Mara Jevera Fulmer's Blog

August 30, 2026

Angry Dreams and Getting Real

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under beginnings, creative writing, death, Family, grief, growth, love, marriage, mental-health, mourning, Photos, Uncategorized | Tags: death, Family, grief, life, love, Marriage, memory, mourning, survival |
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It’s Steve’s 69th birthday today, or at least it would be if he were still here. I woke up angry this morning, ostensibly from an angry dream. I remember being in the position of selling a bunch of stuff… perhaps an estate or garage sale. I know this is a pressure I’ve been dealing with on and off but in smaller bits since, well, since Keith died.

But the man in my dream who I was selling this stuff to was packing it up too quickly, with his wife’s help, before I’d even agreed to the pricing. I remember telling him to “STOP!!!!!” several times. And I was ignored until I practically screamed it. I remember trying to add up all the items in my head. But there was just too much to keep track of and I was getting angry about feeling so much pressure around this effort, and then a memory stirred of a similar experience from my past.

I woke up before it was resolved and was angry at that, too. I needed to bring this situation up right, to wrap it up in a nice neat bow. Resolved and done. But there was nothing I could do to get back to that moment… in my angry dream. So I resolved to find a happier thought to focus on as I tried to drift back off to sleep. Somehow Steve was in this second dream and I felt calmer. But then I woke up and realized it was his birthday, and he’s gone.

But I resolved to do some chores that I’d been putting off until today, thinking I needed more help than I really did. Perhaps that’s what Steve had done for me in my dream… sent me a whiff of confidence that I had been sorely lacking.

So after a hearty breakfast of a small omelet made from leftovers from yesterday’s breakfast plus a few other things I had on hand, I set about gathering the giant tube of door seals, the small wedges for the sides, a vacuum cleaner, a rag to wipe down the sills, a ladder, and whatever else I could think of that might be useful. Today would be a good quiet Sunday afternoon to take this on. It’s been rather overcast and rainy so far today, the temperature outside not too high, and a light breeze. So an otherwise good day since the doors would have to remain open a lot.

Perhaps that’s what Steve had done for me in my dream… sent me a whiff of confidence that I had been sorely lacking.

I soon found that the door seals on either of the French Doors in the living room and the ones in the bedroom really didn’t need much. They were in far better condition than I had been led to believe by the Door/Window guy who came out and wanted $1500 to repair them. So I only replaced two pieces of weather seals on the larger doors in the living room, and replaced a missing foam wedge. But I soon figured out where much of the heat loss was actually coming from … in the sills where there was a large open space underneath and no insulation. This explained the frosty experiences I had last winter.

So I made a trip to Home Depot with my wishlist of a few things including spray foam for insulating the sills. Plus some caulk for fixing the shower around the pan, extra blades for a mat knife – one can never find them when needed, and a few other goodies. And then my shopping was mostly done. I guess I’ll end up back there tomorrow after I figured out what I needed for the front door weather stripping.

With the insulation done, I cleaned up and put away all the accoutrements of the job, and proceeded to settle down with a book. I was making a concerted effort to avoid looking at emails that I knew had started coming in from students since the semester officially starts tomorrow.

Tonight, I was nibbling the last of a small plate I’d made for dinner. A couple of different cheeses, a few slices of fresh-baked bread I’d made (a freeze-and-bake organic sourdough loaf that I found in the freezer), and a personal-sized bowl of chopped liver from some that I picked up from Nehrings. Of course I’d also made a small bowl of some sliced sweet gherkins to go with it. I had stopped in at Nehrings on my way home from Home Depot with the intention of finding a cupcake to put a candle in for Steve’s birthday. I ended up with a frozen chocolate mini-cake from Marie Callender’s and a small container of chopped liver instead.

So far so good.

Now, just as I was nibbling the last piece of bread I’d sliced, and was contemplating turning on the TV to watch something while I checked in on those emails I’d been avoiding, my music playlist went to Norah Jones, “Come Away with Me”, and I choked up, unable to think, to process. Just frozen with a major lump in my throat.

I choked up, unable to think, to process. Just frozen with a major lump in my throat.

The music brought me back to a darkened room, dimly lit enough for us to lay in the King-sized bed close beside Keith who was in the taller hospital bed. I’d put together some quieter tunes that included ones he liked and a few I thought would be comforting to me. Norah Jones’ soft dulcet tones would fill the room and bring me to tears as I tried to wish myself to follow Keith’s journey, wherever that led. I knew better, of course. But I wanted so much to hold him and never let go. But even touching him was hardly possible, the cancer had spread so thoroughly throughout his flesh and bones. Two days from now, on September 1st, it will be the 14th anniversary of Keith’s passing. And here I am a widow… again.

Fuck this shit.

It was about a year later, after Keith had passed, that Steve had come into my life in a more prominent way. And one thing I’d shared with him was about loving to dance and that Keith didn’t like to dance if he could avoid it. Steve was willing to let go of his own self-consciousness and dance with me, whether it was a soft slow dance, or a more upbeat west coast swing dance that we learned in a class we took together.

But when we were alone at home where I’d invited him to stay, and Norah Jones would come on, “Come Away with Me” shifted, momentarily, to something more hopeful, though the darker memory still lingered in the background. Steve would come towards me to dance, and we would slowly sway to the tune, eyes closed, the lyrics wafting through my heart like mists of time shifting my soul into knots. And I would begin to cry. It was within the warmth of Steve’s healing embrace that I felt safe…even if my heart was continuously breaking for the one I’d lost before.

It was within the warmth of Steve’s healing embrace that I felt safe…even if my heart was continuously breaking for the one I’d lost before.

It took time. But eventually Steve filled the cracks in my heart and made it whole again. At least for awhile… until it was his time to go away, without me.

Damn it. This shit sucks.

Tonight, on what would be his 69th birthday, Norah Jones brings me to tears again, and the ache in my chest is palpable.

I really hate this shit.

…

Hi folks. Normally I don’t publish two pieces in the same day. The one published this morning – The Universe in the Fireplace – was written a few days back and I wanted to share it with you on what is Steve’s birthday. I didn’t know how much this day would hit me… And, as I was writing in my diary about my feelings – a great way of addressing unexpected emotions – I found myself with a realization that perhaps this piece, with its various layers of grief – with warring responses of acceptance and anger – presents a very real view of how grief presents itself in unexpected and unbidden ways. And so I share it with you on the day it is written. With all its raw feelings and mundane tasks, such is the cycle of life going on after loss.
Thank you for reading. – Mara, 8/30/2026

August 30, 2026

The Universe of the Fireplace

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under creativity, death, Family, grief, growth, love, Photos, surviving, Uncategorized | Tags: Family, grief, growth, life, love, making, overcoming, resilience |
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Rings upon rings and the spirit within

There it was, over 13 feet of stone rising from the floor to the ceiling, a sturdy mantel crossing it about two-thirds of the way up made from a large hand-wrought beam from the old 1840s farmhouse that used to be at this site. Visible signs remained of the making of this beam, from the chips of an adze and ax, to artifacts of its original use with mortise and tenons closed up but left visible, like scars of prior wounds that were necessary to hold the original home together built so long ago.

I can relate to that.

The iron brackets holding it steady to the limestone plinths had another life, too, starting out as bar stools too heavy and dangerous for young grandchildren who would play beside the countertop. Now cut apart and honed into a new life, with forged steel and cut stone, it would serve as support for the mantel.

One light, perfectly placed, made visible the large lathe-turned big leaf maple burl platter, carved, and reimagined as art, reflecting circles upon circles of inner burl knots. With rings upon rings reflecting outer universes to be admired from afar, you become awestruck if you dare to look too long. You won’t be able to look away, for you can’t help but see the spirit within the wood reaching back into your heart. It was the work of my husband Keith, a master woodturner, who left me this treasure, along with a promise not to sell this property.

You won’t be able to look away, for you can’t help but see the spirit within the wood reaching back into your heart.

You won’t be able to look away, for you can’t help but see the spirit within the wood reaching back into your heart.

Sitting on this mantel, now glowing with the light above, against the stone that carries your eyes so high, is a trefoil ceramic vase, three sided and glazed blue with a depth of tiny black speckles, and a silvery copper edging where each side meets. My husband Steven made this piece, along with the iron brackets that support the mantel that it sits upon. He was a master of his crafts, too. And he is also gone. But Steve gave me my next launch to dig deep for an inner strength that I would need to keep moving forward.

I had designed this home. A sketch on a napkin at first. A larger drawing later. It was a vision I’d seen in what seems like a lifetime ago sitting on the hillside with Keith when we first bought this property. Only the old farmhouse is gone now, except for the mantel on the fireplace.

I saw a treehouse view in my head, a house jutting out from the hill. I hoped to share it with my husband. I’d even made a drawing of this very fireplace, watercolors and pens – long before we’d ever broke ground.

I sit here in this room in my home, so hard-won, so many hardships, so much loss. And I acknowledge one truth… that to see the visions come to life and follow them through to completion required a strength of faith I didn’t really know I had within me.

The vision I’d painted on paper was a bittersweet reality now, turned to stone, and metal, and wood and glass. And I can share it with others here among the living. But perhaps not the ones who were either of my spiritual partners, the ones whose love helped stoke my courage to keep moving forward.

Looking up at the scene of the now completed monument to the dreams of my lovers, I wailed and my tears flowed. And then they stopped.

I think I can still do this.

August 12, 2026

Mandelbrot Moments

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under Family, food memories, friendship, Jewish Food Memories, love, Photos, poetry | Tags: Family, food, friendship, Jewish soul food, life, love, memories |
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& Other Jewish Soul Food Memories

Family is gathered around the table helping decorate cookies for the holidays. — Making food together has been part of a long tradition in my family. Top right seated facing the camera is my dad; standing center is my second husband Steven, with the next generation helping with decorating Christmas cookies. Photo by author.

I am made of the sweet and sour stuffed cabbage of my grandmother Sadye’s special recipe, the kind that you would want to lap up the sauce like soup, layers of cabbage unfolding and refolding around the tender meat inside seasoned so from the cabbage brine, the tomatoes, and the tucked in golden raisins that plumped from long slow cook. It was a healing recipe, carried from the old country, a Jewish twist on the Polish golumpkes… the same, but not the same at all.

I am made from the memories of this and other sweet fruits of her kosher kitchen labors that she would create in the little galley kitchen of her 8th floor apartment. Never mind how much notice we had given her before a visit. There always seemed to be a juicy brisket, some stuffed cabbage, and a plate of Jewish-style chopped liver – recipes that had been carried and fussed over for and among generations standing side-by-side in the making of them.

I am made from the sweet crunchy taste of the Mandelbrot, the biscotti of the Jews, that she spent time baking first as a loaf, then sliced and baked again, aromatic with vanilla or lemon, and drizzled with love. A cup of hot tea was its best accompaniment.

I am nourished by the amusing memories of my then fiancé (and later husband of 30 years) Keith who went with me on a visit to my grandmother’s apartment. It wasn’t long before I found Sadye’s petite frame following Keith around the dining room table, in her hand a pretty plate with a mound of chopped liver topped with chopped egg, as is the tradition. “What’s the matter?” She asked him in her most stereotypical Connecticut Jewish twang. “You don’t like chopped liver?” Keith shakes his head vigorously, a good Midwestern boy raised in a Methodist/Baptist household.

As I finished the last batch of Mandelbrot, one with almonds, orange and vanilla, another with chocolate chips, pecans, and dried cherries, neither was a “true” version of the past, but instead a retelling with some modern new flourishes.

Decades later, I found myself re-immersed in Sadye’s embrace in my own kitchen after scouring through my rediscovered childhood recipe cards – and of course the internet – to find the true Jewish grandmother-versions of the recipes my tastebuds could still fully recall. My father sat at my dining room table, anxiously awaiting the treat that I hoped would put into focus the fading memories of his childhood.

As I finished the last batch of Mandelbrot, one with almonds, orange and vanilla, another with chocolate chips, pecans, and dried cherries, neither was a “true” version of the past, but instead a retelling with some modern new flourishes.

A small bite, at first, my father’s eyes opened wide and a huge grin stretched across his face. “YES!” He said. “Sadye would be proud!” he pronounced proudly.

At that, I knew I had done my duty as her only granddaughter to carry forth at least this one small tradition, one baked with love and the many blessings of my grandmother.

*Mandelbrot, aka Jewish biscotti, made at home, the batch that truly passed the test. Photo by author.*

August 5, 2026

Auras, Spirits, and Aging into Possible

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under Art & Design, creative writing, creativity, growth, love, magic, Photos, poetry, portals, Uncategorized | Tags: aging, auras, creativity, life, love, magic, portals, possibilities, spirits |
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Rediscovering the Magic of Portals

The image shows an old building at night with light streaming through windows covered by grapevines. It is the place where the author finds solace and magic in — *Late night conjurings in the studio. Photo by the author.*

I remember the first time I came to the realization that my excitement about “possibilities” had overpowered the young college student sitting in front of me. I could see their face and the look of distress and fear in their eyes. I was smiling, sure. And I thought that would be enough to express that my intentions were sincere and meant to be positive. But the energy that radiated from me was too much. The aura was too great, emitting from me like a large glowing globe. I realized that I had to reign it back inside or I would lose them completely.

Transported through stories

When I was a child, I would devour my books, kept orderly by author on my bookshelf. Much of it was science fiction, the classics from Isaac Asimov, Ray Bradbury, Arthur C. Clark, the abc’s of scientific and human explorations of my childhood. I still carry inside me the stories from The Martian Chronicles, the last one whose story ended with the reflection beside the river bed of a family looking back and discovering the real identity of the Martians they were seeking.

I remember the power and spiritual awe I felt when the stars began to blink out in the evening sky when technology was meshed with ancient wisdoms of Tibetan monks, when the last of the Nine Billion Names of God was finally deciphered.

And I remember most dearly the power that women could hold in the retelling of the King Arthur legends when Marion Zimmer Bradley chose to put women at the center in the Mists of Avalon.

It was there where I truly connected with the potential portals offered by the mists that often delighted me in childhood.They still make my heart dance with excitement as they pull me to the edge of the earthly plain even now. Late night drives through thick fogs would completely envelope my car, reflecting my headlights back if I failed to turn them down. Only then, in the dark, could I find my way through to my destination.

The vaporous magic of air and water

Then there were the early mornings when I would awake to a see the mystical clouds through my treehouse bedroom view, blurring the trees to soft green silhouettes as if wrapped by the glowing heavens fallen to Earth.

*Ice and frost cover the grasses and trees at a nearby farm in Winter. Photo by author.*

I began to recognize the magic of the hoar frost on the cold snaps of a crisp fall morning, as the crystals emerged outward in the dawn light. The sun rays meeting frosty air would deposit this magic across the farmers fields, wrapping trees and tall grasses creating a sparkling bejeweled view to accompany my early morning travels.

I knew there was power and potential there for real magic to happen in moments like these. And I understood for certain that in these realms there was beauty to be created, mysteries to uncover, and power to be harnessed, if only we would allow ourselves to be open to its gifts.

It was there where I truly connected with the potential portals offered by the mists that often delighted me in childhood. They still make my heart dance with excitement as they pull me to the edge of the earthly plain even now.

Aging into possibilities

As I have grown older, I have come to fully embrace the mysteries of these liminal spaces, these places between worlds, as my portals for intense discovery, both human and spiritual. It was at the water’s edge as a child when I first realized that beneath the glassy surface reflecting my face back to me, I could reach down and, under the muddy banks, discover the crawfish hiding there… oh so many to be had!

The water and its vaporous cousins has become that place of poetry for me, an opening to another plane. Such as the pre-dawn light on the edge of the water in Fiji as I sat there on a patch of grass under the stars. The weighty blanket of stars was holding fast while the dawn light shifted the colors on the horizon. The birds just began their singing in the tropical trees that met the sand, accompanied by the lapping of the waves with the slow build of the morning’s orchestral melodies.

*Dawn emerges on a beach in Korolevu, Fiji. Photo by author.*

My other portals also depend upon these mystical elements of the atmosphere. A bridge of light extends from the full moon to my feet. The nighttime faeries flicker and twinkle in my path as I wander in the dark. I know well that bridge of spirit connections that these bring me. The hearts of those I’ve loved travel up and down that path leaving their mark on my soul, an all-encompassing spiritual embrace.

*The mists of dawn on a late winter’s morning. Photo by author.*

I’m older now, and the moonlight gets caught in the silver highlights of my greying hair. So I draw upon that magic now, growing into the expanding aura of an old crone. Tonight, on the latest full moon, I step across its path in the middle of the night and head into my studio, still wearing my nightgown.

From the outside, the shop lights splinter through the night from its many windows. The decades of this journey have led me to this time when I can fully commit to this creative portal. Its siren call pulls me in to explore the magic that can be created inside. And while I do, a curtain of grapevines partially obscures the view of any who wish to peek into my chamber of creativity as I work through my late night conjurings.

Woe to any who seek to enter there, for the aura I carry will not be dimmed here for their comfort.

July 12, 2026

Grief & Love in Split Screen

Posted by Mara Jevera Fulmer under beginnings, Family, grief, growth, love, marriage | Tags: Family, fiction, friendship, grief, life, love, Marriage, memory, survival, writing |
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Taking on a Life of “Doings”

Tiger Lillies and wild Black Raspberries before they’d ripened. Shown in split screen black and white on one half and color on the other half. Photo by author. — *Tiger Lillies and wild Black Raspberries before they’d ripened. Photo by author.*

I was laying in bed after another day of active “doing”. The midsummer sun was streaming in just over the trees out the west window of my bedroom. A silhouette of my Valentine’s Day orchid was visible with the promise of future blooms, a first in my experience with these fickle flowers that Keith, the first to make me a widow, loved so much. A framed picture of me and Steven, who made me a widow for the second time, sat on the table beside the plants there.

Ralph was laying down on the bed beside me and I couldn’t help but reach over and gently flip his long-legged body to lay beside me so I could scratch his fuzzy head and back. As I closed my eyes, my fingers reached his softer neck feathers, the fur that helps give the breed their name – Silken Windhounds. The soft texture of his fur has now, as it has at other times, led me to memories of Steven whose hair was so soft and fine and curly that I loved to run my fingers through it, as if touching silk threads.

*Ralph, a Silken Windhound, takes his spot in the middle of the bed. Photo by author.*

As I lay there, I felt the weight of Ralph on my chest and was taken back to days when Steve and I would lay beside each other in this bed, just resting, listening to music, and to each other’s heartbeats.

We would just “be” in those moments, tender connections, until they would break open and either lead to more intimate connections, or simply a quiet conversation. It would often lead to someone picking up their electronic devices to look something up. And then… the connection shifted to more practical or even creative conversations. Or sometimes nothing at all. And we were okay with that… back to our quiet comfort together.

As I felt his weight, and touched that silky fur, my eyes lightly closed. It was Steven again. And I want to hold him forever. But I knew that in reality, he was not here, and that I was alone. Just me and the two pups.

The Sounds of Memory

As I tried to remember Steve’s voice… searching my memory banks, a slight panic began to bubble up. What if I couldn’t remember what his voice sounded like? I have videos of him on my phone and computer, I remind myself. But I knew it wasn’t the same.

Steve’s voice was a mid-alto that went higher when he laughed or giggled. I always found that giggle so cute, even amusing at times, with those high treble giggles he made that could sound like a little girl. Yet his laugh was so genuine and sweet, a little boy still inside the smiling old man. It was hard to resist its charms.

The screen of my unfolding memories begin to split and I hear Keith’s voice which was more of a low alto, his voice deeper, more resonant. You always had to listen for the smile in Keith’s voice to match the subtle smiles that would often flit across his face, especially amidst the seriousness he took for his work. Because it sometimes wasn’t easy to tell if he was being lighthearted, or making a stinging rebuke. That line was often difficult to discern.

When Keith did smile, it was like sunlight shining through. In our later years, I saw more of that sunshine than darkness as we both began to cast off our former insecurities of youth, trading them for the willing embrace of another chapter to come.

Rewriting Chapters

That chapter had a plot twist, as did the next chapter written after the first turn. I see them side by side sometimes. The wrapped blanket around a dismantled table of Keith’s. Sitting on the second floor of the remodeled Gallery House building that I’d just finished… on my own… without him… I slipped down the wall to sit on the floor, overcome with grief as the shape of that table wrapped in the moving blanket looked so much like the profile of Keith’s frail boney dying body laying with his back to me in the hospital bed set up beside our marriage bed… as I watched for telltale signs of life… soon gone.

I see the screen split with the empty space now on Steve’s side of the bed. I lay here tired after a few days of “doing”… things I would have done WITH Steve. Or with him guiding me, or me helping him. We were a good team.

Instead, I was doing these things on my own. Making a list of what needed to be done, projects big and small. The small ones I could do myself – or a least mostly. The bigger projects I needed to put on my contractor hat and work out the details with someone with the right skillset.

So it was one of these smaller but doable projects where found myself completely defeated, taken down by a simple wall anchor in an attempt to hang shelves in a small closet. Once I recovered from the thorough humiliation, I asked Lizzy for help. Normally very up to doing things with me, my former student took over the planning and installation of the wall anchors themselves, while I managed the gathering of any other items.

Yet I noticed that even Lizzy was tiring easily from months of struggling with her own health demons, though less than half my age. Too young for that, my heart sank in empathy. The body keeps the score and hers holds a lot of trauma.

As I watched her struggle with one of the screws going through the shelf bracket and into the wall anchor, I realized I knew some things about the impact driver that I could teach her, things I had learned from Steve, and that I could pay forward.

As I watched her struggle with one of the screws going through the shelf bracket and into the wall anchor, I realized I knew some things about the impact driver that I could teach her, things I had learned from Steve, and that I could pay forward. Steve could be always be counted on for the generosity of his gifts of knowing how to do “the things,” a (mostly) patient teacher, at least with me. I was most grateful for this patience and willingness to teach me things, and would often tell him so.

Men at Work

The screen splits again and I see them each in their element. Keith fully inside his head, concentrating deeply on turning a bowl on the lathe, tik tik tik tik tik tik tik tik… the sound of the gouge hitting the wood as he smoothed the wood into a more cylindrical shape. Often wearing a full protective mask over his head and face, I was careful never to disturb him for fear he’d shift his view and either ruin his work, or worse, have it break off the lathe and fly into him or smash across the wall. And knowing how much he loved what he was doing, I couldn’t forgive myself if I put him or his work at risk.

*Keith, c. 2007, at a workshop demonstrating a woodturning technique using the outboard in order to create a large wall-hanging piece. Photo supplied by author. Photographer unknown.*

Steven, on the other hand, would often invite me in to see what he was doing. I’d even ask him to show me things. I’d grown up in the era when girls took Home Ec classes, and boys did Shop class. Traumatized at a young age by my father’s own bloody run-ins with power tools, especially those with blades, I was determined to face my own fears. So Steve gave me some key pointers on the table saw, as well as a jig saw, and a chop saw. And I got pretty good with my own letterpress type saw, too. Even so, I lacked Steve’s (and Keith’s) deeper understanding of woodworking techniques and their cautionary tales.

But I’m tired now. Three days in a row of “doing” is enough.

*Steve, after already diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer, embracing his new potter’s wheel. Pottery was one of his favorite creative outlets. Photo by author.*

Three Days of Doing the Things

Day One – To Gather and Prepare: To take my mind off my utter failure with wall anchors, I was going to make a “Quartercase cabinet.” This is a little letterpress cabinet that held small cases that I would fill with type ornaments. Smaller is better for the size of these cases since the type is lead antimony and the weight adds up quickly. I’d come up with a design based one I already had in the shop.

First there was a full day of planning, buying, and cutting aluminum L-rails that I would use to hold the small type cases in my Quartercase Cabinet. I needed to buy the 4’ and 6’ rails along with the right jigsaw blades to cut metal.

I missed the old men at the Ace hardware who could tell you whether the blade was the right one for a Dewalt jigsaw even though the blades were Bosch brand. The young ones didn’t have a clue.

It took two trips to the hardware store where I learned how much I missed their employ of knowledgeable people. I missed the old men at the Ace hardware who could tell you whether the blade was the right one for a Dewalt jigsaw even though the blades were Bosch brand. The young ones didn’t have a clue. And on the second trip to return the first blades purchased, I finally remembered to buy an 18” level since two other projects I intended to work on were in a space just shy of 24”. So the two 24” levels I’d found on my searches around the homestead wouldn’t be useful there. And the 9” torpedo levels were just too small.

Armed with the right blades, my day of cutting 24 aluminum rails went fairly smoothly, almost like I knew what I was doing. I finished them off by drilling three holes on each piece so they could be screwed to the wood cabinet. I left the workshop feeling satisfied and headed back into the house to enjoy the literal fruits of my labors from earlier in the day making wild black raspberry chipotle BBQ sauce. I’d tossed some of it into a bowl with a small chuck roast that I had cooked in the 2-quart crockpot I’d purchased when I realized cooking for one really meant thinking smaller. Over the previous few days I had managed to pick over a quart of berries from a volunteer plant that grew in my front garden and was still producing for another couple of weeks.

Day Two – Wooden Encounters: My goal for this day was to cut all the wood pieces for the actual cabinet and then build it. Measure twice, cut once. But the sign in the shop says “Measure once, cuss twice” which turned out to be more accurate than I intended. Even so, I had to chuckle as I still double checked each measure I made based on my plans I’d drawn earlier.

The cutting of my first piece went well. I was using nothing but scrap sheet lumber from around the shop and garage. And 3/4” or 5/8” plywood would do the job for the sides and bottom. The top and back could get away with being 1/4” ply that seemed plentiful around the shop.

When I made that first cut on the lighter ply, I reached down with my left hand to shut off the saw. Both Keith and Steve had the same saw, but Steve’s was set up with a left-hand shutoff since he preferred it. Stassia, my younger daughter, had ended up with her dad’s table saw. But as I reached down, the piece of 1/4” ply flipped up and flew across the moving saw blade and then hit me on the left wrist. Apparently I hadn’t pushed the piece fully away from the blade and it sucked it back and sent it flying. OUCH!!! Lesson learned.

Nursing my bruised wrist, I was thankful that it wasn’t worse. No broken bones, no blood. Just a nasty bruise that was helped later by ice and some CBD/THC lotion left from Steve’s treatment stash when the cancer had moved into his spine. A few days later, the bruising in the deeper tissue further up my arm started to show, confirming why it all felt a bit tender.

A bit of bruising. It could have been a lot worse. Photo by author.

After a few choice words, I went on with my project, making other far less dangerous mistakes along the way. Like putting all of my new rails in the wrong orientation, then having to take them all off and move them to the right position. I could hear both Keith and Steve shaking their heads with a slight rebuke – “Why didn’t you read your own plans?” Yep. Lost nothing but time and I had plenty of that, as long as my back held out.

The rest of the project went better, though far from perfect. Remembering when to grab some wood glue, getting out the longer bar clamps, using gravity to help when my strength would sometimes fail me. I put both my battery powered Dewalt drill and impact driver into hard use that day. But in the end, I got it figured out, and I was able put together something useful. My grief turned briefly to gratitude for the split screen guidance from beyond that I received throughout the day, especially the encouragement not to give up.

*My finished Quartercase Cabinet. Not perfect, but fully functional. Photo by author.*

Day 3 – Revisiting my nemesis: Lizzy came over and we revisited the wall anchors that had taken me down the previous week. By the time we were done, after the struggles I noted, we both felt satisfied with the results. Though we did use one less shelf, removing the one I’d messed up in my first attempt, leaving the drywall mess from my earlier misadventures with wall anchors for another day.

*Success! Only the remnants of drywall anchor damage at the top. Photo by author.*

Blurred Vision

That brings me here to this moment, to the edge of tears, to the split screen visions of my two loves. And to the still raw grief of missing Steve, even more deeply than I’d felt in awhile. It’s been just over 13 months and I know he wasn’t ready to give up, a fighter until the very end, my dear knight. Even so, I am grateful for being able to carry forth these split screen conversations, even if they sometimes bring with them some deep pangs of grief. The connections of love still provide a healing balm that helps me get up for yet another day of “doings”.

An Rx for Joy

Today another of my former students, Ella, had reached out wanting to visit and introduce me to her 7-month-old baby daughter. When the car pulled up into the driveway, I couldn’t help myself. Asking first, I carried this dear sweet darling into the house and just did my best to absorb her sweet babyness. I wanted to just drink up all that love, joy and innocence. Just witnessing the start of a new life with all of the possibilities of the future ahead of her, I felt my cup overflowing with joy.

And then…I rested.