Patience has never been my virtue. I may spend a long time mulling over a life-decision, researching my options, looking for possibilities I might have missed. But once I decide, I am ready for the results NOW. Or better yet, yesterday. When things don't happen on the schedule I prefer, I fret (inwardly at least), pace about, and do whatever I can to move the process along.
Oh, I can be patient about some things: writing, renovating a house, digging invasive weeds, shaping a garden... Creative stuff, in other words.
Richard Cabe (July 16, 1950 - November 27, 2011)
Tomorrow marks six years since the love of my life, my husband, partner, and companion in all things for nearly 29 years, and father of Molly Cabe, died of brain cancer. He was only 61 years old, and very much engaged in exploring his practice of abstract sculpture, the work that expressed his terraphlia, the word we coined for our species' innate love of this earth and all who share this planet with us.
Richard Cabe (1950-2011) ogling wildflowers
Five years ago today, at 11:07 am, Richard Cabe, the love of my life and the father of my beloved step-daughter, Molly, took his last gulping breaths. I still miss him acutely, though not every moment and not with the sharp pain of that initial parting.
After five years, the missing him is more like a dull, nagging ache, a bruise in the part of my heart our nearly 29 years together live.
In Thornyhold, one of Mary Stewart's later novels, the heroine says that a message came to her "like a gift from the air."
It was a rare slow night at Amicas, the wood-fired pizza restaurant in my neighborhood, which meant John, my favorite manager, had time to chat after I ordered my pizza to go.
"How have you been?" he asked. I haven't been in for quite a while. Either I'm on the road, or home and feeling too vulnerable to be social--my loss, I know.
"Pretty good," I waggled my hand to indicate the ups and downs.
Since sometime last fall, I’ve been struggling to not succumb to a kind of low-level, background malaise that is uncharacteristic for me. I’m usually sunny, or at least resilient and optimistic.
On weekends, I put the creative energy I use for writing into homework: projects around my little house and yard.
This weekend, I was determined to make more progress on the flagstone dining patio I'm laying on the east side of the garage/studio. I had laid the first four flagstones early this summer, when the ground was still moist and workable.
I've been cranky around the edges for the past several weeks, less patient than usual, easily irritated and sometimes outright bitchy. I've embarrassed myself with my moods, and wondered more than once where the good-natured me went and who is this out-of-sorts woman currently inhabiting my skin.
Last Wednesday, the second anniversary of Richard's death, I thought about what I've accomplished over the past 104 weeks.
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