly came to you–and had your family to come to–at just the right time. I am sure a Dane will come to me when the time is right. I have friends who have rescued Greyhounds and really love them, but I’ve never known one that would be trustworthy off leash, and that’s a requirement for me as a runner and hiker. I’ll trust that the right dog comes at the right time…. Blessings to you!
Absolutely gorgeous, soul-stirring, provocative…feel blessed to have read it and to be a witness to your journey.
Heather, Bless you! Thank you for reading and for your wonderfully generous heart. I think of you often and hope all’s well….
Susan, I respectfully disagree that you are ‘not moving on.’ In my memory, you’ve been talking about being “woman alone” since very shortly after Richard died, which WAS and IS the reality of the situation. Since then I’ve watched the stages you’ve gone through. I’ve been especially amazed at your willingness to reconsider your attachment to the home you built with him, in order to accommodate the needs you have now. Richard will always be in your heart and mind, but I’ve never seen anyone handle loss (and the accompanying gains, though hard to acknowledge) with such grace, strength and even humor.
P.S. A Great Dane is a very large dog. When my beloved Aussiepoo Coco (Standard, not Miniature) was on her last legs – literally – there were many more trips to the vet, and I found it difficult to get her in and out of the car. I’m just sayin’.
Lynda, I think what people mean is I should quit talking about my journey, quit writing about it, and be done with the whole process of finding who I am and where the path as Woman Alone goes. I suspect that some of that comes from those who are stuck on their own grief and hearing what I’m wrestling with touches sore spots. I try to be sensitive, but I’m not always successful. As for the house, that’s a decision for another blog post, and honestly, it’s been one of the easier decisions I’ve made! On dogs, I didn’t realize Coco was an Aussiepoo. What an interesting mix, and no wonder she was such a beloved character. I’ve had Danes before, most recently the late and very lamented Isis, who at her healthiest weighed 145 pounds, 30 more than I do. It’s a good thing my vet made house calls (and still does). When Isis’ back was beginning to disintegrate, she once collapsed out on the trail when she was running with me. Clearly I couldn’t move her, so I just sat with her until she could get her legs more or less under her again. I helped her haul herself up, and then we made our staggering way home, me holding her upright as she trotted along. (She had an intermittent spinal chord compression that was controlled by acupuncture for a long time, but ultimately ended her life.) I miss that big goofball!
Your journey is your journey. I can’t imagine telling you what it ‘should’ be. I remember hearing about Isis but didn’t know her breed. And yes, I miss my goofy girl, too.
I know you must miss Coco “very muchly,” to use one of my Scots grandmother’s phrases. Dogs just have this wonderful goofiness and that abundance of un-judgmental love…. My sympathy! Seems like some parts of life are about letting go, and we don’t get to choose how much we have to learn to let go of. Sigh.
Susan, you write so beautifully. I feel it so. Today I watched you work about the studio, you seemed at ease. I guess you are having to learn to just do and you are doing a fine job of it. I think I’m learning a thing or two from you!
The pictures in this post are so cheerful. Richard sure had a heck of a smile, as do you. And you have a great laugh. It’s a blessing to be here.
Hugs, Robin
Robin, Thank you for that lovely compliment. I am learning to just do, and to not worry about whether what I do is perfect. Because it won’t be! That’s just part of the learning. It’s a gift that you can feel the love Richard put into his studio and that it’s helping you find your way back to your art. Blessings!
Wonderfully thoughtful post, Susan, as usual. As for “moving on,” as you know, no one can tell you when or how that should be done. It seems to me that you’re moving ahead and “moving on” will happen intrinsically. As most wisdom teachers say, just do what’s in front of you as it appears and Life will take care of itself. Pushing the river is a good way to make life difficult and wear yourself out, but I don’t need to tell you that. *G*
Sam, Isn’t that true: moving on happens organically, at the times it is right for each of us. And “pushing the river” is such a great image for when we try so hard to do what is not ready to get done. I hope I am not doing that, and I hope I’m not trying to dam it either. An interesting balance to keep, this going with the flow.
Lovely and your writing as always gave me an opportunity to consider my own circumstances. It’s been almost 8 years for me as woman alone – except that I am not really alone as I have a wonderful supportive community. Still, at the end of the day, it is me who must decide the directions and focus of my life and usually me who must accomplish the myriad of tasks that fill a life. Even with my bad marriage and horrible divorce, there has been so much I have learned from it all. I don’t dwell on the worst parts, but I do make sure I remember them, so that I can reflect and learn from them, as I live in the present. My experiences form my perceptions and beliefs and it is only with this awareness of my past that I can live in the present fully alive and grow. Some may say I have not ‘moved on;’ I have, with joy in my heart and a solid understanding of the lessons I have learned. In your case, it is the opposite and some of the same. You have so much from your love with Richard to cherish. My first reaction to your writing was similar to others…move on from what? I am so glad that you understand that the comment that comes from others is a reflection of their own need to ‘move on’, not yours. Thank you for sharing, your reflection provides such a wonderful prompt for my own. The honesty is gentle and real. So glad you are staying with your intuition and focusing on your needs. I am in the same state now after all this time focusing on the girls and supporting them through this difficult time. Now I am going inward, thinking about the life I want for us as I step into this new world of freedom. love to you on your journey
Susan K, You have learned so much and used it so well over these eight years. I hope you can feel a deep satisfaction in all you’ve taught yourself and learned in the brutal times you’ve been through. Many congratulations for coming out of it with such a peaceful, tolerant, and loving attitude. You could have chosen other paths, and I’m glad you didn’t. You’ve become more you and not less, and that is a real gift. Thank you for understanding my “thinking aloud” post, and for your support through this time. Much love to you and the girls!
trusting yourself may be the thing, THE thing, coming out of this right now. yay for you.
Thanks, Velma. Yay indeed!. I think it’s harder for we women to learn to even hear our inner, intuitive voice, much less learn to trust what it has to say. But you’re right, it is THE big lesson.
What a lovely post and such wise, wonderful responses. I can’t think of anything to add so I’m just going to send some hugs, wags, and scratchy kisses. In your litany of caretaking in an earlier post, you didn’t mention your care of and the deaths of two wonderful dogs in that time span as well. You know well the energy that can take; I think you’re very wise to wait for the right Dane. And, yes, I get that it will be a Dane, though I could throw in a good word or two for a wiggly beagle
And shucks about cats! They offer a kind of peace and calm I don’t get from my dogs as much as I love them. Wish you could have one.
Me again. I LOVE that picture of Richard. And, hello, to you, lovely one. Thanks for including one of you.
Linda, What a treat to “hear” your voice on this post! And thank you for that delivery of hugs, wags and scratchy kisses. I hope that your four-footed family is all well. I didn’t mention Dida and Isis in my earlier litany of care-taking because I want to write about my four-footed beloveds in a separate post, perhaps when another one comes my way. Which could be when the two-year-old male with socialization problems finished his behavior-therapy. One of these days I’m going to check in with you and see what you think about all that, since you have experience with a young male dane with socialization issues…. I love that photo of Richard too. Doesn’t he just look exquisitely happy? And the one of me is a fav too, except I keep wondering where the heck all those damned wrinkles came from.
Well, I don’t see too many. Whatever is there was nobly earned. That I do know. I was going to weigh in here on young males, but I’ll wait to hear from you. I like hearing about “behavior-therapy” that you don’t need to do. Our young, handsome friend with the lovely name remains a handfull
Oh there are plenty of wrinkles, Linda! So many that it sometimes shocks me when I look in the mirror. Ah well. As for young males, I’m sorry to hear that Cabe is still a handful, and I hope Morgan is learning good things from him….
It persistently seems to me that when I let it, life insists on not going at all the way I wished, intended, nor planned. Instead, it winds up bringing people, events, and circumstance far beyond what my most brazen and arrogant wishings could ever imagine. In past discussions, I’ve stated life is inexplicable; whereas you’ve said the Universe brings us what we need and are open for. (I hope I’ve paraphrased your position accurately and fairly.)
Eduardo, I think that to use the word “plan” in the same sentence with “life” is an oxymoron. We can hope, wish, intend–but we can’t plan life. We can as you say, remain open to what comes, and marvel at the blessings we receive when we least expect them. I don’t think I’d summarize my sense of how life works in quite such an active way. I believe that what we get from the universe is often what we need and always what we are capable of learning from and using. Thanks for prodding me to think about it!
Richard was part of your life for a full Saturn cycle. It should have been more but it was not possible. Any partner, love, spouse is the structure of one’s life, even if you don’t like them a whole lot. More so if you do really like them. Maybe in a quarter Saturn cycle you will be ready to “move on”. The dust is just settling for you…. Mostly I think Gringos are crazy….I would be interested to know the exact date you met him. All the best and may a structure establish it self for you as woman alone ( not entirely) starting this winter.
Anna, I never thought about him being in my life for a full (or almost full) Saturn cycle. That’s very interesting, and I can see how it fits. Hmm. I’m going to ponder that a bit. I think I have moved on in my own way, but it’s not the way that some people want to see. For me, moving on means integrating his presence and absence into my path going forward, and that takes a lot of composting as it were. The exact date Richard and I met…. That’s tough because he remembered meeting sometime in the fall of 1982 and I have no memory of him from that first meeting at all. The time I remember was December 14th, 1982, at a dinner party for a mutual friend. We didn’t see each other again until January, and then he came to my house for dinner with my housemates on January 20, 1983 (his audition, as he called it) and we went on our one and only date, a trip to Hobo Hot Springs in Saratoga, Wyoming, on January 22nd. Then we moved in together and began planning our joint life. How young we were!
Susan, a year is such a short time, especially as we get older and the days, weeks and months start flying by. Having lost children, I have felt like many of the years since 1998 fell into a black hole. I can say with confidence that grieving takes as long as it takes. I’m not sure that we control whom we love, but I’m certain we don’t control how long we grieve. There is no shame in that–it simply speaks to how deeply we loved and continue to love. Every time you write a haiku, photograph a flower or bug, water your garden, and experience a moment in which you are happy to be alive, you are honoring your husband. You are fortunate to have had him in your life, but he also was fortunate to have you. The loss of a loved one changes us forever, and hopefully, in ways that make us more aware of the preciousness of the moment and the fragility of life. We are born to a deeper appreciation of the things that matter. Take your time, be gentle with yourself, write, and eventually, you will emerge into the sunshine. Moving forward, as opposed to moving on, will take care of itself.
Beth, I am so sorry that you have lost a child or children. I think that has to be the hardest thing to weather; it’s every parent’s nightmare, whether we acknowledge the possibility or not. My brother lost his second child, Anna, when she was just three years old. Even though it was nearly 40 years ago, we can all remember where we were when the news came, and we also remember what a hard, sad, horrible time that was. (I was in college–it was a rainy spring afternoon and the daffodils had just begun to bloom. It seemed wrong to see green and daffodils then.) Thank you for your wisdom about grieving and time, and how we change in response to these kind of deep losses. Richard and I were lucky to have each other, and neither of us would have every imaged he would die first–he was so strong and healthy his whole life. Life brings what it brings; it’s how we respond that makes us who we are…. Blessings to you!
Very glad to have those dates. After 45 years in astrology, “Aún aprendo” as Goya said- not that I’m Goya. I made Richard’s chart for 5:00 AM but I think it should be earlier so Uranus was on his Mid Heaven when he died.. For Richard, lots of 6th house- health and work issues at the time of meeting you. For you, Jupiter conjunct Uranus on your Fourth House, so stroke of Good Fortune in the home life. He met you with his Dragon’s Head on his Uranus- another stroke of Good Fortune, and died on Uranus transiting his North Node, which hardly seems like Good Fortune. But then who knows what is good fortune en el gran misterio de la muerte and here we are with All Souls coming up.
It all sounds so Fortune Cookie trying to put it into English briefly. But I will continue to peruse the charts and glean insights in astrologese which are so hard to put in to English. May you be able to rest from care taking.
For my half Saturn return, the length of time I have been in this house, I am getting rid of things madly. My critical mind will not let me create. Can’t knit or read or spin. I am just dealing with my karma, my acquisitive karma, and it is not very pleasant but totally necessary. The craft books and the poetry books are so hard. Poquito a poco.
I miss your haikus but only do Face book on my husband’s account- Ben Schill.
I did Richard’s chart for 5 AM as he is so obviously a solar person with that glorious smile. Now I’ve redone it for 4: 45 AM which still gives him the Sun on the Ascendant to put Uranus closer to the Mid Heaven for his death.
Anna, I checked Richard’s birth certificate again to make sure, but it doesn’t have the time–just the date (7/16/50). His mom always said he was born “very early in the morning,” but she couldn’t remember just when. I think she was busy at the time! He did have lots of work issues when we met as he was finishing his PhD and trying to find a faculty position in economics when economics was desperately trying to hire anyone but white males. It’s funny about health issues: I think of him as always so healthy but he had injured a disk in his neck before I met him and was still recovering from that. I started him doing yoga, and that was what kept him from having to have surgery. I don’t think anyone would say his death was good fortune at all. It’s interesting though that he was exceptional even with the brain tumor gobbling his right brain–he was walking and thinking and sketching ideas for sculpture until just a few weeks before he died, and even then, his mind was sharp and creative up to that last morning…. I count that as good fortune!
I am sad to hear that you are not able to knit or spin or read. Que lastima does not quite express how sad that makes me. I hope that your critical mind will give it a rest before too long and let you have mroe peace and more creative time. (That reminds me of a small wall-piece I saw once, a knitted hanging full of pearls–tears knitted in with the lacy yarn….) Blessings to you and your Ben!
Susan, your posts throughout this experience have been so touching, so well thought out and honest. I wish you all the peace, love and healing you need, and the Steve Jobs quote is just perfect. You’re such a beautiful soul–I feel lucky to have found your blog and to get to know you just a little through it.
Kathy, It’s great to hear from you. I’m honored by your words, and many thanks for walking with me on this journey. I was saying to a friend today that I feel like many people expect me to either be prostrate with grief, living in a miserable time, or to have let go and “moved on.” I am in neither category, and I think that’s confusing and/or frustrating for some. I have to take life at my pace, and that means being as thoughtful and aware as I can. I want to live generously, fully, in the moment. Often that’s hard, but to do otherwise is to let life trickle away like the sand in an hourglass. I’m determined to, as Ram Dass says, Be. Here. Now. !
Exactly, neither prostrate with grief nor moved on. And not letting yourself be bullied into either position. At your particular human pace. Brava.
Exactamente, Anna. And thanks for being such a sabia, even an impatient one!
Susan, I am humbled by your writings. You express so purely how our human hearts experience the circumstances we are given. I am so glad to hear you say you will not move on. I don’t believe we can move on from such love. How could we? I believe we move deeper into love, not on from love. Your graceful way of living in each moment is an inspiration to me. I look forward to reading more about your sweet, gentle, and honoring life.
Thank you.
Kenna, Thank you for those wise and kind words. I agree that we carry the love we’ve experienced in our lives on with us, even though the people who have given that love don’t necessarily stay–in this physical realm at least. One of my intentions that I say each night before I go to sleep is that I’ll live in a way that honors and celebrates Richard’s and my life and our love. I believe that love grows still, and that it can spread outward and grace other’s lives…. Blessings!
As always you write with such wisdom. About the dog…when the time is right the right dog will come to you. As Jerry struggles with his health issues I find the dogs bring special care to me and I know that will be so for you. Moving on is a garment worn differently by different people. You’ll take it off when the time is right; for now, it brings you warmth and comfort and that’s just what you need. Looking forward to seeing you next week! Travel safely.
Jane, Bless your wonderfully generous and wise heart! I am (mostly) comfortable with the choices I’m making. I do hope a Great Dane will come along who feels right, but I’m fine with waiting until that happens. As for moving on, I like the metaphor of it as a garment. Maybe a quilt even! Can’t wait to see you at the Women Writing the West conference next week. You travel safely too. Best to Jerry….
Susan and all who have been in dialogue with her above: What a deep blessing it has been to read through all your comments before I sleep. I co-lead a grief support group for those who have lost a spouse, and everything that everyone has said is so true. Grief moves at its own pace, we carry our deep love within us, even after our spouse is gone. One of the things we talk about in the group is that well-meaning folks who say you should be “moving on” by now, or things like that, just don’t understand. When one has lost a spouse, one is irrevocably changed. For me, these have been the first years I’ve ever lived by myself. And yet, the profound journey through grief opens new doors to who we are, and increases our capacity to celebrate and love every moment. I am filled with unconditional love these days. Like you, I also had 29 wonderful married years with my Bill, and he is with me still. It’s been four years since his death (Oct. 11), and I have “moved on” in many ways. Yet he is in my heart forever.
Penny, Thank you for reading through this amazing dialog and for adding your wisdom. You have been an inspiration to so many, and you continue to be. I am struck by what you say about the journey through grief “open[ing] new doors to who we are, an increas[ing] our capacity to celebrate and love every moment.” I can feel that gift and receive it with great gratitude. Seems to me that the ability to be open to finding the grace in what life brings is perhaps our hardest and most rewarding lesson. Bless you for showing the way!