Renovation

09. March 2012 · 25 comments · Categories: Caregiving, Creativity, Living alone, Mindful living, Web/Tech, Weblogs

I didn’t intend to renovate my life. After Richard died last November, I figured I’d hibernate for several months to recover from the journey with his brain cancer, especially the last four weeks of caregiving while simultaneously learning to let go. I wanted some time to hear myself think, to figure out this new and unsought role as Woman Alone.

I thought I’d work on the next book (or books). Hah.

Luminarias light Salida's Steamplant Sculpture Park in Richard's memory

First there was the celebration of Richard’s life to prepare for, just after winter solstice. Like anything done with a great deal of love and thought, it took far more time and energy than I expected. It also turned out to be a beautifully moving and healing event, bringing together a crowd of people whose lives he had touched in a way that left us all feeling good–like we’d really celebrated his life and our loss.

After that was the scramble to get paperwork done before the end of the year. And then the scramble to get organized for the Terraphilia Artist/Writer Residency program we’re establishing in his honor with Colorado Art Ranch. The latter entailed taking a long look at his historic studio and deciding that in addition to a thorough clean-out and reorganization, it needed work.

The front door to Richard's historic studio

That meant I needed to learn about construction and renovation of historic brick buildings, both way out of my comfort zone. I’m slowly learning how things work in the shop, what needs to be done most urgently, and who and how to ask for help. (Heartfelt thanks to all who have responded to those pleas!)

At the same time, or perhaps because of the renovation energy I’d unleashed in the studio, I decided it was time to renovate my web presence. Hence this spiffy new website and blog combination, which would never have come to be without the help of Bill LeRoy, friend and guru of WordPress. He understands and speaks Geek, talents I do not claim.

While all this other renovation was happening, I decided to revive the project of bringing my first book, Pieces of Light, back into print—as an ebook with the help of my virtual assistant, Lisa DeYoung). It made sense to—hah!—renovate the book, adding an update at the end of each chapter, enticing new readers with new content. Which of course meant I had to research, find a writing voice that honored the long-ago me who wrote the original book, and write those updates.

That wasn’t the writing I had planned on in what I thought (hah again!) would be the quiet months of my late-winter hibernation. (I also hadn’t planned on upgrading the operating system on my Mac laptop to handle Apple’s new iBooks Author software, another renovation which of course, wasn’t as simple as I hoped.)

All this renovating has pushed me out of such comfort zone as I had left after Richard’s death, putting me into new territory on several major fronts of my life. I suppose that’s good, though some nights between two and four a.m. when I lie awake sorting through and assimilating all of the new information, I wonder. Long and tiredly.

But here I am. Woman Alone. Who finds at the end of another day of cramming more information into my brain than I thought it could hold, and figuring out a construction problem all. by. myself. that I’m actually happy. Being me, here in the place I love, on my own.

full moon setting in the dawn skyIt helps that I have you all walking with me and cheering me on. And that I can feel Richard’s spirit smiling over my shoulder the way I did this morning when I looked out the front door and was so entranced by the luminous full moon setting that I dashed outside barefoot in my bathrobe to shoot some photos. (Did I mention the thermometer read 11 degrees F?) I think he was actually laughing then…

Learning my limits

19. February 2012 · 17 comments · Categories: Health, Nature, Travel, Web/Tech · Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Yesterday morning, I hopped into my trusty little Subaru Forester, the car I call "Mountain Goat" for its ability to nimbly handle seeminly any road conditions, and drove to Westcliffe, a former mining town on the upper edge of the wide Wet Mountain Valley to attend an all-day workshop on creating websites with WordPress.

I left home at quarter past seven, as dawn light fingered down the mountainsides from the high peaks, and returned at quarter past six that evening, as dusk was gathering in the day. (Westcliffe is an hour away when the roads are clear–as they were yesterday.)

My friend Bill LeRoy and his co-teacher, Terry Snyder had promised that by the end of the workshop, attendees would know everything we needed to set up and maintain our own websites, and would in fact have the basics of a site ready to go. Indeed, by the time we turned off our computers, I had built my new site and added some photos and words. I was elated–and completely wrung out. My eyes ached, my brain quivered like jello, and I was acutely aware that home was an hour's drive away.

Sangres

Not just any drive: here in rural south-central Colorado, land of deep valleys bounded by the highest ranges of the Rocky Mountains, we live with jaw-droppingly spectacular scenery, including postcard-pretty peaks rising a mile or more straight from wide valley-bottoms. And two-lane highways that alternate between fast and straight, and narrow and winding and very slow. Add in snow at this time of year, and highway-crossing wildlife.

I left Westcliffe when the sun slanted low toward the peaks, all too aware it would soon be evening mule deer commute time. Much of the route ahead is locally called "deer alley," for good reason: muleys often amble across the highway at dawn and dusk, oblivious of traffic.

Pronghornline

I forced my gritty eyes to scan the landscape  as I drove, alert for twin-hoofed travelers. I wasn't five miles out of Westcliffe when I spotted the first ones, only they weren't deer: a herd of about 100 pronghorn drifted up the grassy slope, the last stragglers still crossing the road.

Grazingbuck

I stopped (there wasn't any traffic) to shoot a few photos. As I admired the sleek pronghorn, I felt a physical pang of grief that Richard was not with me to admire them. We shared a delight in all of the wild lives that inhabit this spectacular and harsh landscapes.

The pain was so sharp I pressed my hand to my chest. It felt like my heart was splitting. "I miss you," I said out loud, and swiped tears from my eyes.

After a moment, it receded. I put my camera down and drove on.

The road swooped around a curve and wound through scattered pinon and ponderosa pines. I slowed for a tighter curve, and three robins flew low over the road. Then two more, with a third behind them.

The last bird suddenly slowed, turned and flew right into the hood. I braked and ducked. I felt the soft thud of contact and looked up at the rearview mirror to see the robin fluttering. And I didn't stop.

Maybe it was the grief, maybe the exhaustion–whatever, I drove on. And castigated myself all the way home.

Perhaps that sounds soft-hearted. After all, it was "only" a robin, a common bird by all accounts. There are lots of robins. But only one specific robin, one specific life that hit my car. And I didn't stop. 

It wasn't until I had hauled myself and my briefcase into the house that I realized why: I simply couldn't deal with another death. I hit my limit last Thanksgiving weekend when I helped the love of my life die as gracefully and mindfully as possible from brain cancer. My heart isn't ready to weather another death, be it robin or man.

Grief, I am learning, is no more linear than life. Both twist and turn, offering spectacular beauty and serious pain; the calm of long, straight stretches interrupted by hair-raising rises or drops; and without warning, events that sometimes simply fly straight at us.

We duck, a robin flutters on, and somewhere, love smiles.

Richardsugarpine

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