To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold itagainst your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and then the time comes to let it go
to let it go.
–Mary Oliver, from “In Blackwater Woods”
Richard Cabe at Carpenter Ranch, August 2010, just before his second brain-tumor-removal surgery.
It’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m worn out. For the first part of this day dedicated to celebrating love, I wrote my heart out. I’m working on the new memoir, Bless the Birds, so when I say “wrote my heart out,” it’s not just a phrase. Writing about the journey my late husband and I walked with his brain cancer involves re-living it: delving into my journal and blog posts, reading his scattered notes, hunting through his sketchbooks, and reading over the charts he kept at the end to track his medications. It’s sweet and poignant and draining work, richly rewarding.
When my writing energy faded, I took up my other job: I put on one of Richard’s old denim work shirts and headed out to his shop to rip, sand, and prepare more boards for trim. First I split a pile of fragrant juniper kindling, cleaned the wood stove, and started a fire. Then I fired up the dust-collector and the big table saw, and went to work ripping boards. I worked until the daylight dimmed, stoked the stove so the shop would stay warm overnight, and headed back to the house.
I brushed the sawdust off, put on a coat, cap and gloves, and grabbed my shopping bag. The sun had set, but the sky was still bright, and the peaks edged with pink and gold afterglow. As I walked briskly to the post office, I thought about how many times Richard and I took this same route hand-in-hand, watching the snow on the peaks waxing and waning, the forests on the mountainsides greening up, the aspen leaves turning gold and orange like flames.
Holding hands, even at the end….
This is my second Valentine’s Day without him, and perhaps I should be over missing him by now. But I had the love of my life for almost 29 years, so 14 months isn’t long by comparison. As I walked, I thought about the perseverance of love, even through the wrenching parting of death. And I turned back for home and my final two errands.
I stopped at the big grocery store for avocados and grapefruit, and decided to look at the cut flowers too, and treat myself to what Richard would have bought me. Which is why I left the store with two bunches of flowers: long-stemmed yellow oriental lilies and a mixed bouquet with salal, hydrangeas, yellow chrysanthemum, alstroemeria, and a fat, cheerful Gerber daisy.
I walked across the street to Ploughboy, the local market where I buy most of my groceries (but not avocados or grapefruit, since it sells food produced within 100 miles), and bought milk, eggs, tortilla chips, apples, and a spicy oriental noodle dish from the deli, and then headed home, ready for couch time.
What does my mundane routine have to do with love? Love is what guides my days. Writing about how Richard and I worked to live well with his brain cancer, even with his death, is my way of loving this world. That journey with taught me the truth of Mary Oliver’s words: to live in this world, I had to learn how to love what was mortal, to hold him close, and when the time came to let him go, I let him go.
Richard loved Ghiradelli bittersweet chocolate chips; I used to arrange his daily “dose” into a heart before he ate them.
Ripping boards for trim and using Richard’s big pneumatic nailer to put them up is love too. I am finishing the house he built with such love and extraordinary creativity. I love this beautiful house and its yard of wildflowers, the sweet guest cottage and Richard’s historic shop, but it’s too much for me. I’m learning to let it go too. But first, I’m continuing Richard’s infusion of creative love as I work.
Both the writing and the carpentry are hard work. They’re also cleansing, restorative, and rejuvenating. They’re teaching me new ways of living in and loving this world. That’s the best work of all.
Beautiful and touching. Thank you for your elegant words…
Laura, You are welcome, and thank you for reading and for the lovely compliment!
reading this just before bed. thank you susan, for this reminder about love, deep and rich love.
Velma, We all have the capability to let love into our lives; we’re not all fortunate enough to know how or act on it. But when we do, oh, the blessing of it!
Another beautiful post, Susan. . . . And 14 months is not long at all. If you or anyone thinks you should be over missing him in that short a time, they are wrong. The missing changes over time, but we always love and miss the love of our lives when we have lost him or her. You continue to fill your days with grace and love. Bless you for sharing that with us.
Penny, I know you’ve had the experience of people being impatient because you haven’t “gotten over” Bill. It’s insidious, I think, that expectation that we will just whizz through without taking the time to *live* the traumatic shifts in our lives. The missing does change, doesn’t it? Fortunately, the years of habits, memories, and just being together stay with us. (If we want them to, that is.) I treasure all I shared with Richard, the sweet and joyous, and the harsh and painful as well. They’re all part of the love….
Yes, and I hear that same sentiment all the time from folks whose loss is fairly recent when they come to the widows and widowers support group I co-lead. Some of them even give that message to themselves, saying to us things like, “I should be over it by now. It’s been ten months.” etc. Or sharing their pain that others expect them to “get over it.”
Yes, the missing changes, but we always carry in our hearts those we have loved and lost. And I treasure all I shared with Bill, too—yes, “the sweet and joyous, and the harsh and painful as well.” You are so right about the need to “live” the traumatic shifts in our lives—to really feel them, own them, and move through them with open heart, so that we can move on. Those who stifle grief never get through it to the time when it isn’t so savage; they stay trapped.
But I also believe that love is the fuel of the universe, and we can learn to love again. If that happens, it’s not loving someone “instead of” our late spouse, but “both / and”, as we add other love into our lives.
Penny, It’s true, if we don’t live our changes, they trap us. I don’t mind grief; it’s not easy but it reminds me that I’m alive and feeling and present in this journey. I do mind that others aren’t always tolerant of the fact that I’m moving at my own pace. But that’s the times. We expect instant results, and that’s so wrong.
I agree that love is the fuel of the universe, and if loving again is the right thing, that’s good. I think I’m happy just being me and being able to marvel at the world as I go along at my own pace!
Thank you Susan, once again for your thoughtfulness and the sharing of your story, and dignity in living life with such grace and love. Moments like this, I think of you, of Richard, this earth, sky, stars and moon we share, deeply blessed by your strength..always in fondness, my gratitude…
Renee, I am glad we had that brief time to connect at the VA Med Center. I send my blessings to you as you walk your journey with all the grace and strength you have. May beauty find you always.
Susan, since you used words by Mary Oliver (always a good and welcomed thing!) I’ll do likewise:
“When it’s over,…
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up having simply visited this world.”
As though Valentine’s Day wasn’t already a troublesome occurrence, here it came pestering you. And so it goes.
May you continue finding hearts of chocolate kisses—and especially in the unexpected places.
Eduardo, I love that line of MO’s: “I don’t want to end up having simply visited this world.” I’m *living*–sometimes that’s easier than not, but it’s always rich in soul-nurture. Thanks for that benediction!
Susan, I am reading Pieces of Light about your time in Boulder. I watch you and Richard walking together, holding hands. As you began, you also ended. This book is filled with love and I feel it each time I pick it up. I shared my love today with my husband, and each day, we, too, hold hands and share our lives. I cannot imagine what you and Richard went through together–except as you tell and write about it. Thank you. I look forward to your birds book. And I look forward to seeing you soon.
Julie
Julie, I’m delighted to think of you reading Pieces of Light! It’s my first book, so I often use it as an example of how to edit your own work.
But it still has useful things to say, I think. It’s wonderful to think of you and Gerry holding hands and sharing your lives–and finding each other to begin with. See you next month, ready to write and find our quiet selves and soak!
I love you, Susan.
Bobbe, Bless you! Am sending a hug and healing energy to you.
As usual, a thoughtful and beautiful post. I feel love emanating from your words out to the world, and can’t help but think that love will return to you in ways you can’t even imagine. I certainly hope that it will.
Kathy, Thank you. I feel the love returning to me, and I’m grateful and humbled to receive it. I am fortunate in so many ways, not the least of which is having such a warm and loving community around me!
‘…should be over missing him by now.’ My beloved Oscar would say ‘Don’t should on yourself.’
Grief has it’s own timetable, there is no magic time when it disappears. It informs and colors your life for the rest of your days. The sharpest and brightest of the pain comes less often, and dulls enough that you can glimpse the love and joy behind it. Without the love, there would be no grief.
Diana, In writing workshops we say “stealable!” when we hear a particularly great line, and I have to say that about Oscar’s admonition: “Don’t should on yourself.” He’s right and so are you. Grief does have its own timetable, and I wouldn’t want to lose all of it, because as you say so well, grief and love are part of the experience of each other. I’d hate to lose the memory of all the love Richard and I shared! I couldn’t really, because it’s part of who I am now, even though who I am now is alone. Perhaps the love that’s part of me is more obvious now that I am. An interesting possibility to ponder, that one. Blessings to you and your wise Oscar!
I love how you love him still. And I love how courageous you still are- never shrinking from that. I love you.
Denese, I love the word courageous because it comes from the French “cor” for heart. Courage comes from the heart, from love. If I have courage, it’s because of that great love, and because of the support I get from you and others. Thank you. Blessings to you and Richard and James and the rest of your family….
Valentine’s Day is wonderful because there is no “formula” really. I like to write a poem and pick out some favorite chocolate. I think about all the people I love that make my life special. You and Richard are walking the same path sharing what you started, and what continues. You are guiding each other. Love is for always. <3
Robin, I like the ritual of thinking about all the people you love on Valentine’s Day. That’s a keeper. And you’re right, love is for always. That’s what makes it bittersweet when life parts us….
Susan, not only a beautiful and heartfelt post filled with love and profound thinking but excellent comments as well.
Thank you, Lindy. THIs is a great blog community–good comments, lots of support, even some silliness and humor….
Emptied of ambition and expectation, shed of grand plans and competitive propulsion, I’ve been reduced to a blank musical score. The magic is noticing that the world’s symphony continues to unfold before me. I live into my life, noticing more details that I’d sped by before, confronting my fear and realizing my strength.
Your V-day sharing was a wonderful blog entry, eliciting touching and thoughtful replies — I’m blessed.
Jeanne, How beautifully and courageously said! I agree that you are in a place of emptying out–like shedding a skin you not only no longer need but which also has grown too tight for you. I wouldn’t say that you’re a blank musical score though. You have so much intellect and heart to bring to your every day. Seems to me that when our life path shifts abruptly for whatever reason, it’s a frightening thing, but it’s also an opportunity to open ourselves as you are doing, to whatever comes. May way open, as Quakers say, to allow you to fulfill the dreams you find now, along this new path….