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.
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.
It’s hard not to fall in love with this little darling, quite literally a little bundle of joy! Photo by author.
What’s on press – Audre Lorde quote about living your voice! All handset metal and wood type. Photo by the author.
Driven. Perhaps that’s the word I strive for. There have been times in my life where I felt truly driven, perhaps even careless at times, for the risks I might have taken. Sometimes my anguish makes me stubborn. More often, though, I find that I am fighting my own timidity. And then there are occasions when I surprise myself with the strength to speak up.
So it was that I found myself frustrated and furious at the unfairness of what I was observing, him trying to punish me for my womanly insolence by punishing Josaia instead. This time I needed to speak up, and push back. Even though it wasn’t my country, it was his. Even though I could be deported and lose my job and my home.
But what was I risking losing “REALLY?” I’d get a free ticket home. And poor Josaia would be left as a pawn between the angry colonial-empowered administrator of a higher chiefly status, and who didn’t like being challenged by yet another privileged, especially female, expatriate. I get it. There are resentments there, some even justified. Because who wants to be told what to do in their own country?
I was speaking up because I truly believed I was doing what I was hired to do … to make sure that a talented young man would be given the opportunities to earn the credentials that would prepare him to take over my job
However, in my mind, I was speaking up because I truly believed I was doing what I was hired to do, what my work permit/visa said was my purpose here… And that was to make sure that a talented young man would be given the opportunities to earn the credentials that would prepare him to take over my job at this South Pacific university.
I turned around and decided to use that privilege in support of my objective. As I walked out of his office, I threw across the threshold a threat of the potential withdrawal of American support. HE didn’t know that it was a bluff. And maybe it wasn’t.
I left feeling emotionally drained, yet satisfied that something would be worked out. I DID have the support of another foreign university in New Zealand. And that alone could have lead to some challenges for the local administrator. In the end, though, I stayed until my contract was over and headed on to new adventures back in my own country. Little did I realize how important this brief – but stressful – interaction would be to strengthening my own resolve in the future.
And Moving On…
Nearly 20 years of great triumphs and deep disappointments had passed, when I sat there in a room full of friends and colleagues after the orange-one had been elected for the first time. So deeply wounded most of us felt, unable to process how someone so horribly cruel and brutish could be selected to lead the greatest nation on earth.
And this, after eight years of the most incredible growth in community building and social support structures seen since the years following the Great Depression of the early 20th Century! Nearly all of us there shared a deep grief and horror at realizing that there was a sizable portion of the population who thought all of this was “okay”. And some of his supporters were in this very room with us, unable to comprehend just the opposite, why we would object so vehemently to the candidate they supported.
Witnessing our shared pain, hearing it in the voices, and seeing it in the faces of colleagues who I’d come to love and respect, especially the looks from the pain of betrayal… It is seared in my memory, and has served as a catalyst to grow my own courage to take a stand.
What followed was four years of literal hell,… a parade of injustices, a global pandemic, a crucible of reinvention of economic systems, an insurrection...
What followed was four years of literal hell – the death of George Floyd and so many others in a parade of injustices, a global pandemic, a crucible of reinvention of economic systems, an insurrection, and then resurrection to try and salvage the work that I and others had always been committed to, especially in education, to support belonging, justice, and access.
I knew I could no longer just be on the supporting team. I felt an overwhelming need to step up and speak up, to try and be part of making a positive change.
A college council was created and I put my name in to serve. A white face on a Jewish / Hispanic / Quechua / Russian / American woman, a true ethnic mutt. My apparent privilege – emboldened with a still freshly minted doctorate – would be used for good, as a force for change. I served as its leader for more than four years, until my college president – the first African American and woman to serve in this role – was literally pushed out by a newly elected MAGA board of trustees. Their takeover preceded the return of the orange one to his recrudescent second term in the White House, now angry, full of vengeance, and more power hungry than ever.
What now?!
I’m continuing the work, though in a different way. I could hear the unspoken advice shared by our former leader that was quiet but clear. Do I try and continue our work by trying to work WITH the new MAGA-installed president? Or do I continue the work of change by going under the radar, still strong but out of their gunsights. I chose the latter approach.
It’s been a very challenging time since. Recently, as I sat in a zoom meeting with colleagues from across the state, I saw fewer people than before. Many had struggled to keep their jobs in the space of diversity, equity, inclusion, belonging, and justice that we all believe in passionately. The majority of participants in this group are Black, demonstrating yet another burden they carry when the work should be part of everyone’s responsibility, no matter our role in education or society at large.
Yet, as I looked across the faces on the screen, I could see the exhaustion on their faces. It is the deep weariness that comes from beating off non-stop attacks from all corners of life. As we faced the reality that our small midwest conference would have to be cancelled, and potential threats to our very existence in this work, I felt pain of defeat. I felt angry. I felt resolve.
And so I spoke up … loudly. No matter what is going to happen next, this work is too important. We can refocus our work. But we absolutely cannot stop now.
Star of Bethlehem, aka Grass Lillies, growing amidst the rhubarb and weeds in the unkempt vegetable garden, May 2026.
It’s different this time. I’ve been here before. A second-time widow now 14 years older, wiser, more prepared for the storm ahead. I knew I could fall deep into the wake of sadness.
Back when it was my first time, I thought I would die from the pain, so deep, so shattering I couldn’t imagine life going on.
I was in Yekaterinburg, Russia teaching on a Fulbright grant when I first got the news of this diagnosis. Keith hadn’t been getting better, even saying its just a lingering case of bronchitis. He promised me he’d go back to his doctor as he dropped me at the airport and we kissed goodbye.
As studious as I was, I was uneducated in the lingo of cancer, or the many euphemisms it could go by. Sitting in my hotel, and so unnerved by Keith’s ambiguous yet clearly unhopeful words he’d texted to me, I was desperate to reach back out to him.
I found a way to make a phone call over Skype by paying for a phone number. When the call went through, I could hear how surprised he was when he saw the local number but heard me talking to him from over 5000 miles away in the middle of Russia. But I had to hear his voice. I had to make sure I wasn’t overreacting.
I could hear his weakened voice muddied by exhaustion from tests he’d undergone while I had been away, unplanned but supported by my daughters. Metastatic Liver Disease, he said, though I wasn’t sure what he really said until it sunk in minutes later.
“That doesn’t sound good,” I replied.
“Nope”, he reluctantly and quietly agreed.
“Do you want me to come home?”
“Yes,” came the nearly whispered reply.
And at that I knew how serious it was. Usually the midwest stoic, Keith had always pushed through and never asked me for help when it came to his healthcare. But not this time. Now, he needed me and I was on the other side of the world.
Usually the midwest stoic, Keith had always pushed through and never asked mefor help when it came to his healthcare. But not this time. Now, he needed me and I was on the other side of the world.
As I ended the call, quiet “I love you’s” exchanged, I felt trapped. I needed to scream, to cry, to shout. But I feared being seen as the crazy American in this industrial Russian city. I already was pretty much the ONLY Amerikanski here.
I took a different route and had the good sense to go and cry in the shower so few could hear me. But as the water poured over me in the modern white subway-tiled shower, I slid down the wall into a pool of tears and rain shower droplets, trying to cleanse myself of this deep despair.
That was the start of the first time, and the most painful, most despairing experience of my life. The only thing that kept me from ending my own was the knowledge that my own daughters needed their me, their mom. I needed to get home.
Fast forward to the present.
Here I am, now wrapping up a year into my second term as a widow. So many projects left undone. So many questions I would ask Steve as I tried to take my first steps. But the springtime came anyway. And now I stare out at the untended and unplanted vegetable garden patch where we would have tilled and replanted our tomatoes, and beans, and spinach.
Me and Steve, fishing from the shore after we’d sold the boat about a year after he was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer, June 2024, Big Fish Lake, Ortonville, Michigan.
It has been hard, for sure. I loved Steve dearly, my second husband, in a different kind of love than my first husband. As an older relationship, we were not hampered with career growth, or raising young children. All adults, Steve brought six children to my two. And they came with their various partners, and growing families. Together, we enjoyed a life we built that was happy, supportive, loving, playing creatively, like two overgrown kids.
When the diagnosis came, Stage IV Lung Cancer, something switched on for me. Survival mode. There were Caregiving tasks that needed to be addressed. Appointments to be made, and people to keep in the loop.
Over the next 2-1/2 years, PTSD from my earlier loss would creep in. But I managed to keep my outward crying to a minimum. We would use whatever time we were gifted to try and continue to live a happy life together, with as much or as little as was required to do that, even if it was just sharing a sweet smile, a loving embrace, and the quiet “I love you’s”.
I realized that what I feared, even more than losing Steve, was also losing this beautiful family he had brought with him. And most directly, losing Sam and his family who had become close to my own older daughter’s family, and who would visit often, despite his long distance. When I shared this with Sam, I was met with a loving reassurance that we’d always be family.
His last few weeks were both physically and emotionally challenging. Ups and downs, exhaustion, tears, laughter, and moments that could be the making of a comedy skit. That is, if it weren’t the end.
His last few weeks were both physically and emotionally challenging. Ups and downs, exhaustion, tears, laughter, and moments that could be the making of a comedy skit. That is, if it weren’t the end. So when Steve died, a sort of numbness took over that was somewhat familiar to me. It served me well enough as I got through the first months after his passing. It is a type of emotional survival mode that would carry me through the worst of it. My caregiving duties were over. Now I could sleep through the night and work on caring for myself.
Between the chaotic weather and my aching back, I’ve given myself permission not to replant the whole vegetable garden. Maybe I’ll just do potted tomatoes and herb plants on the upper deck again this year.
Now, as I looked out at all the various weeds overgrown from my second-story perch, I couldn’t make out what is really there in the untended patch. It just didn’t look like a vegetable garden anymore. On my next walk around at ground level, I made a point to check into the weedy fenced-in patch, ignored and now mocking me with the warming weather after a long cold dark winter.
To my surprise, the already overgrown rhubarb persists even now, despite a decade or more of neglect. It was first planted on other parts of the property by the original 19th Century owners of the property, and has survived constant disruptions of the land over the last 180 years.
And amidst the weeds that filled in the gaps around the rhubarb, starlike white flowers peaked through their thin green leaves that I’d never seen here before. These abundant patches of Star of Bethlehem grass lilies sparkled with hope as the season of new life and purpose unfolds before me.
To make sure I take care of myself in this new chapter, I remind myself to lean in on my toolkit for grief. It is one developed from years of practice living with hope, death and respair, a long forgotten word meant to describe finding fresh hope after despair.
And so, it is is with respair in mind, that I share this toolkit for navigating a journey through grief:
Practice compassion. For yourself, as well as others. You never know if the one you’re speaking to is going through a difficult time, as well.
Breath. Never forget to. When I was learning to scuba dive, the instructor knew that when the beginner diver goes under water – complete with all the breathing gear – their instinct is to hold their breath. We can’t keep holding our breath, even when we may feel like we’re drowning in grief. Just… breath.
Feel all the feels. There is no timeline on grieving. There is no schedule for it. Something triggers a memory – a song, a bird, a word – and the wave overtakes you. And you find yourself in a puddle of tears. Let it out and after the tears, a lightness may take over.
No one can take away your grief. But having a friend or companion who is a good listener can definitely help. And if that’s not doable, for whatever reason, find a compatible therapist, an objective listener trained for just such purposes.
Scream and cry if you must. Do it safely so that you can still wake up to another day.
Read a good book. Even when it makes you cry. Joan Didion’s “Year of Magical Thinking” brought me all the feels. I needed to know I wasn’t alone in these experiences.
Make something new. There’s a certain spark that comes with a new adventure, no matter how small.
Make something familiar. There’s comfort that comes with revisiting the familiar tasks that become your meditation.
Write it down. Share your story in the written word, as much or as little as you need to. Writing it down is like casting it off into the stars.
Take a walk, if you can. Especially in nature. This afternoon, I could admire the Star of Bethlehem grass lilies that found ways to create a sparkling view, even in the midst of my untended and unplanted vegetable garden.
Cry, dance, and sing when the music plays.
Grant yourself grace. Especially on the days when it seems too much.
Practice smiling again. It may feel awkward at times, but eventually it will become natural again.
Give yourself permission. To cry, to love, to be happy…
Talk to him/her. They’re still listening.
And as time passes, be open to the growing possibilities of future happiness in life.
Keith and me at the opening of an art show featuring our work at Buckham Gallery, Flint, Michigan, 2010.
Ralph (left) and Louie, Silken Windhounds, my four-legged guardians. Photo by Mara Jevera Fulmer
We lay on the soft pillows of the chaise, my four-legged guardians and I, perched upon the second-floor porch as the sun was slowly making its way across the horizon, not yet behind the newly budding trees. Their long shadows cast themselves through the flowering pear tree and its maple tree companion, laying themselves across the practically glowing emerald green grass. A chorus of birds filled the air around me.
I took in all of this magic, lost for a time in its spell, mindlessly stroking the soft fur of my pup Ralph, so silky it stirred a memory. I’d always been enamored by Steve’s hair which had that same silky texture, so fine, yet so playfully curly like a baby’s first grown length of hair. So much alike in that same silky way.
I was drawn back to his last hours, as he lay beside me in the bed. I could hear his slow yet shallow breathing, in…….. out…….. in…….. out…….. in…….. out……..
The oxygen generator was tucked away in the next room so as not to disturb us. In the bedroom, his breathing led us in a slow even rhythm, yet barely audible, while the music played softly in the background from the list I’d chosen of his favorite tunes.
in…….. out…….. in…….. out…….. in…….. out……..
It was meditative in the most compelling way, like a swaying of the body that feels like we’re not alone, but part of a greater living breathing being, slow dancing with the rotation of the earth.
In the past I have found myself fully embraced in the harmonic moments of similar slow and gentle rhythms. Such was the case when I found myself floating above a coral bommie in the South Pacific, caught in a flowing dance with schools of fish. All the colors of the rainbow, gently swayed with me in the glimmering of life-giving sunlight beaming down from above, yet spread like angel’s wings around us.
in…….. out…….. in…….. out…….. in…….. out……..
Back in the bedroom, I hear the stutter, the slowing pace of his breath. The time is near and I keep my own breath flowing as I listened for his last one.
in…….……… out………..……..…..
The music ended, too, the last song, “Shake it Up, Baby” by the Beatles…..
I looked over at him to confirm. “You dawg”, I said to his now silent body. A little laugh bubbled up inside at the awesome irony of his departing message.
Yet tonight, the cool air now touches me from the setting sun. Ralph, my silken windhound, provides the silky touch of a memory. I remind myself to smile again.
Ralph smiles, and reminds me to, as well. Photo by Mara Jevera Fulmer
This is an icon I created when working in Fiji. It was one of 24 icon-style illustrations with Pacific themes. Being my favorite, I adopted this one as a psuedo-logo.
Mara Jevera Fulmer's Blog 