Dear Tad
I miss you. No. Somehow that's not strong enough.
I MISS YOU!!
Of course I don't miss our fights, your stubbornness (not mine of course), our disagreements on what to buy or not to buy, your determination that you couldn't live without a new truck. I miss the loving you. I miss the part of you that is perfect.
I miss the calmness I feel when you are around.
I miss loving myself the way I do when you are around.
Oh Tad - I wish I could love me as much as you loved me.
I am about to leave our house for a month and I am not sure it's the right thing to do.
I have been running around a lot lately - trying to numb the pain I feel from your absence. I know it's not the anti-dote. I've got pretty good evidence that in the long run it just makes things worse. Yet I persist.
In the desert there is no place to run. Picking myself up every morning, rolling up my sleeping bag and walking another 20 kilometers in silence will keep me from escaping. Or so I imagine.
I was going to take your ashes with me. But once I got them to slip into the backpack I realized I was just trying to take them as far away from here as possible. The same way I have put all our pictures in boxes stored deep underneath other boxes.
I don't really need to do that - it's just more escaping. So I left some yesterday on that beautiful beach north of town with the crazy crashing waves and the sheer cliffs. Of course the Pacific breeze blew them all back into my face.
I walked back through the hills my boots and jeans covered in minuscule bits of you my beloved and the cardboard box they burned you in. Tomorrow I will put the rest in our beautiful garden with the dahlias, the fuchsias and the cat poop.
I sent myself two Valentine's Day cards. I tried to trick my brain into forgetting Valentine's Day by being on a trans-Atlantic flight all day but a friend nudged me lovingly.
In them I wrote deep words of encouragement, I thanked me for being such a loving, courageous man walking around with a brilliantly shining broken heart.
Of course when the cards arrived and I read them at breakfast, your cat sitting on my lap, it was your voice; your voice coming back from the dead to thank me for all the ways I showed up for you, for us. Who knew I was still yearning for you to thank me?
Tad - cancer was easier than this. We had a goal, a battle. Mostly we had each other. This part of the battle is a lonely one - and I don't do lonely very well.
One silent step at a time.
With deep gurgling fountains of love,
Greg
PS Thank you for having been such an avid hiker - I found all the equipment I need for my trip tucked away in your shed.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Thursday, February 9, 2012
dream number three
I dreamt of Tad this morning.
I was walking up a grass-covered hill with a group of French-speaking friends. The place was a cross between the Marin Headlands (steep hill with a view on the other side) and the Plains of Abraham in Quebec City (wide expanses of grass with a few tourists here and there). Deep green hill on a majestic blue sky. When we got to the top of the hill (effortlessly!!) a small group of people were sitting around talking and enjoying the view of a huge suspension bridge in the distance and water below.
Suddenly Tad walks up from the other side and speaks to them - he is wearing his usual baggy shorts and a tank top t-shirt with a back pack over one shoulder. He has his beautiful pre-cancer body back: broad masculine stance, thick biceps, perfect baby-skin, massive thighs, dark shock of hair. The only difference is he now has a tatto on his right shoulder - a radiant, sun-like circle with beams coming out.
He looks up at me, makes eye contact and smiles. I feel that immense indescribable warm sensation I get from his gaze, our gaze -- a gaze only he and I can create, so different yet similar to every other gaze in the world.
Then his sweet cat woke me up to tell me it was time for me to fix her breakfast. I tried to go back to the dream but it was gone. Dream chasing at 6:30.
Now - later - I am trying not to cling to it, to replay it all day like a looped video but the temptation is great.
I am preparing my bags for a long hike in a place I don't know, with people I don't know, in conditions I don't know.
For two weeks.
In silence.
The only thing I do know is that the organizer is a man of principles, a man of love; a mentor who has been part of my life for two decades now; who spoke the eulogy in a small village church when my dear friend's cousin was viciously murdered.
At a time when I see clearly that I do not want to make a new life for myself, I do not want to move on to the "next phase" of my life because I do not want to say good bye to the last one -- I am choosing to do something frightening and mysterious. I am choosing to step deeper into the world of the invisible relinquishing a large dose of control (which is of course only my fantasized version of "control").
I see clearly that silence speaks volumes more than all the words and noise, that the invisible is far more sustaining of my essence than the visible, the mystery is immensely more wise than the predictable.
How long will it take me to really understand this? And when will I start living by it?
I was walking up a grass-covered hill with a group of French-speaking friends. The place was a cross between the Marin Headlands (steep hill with a view on the other side) and the Plains of Abraham in Quebec City (wide expanses of grass with a few tourists here and there). Deep green hill on a majestic blue sky. When we got to the top of the hill (effortlessly!!) a small group of people were sitting around talking and enjoying the view of a huge suspension bridge in the distance and water below.
Suddenly Tad walks up from the other side and speaks to them - he is wearing his usual baggy shorts and a tank top t-shirt with a back pack over one shoulder. He has his beautiful pre-cancer body back: broad masculine stance, thick biceps, perfect baby-skin, massive thighs, dark shock of hair. The only difference is he now has a tatto on his right shoulder - a radiant, sun-like circle with beams coming out.
He looks up at me, makes eye contact and smiles. I feel that immense indescribable warm sensation I get from his gaze, our gaze -- a gaze only he and I can create, so different yet similar to every other gaze in the world.
Then his sweet cat woke me up to tell me it was time for me to fix her breakfast. I tried to go back to the dream but it was gone. Dream chasing at 6:30.
Now - later - I am trying not to cling to it, to replay it all day like a looped video but the temptation is great.
I am preparing my bags for a long hike in a place I don't know, with people I don't know, in conditions I don't know.
For two weeks.
In silence.
The only thing I do know is that the organizer is a man of principles, a man of love; a mentor who has been part of my life for two decades now; who spoke the eulogy in a small village church when my dear friend's cousin was viciously murdered.
At a time when I see clearly that I do not want to make a new life for myself, I do not want to move on to the "next phase" of my life because I do not want to say good bye to the last one -- I am choosing to do something frightening and mysterious. I am choosing to step deeper into the world of the invisible relinquishing a large dose of control (which is of course only my fantasized version of "control").
I see clearly that silence speaks volumes more than all the words and noise, that the invisible is far more sustaining of my essence than the visible, the mystery is immensely more wise than the predictable.
How long will it take me to really understand this? And when will I start living by it?
Friday, February 3, 2012
things that surprise
It has been nearly five months since Tad died. Here are a few of the things that surprise me from where I stand today:
I'm surprised at how much I can enjoy life.
A few days ago I took the neighbor's dog for a long walk on a remote beach (said neighbor is by no means naive: she knows perfectly well that asking me to walk her dog twice a week is incredible therapy for my broken heart).
As we climbed over the beautiful sweeping green downs before hitting the beach I put Strauss's Last Four Songs on my player. Arly was beside herself with excitement. The smell of wild sage filled my nostrils. I peaked the first hill and got a glimpse of the rocky coast and the incredible expanse of blue the music swelled. I stopped and took it all in - weeping with some kind of joy/sorrow.
Words like peace, awe, joy come to mind to describe my inner state.
Now that I recount it I realize that at no point did I feel the cloying yearning to have Tad back here holding my hand or smiling over at me as we communicate silently about the incredible landscape around us.
This leads me to a second surprising notion:
I am surprised music and nature always come through
In this painful period where my crazy brain has been reminded against its will that we humans are temporary creatures I am amazed to see that some things are permanent.
Music, laughter, the smile of a child, time in nature, a hug, humble honesty…these are some of the things which never fail to deliver on their promise. These things always (okay almost always) manage to touch something deep inside me that is indeed permanent, that I feel goes beyond this fragile life.
I am surprised how I know which things Tad touched
As I go through my days I am aware which household objects were around when he was around. The bottle of ketchup he used to smother his fries is still there. The tube of toothpaste that's reaching the end was the one he bought for his last hospitalization. The ice cream in the freezer was the one I served him the day before he died. My brain is somehow keeping tally of which things in the house were here during his life and which ones are new since then.
As with every object I first feel the strong pull to keep whatever it is; to find a way to never throw it away somehow. I have now learned I can set things aside and give them time. After a few days I realize I don't need to keep certain object anymore - sometimes I realize I don't even like them.
Then I can let them go.
I am surprised I keep two houses
I am surprised by the fact that I still live part-time in Tad's house, still pay rent on a lease in his name, still pick up his mail and scrawl "DECEASED RETURN TO SENDER" on his bills. But more than that I am surprised at my capacity to give myself permission to keep this place. Well actually I haven't quite given myself full permission.
It makes no sense to me how this place fits into my "plan". I don't understand how it makes sense to live part time in one city and part time in another without being fabulously wealthy. Even though I paid an accountant who sat down to look at my financial situation and deemed it perfectly affordable - I still feel deep down that I'm not allowed this frivolous situation.
But here is what really surprises me: I am allowing myself to do something that doesn't make sense long-term but completely makes sense one day to the next. When I chat with my neighbors, play with my cat or walk on the beach -- all in Santa Cruz -- I can't find a reason in the world why I woudn't be there.
I am surprised people don't ask more questions
Having my beloved die in my arms feels like the biggest, most incredible event I have ever lived through. It surpasses all the major events of my life: exploring wildlife in South Africa, helping push through new legislation to protect patients, being published in fancy magazines, getting a masters in midlife.
Daily I tell people I am in mourning because my husband died of cancer a few months ago. It's the most prominent fact in my mind. I would be an impostor if I didn't say outloud what was filling up so much of my mind and body these days.
And yet I am surprised no one asks questions about it.
If the same thing happened to a close friend I would want to say: "How did it go?" "Was it peaceful or a struggle?" "What were his last words?" "Tell me what it's like because my spouse will die one day and I'd like to be prepared."
Then again - I have never asked this of any of my friends or acquaintances. (Though I did have long loving talks with my grandma in her sweet little house by the lake the year before she died - asking her to share her thoughts and feelings about it all).
I am surprised I have no attachment to Tad's ashes
The crematorium assured me that in exchange for his war-torn corpse which I reluctantly handed over to them - I would get a bag of ashes within 48 hours. It actually took them far longer than that causing me to sputter and blame for a good week. During that time I couldn't wait to get the ashes.
My beloved friend Carl took me to a houseware store to help me find a handsome urn while I awaited the return of what was left of Tad's beautiful body. So it is quite a surprise to me that I have no attachment to these ashes or the urn they sit in.
I keep them in a prominent place, with a few photos of him beside them, a sitting Buddha smiling peacefully, a candle and some incense which I light from time to time. But the truth is I feel no connection to them; they are nothing to me.
They are not Tad. They are not love. They are not a sweet touch on the hand and a murmur in my ear, "Could you bring me some more coffee please?"
I have decided to join some friends for a two week hike in the deserts of Southern Morocco. I will take Tad's ashes with me and leave them there. I will take the urn and break it into pieces to be used for potting in my garden.
I am surprised at how little compassion I have for myself
Yesterday I tried a new strategy during my morning meditation: I imagined a therapy session with myself. I sat down across from myself and lovingly asked: "So tell me: how can I help you?". Then I told my other self about losing my partner, about the pain, the loneliness. What I saw was that when I see myself with my therapist eyes I am amazed at all the good things I've done, all the positive healthy things I do daily to take care of myself. I am deeply moved by the other me's sorrow and the incredible enormity of what the other me has been through and is still here to tell.
Sadly during the day I find myself thinking I should be better at this, thinking I should be doing things differently, thinking I should have my sea-legs by now.
In the same way if I put myself in Tad's shoes, if I imagine for a moment that it is me with the cancer who has died I see how serene I am with that. I feel very fatalistic about the idea that I have lived a good life and that -if it were to come to this - I could say good-bye serenely.
But I can't accord the same serenity to Tad. I see his death as "premature" and "unfair". I see his absence as not part of the normal way things work and I resent it, lament it, blame someone for it.
I am surprised by the insidiousness of numbing behaviors and gratitude
A strange tragic phenomenon occurs with people who have severe depression. They actually attempt (or succeed) suicide when they start to get better. It seems that in the throes of mind-boggling depression they have very little strength to do anything but once they start medication and are on the upward slope they finally have the energy to do what they've been wanting to do for a long time: find a permanent end to their pain.
I am not suicidal. Far from it.
However I see that I am healing, I am getting stronger. And in so doing I see that I have the strength to do things I couldn't before.
For instance I am numbing more. I recently went out with friends and before I knew it I was drinking more alcohol than I ever would in normal times (a very moderate level compared to most people but a lot for me!).
I am purchasing more. I see that if I am not careful I could start spending in ways that are wasteful and unnecessary.
I am staying up more. I tried moving our bed into the office and putting the office in the bedroom. For various logistical reasons mostly having to do with a loud furnace it didn't work. So after repainting the death bed bedroom I put the bed back there. I now stay up late and watch silly drivel on television then find myself clicking it off at some single-digit hour.
In the same way I had my first fender-bender in the weeks soon after Tad died I got my first speeding ticket in my life this week. In all my years of mindlessly driving fast I had never been ticketed for it. Not so anymore.
And I am surprised at how quickly these various numbing strategies slipped into my life while I was looking the other way.
But an important good thing I see sneaking in as I gain strength is a deep undertow of gratitude.
Maybe in my new practice to be more compassionate with myself I should have started with this one.
I find myself wanting to buy cards, flowers and chocolates for the bevy of caregivers who spent time with Tad and me during the seventeen months of hell. I find myself wanting to stop at the various Oncology Units and give warmth and thanks to all the people who greeted us, hugged us, fed us and loved us day in and day out.
When I think about it I usually cry which could mean I'm not ready yet but I see the day is getting closer.
Ironically this week I crossed paths with Kelly one of the more proactive and loving nurse practitioners working with us locally. I glimpsed her across a busy avenue so I yelled her name and waved. She looked then turned and walked away. Later when I called to tell her it was me she apologized profusely. "I thought it was some straight guy making cat calls and hitting on me!" she said. I forget that women constantly get solicited in unsavory ways by men like me.
I am surprised how much I know what's good for me
I have spent a good chunk of my life not always knowing what is good for me.
Many times I have turned towards the mystery of what is behind door number two all the while seeing that door number one was wide open and behind it were an array of healthy things for me.
I am surprised that despite my sorrow and my fears that many times I do know how to turn to what is good for me.
I know when the clutter in the house is beginning to affect my serenity and I need to stop doing what I'm doing.
I usually know when it's time to pick up my phone and call another person, to let someone else's healthier brain help me pick over the details of the giant museum of memories that is my mind.
I know how to call my doctor when I feel sick, to stop and eat when I feel hungry, to let the tears come out when I feel sad/moved/overwhelmed.
I know I need to keep going to therapy each week.
I know I need to keep letting go of Tad's belongings that don't serve me.
I know I need to keep stepping into the mystery of nature.
I know I need to shut down my brain after a certain time by meditating, watching silly TV or changing the topic to something light and inconsequential.
This inventory may seem frivolous to some but to me this is huge. Self-care has not always come naturally to me. For years it never occurred to me that after a long hike in the rain or in wetlands I could actually take my socks off to dry therefore avoiding a cold.
I am surprised that my broken heart is actually an open invitation
to something bigger, something more alive
I know this sounds crazy.
When we walk around with a heart this tender, this fragile the first thing we want to do is bolt down a thick protective concrete shield to keep it from being hurt more.
We want to tell people "I'm fine". We want to wait til we're in the privacy of our own home to blubber til the drool comes out. We want to share few details with strangers because we don't want to burden but mostly because they're not intimate enough and our cave man brain thinks they might use it against us.
Fortunately my level of sorrow - and no doubt years of learning not to apologize for being gay - have made it such that I can't keep the cement cover on any longer.
When people ask me how I am I stop and identify - as well as I can - what's really happening for me. And it is difficult since it changes so quickly and comes so intensely these days.
What I'm seeing is that somehow this open vulnerability is leading me to something bigger. And I must admit I don't want it to go away - or at least not entirely.
I was planning on joining a group of friends on the beach of a small remote island in Southern Thailand. I've been there before and it's quite glorious in its simplicity and beauty. But at the last minute instead of booking that ticket I chose to join a group of 20 or so people who will hike in silence in Southern Morocco for two weeks.
I know this sounds masochistic. Let's call it the "road less traveled". I just have a hunch that - as scary as this is - it is the better place for me to deepen this living with an open heart.
I've already shared that I noticed that complete strangers offered me loving kindness during Tad's hospitalization in Seattle when I tearfully wandered the streets trying to find housing, public transportation vouchers, an open-hearted clergy and goodwill stores to buy clothing.
This experience is teaching that part of my brain which wants to have a Five Year Plan that I can just trust myself and other people each day.
Yesterday for the first time I got out on a sort of surfboard in the Pacific Ocean - a passion shared by a good half of the inhabitants of Santa Cruz it seems.
I am suddenly obsessed by the idea of getting back out in the water and doing it again. I feel like all of a sudden it makes sense to me why I see all those people walk, bike or drive with a surfboard over to the coast day in and day out, sitting for hours in the water waiting for the thrill of a good wave.
My next thought was: Now it all makes sense to me!! This is why I needed to stay in Santa Cruz.
I'm surprised at how much I can enjoy life.
A few days ago I took the neighbor's dog for a long walk on a remote beach (said neighbor is by no means naive: she knows perfectly well that asking me to walk her dog twice a week is incredible therapy for my broken heart).
As we climbed over the beautiful sweeping green downs before hitting the beach I put Strauss's Last Four Songs on my player. Arly was beside herself with excitement. The smell of wild sage filled my nostrils. I peaked the first hill and got a glimpse of the rocky coast and the incredible expanse of blue the music swelled. I stopped and took it all in - weeping with some kind of joy/sorrow.
Words like peace, awe, joy come to mind to describe my inner state.
Now that I recount it I realize that at no point did I feel the cloying yearning to have Tad back here holding my hand or smiling over at me as we communicate silently about the incredible landscape around us.
This leads me to a second surprising notion:
I am surprised music and nature always come through
In this painful period where my crazy brain has been reminded against its will that we humans are temporary creatures I am amazed to see that some things are permanent.
Music, laughter, the smile of a child, time in nature, a hug, humble honesty…these are some of the things which never fail to deliver on their promise. These things always (okay almost always) manage to touch something deep inside me that is indeed permanent, that I feel goes beyond this fragile life.
I am surprised how I know which things Tad touched
As I go through my days I am aware which household objects were around when he was around. The bottle of ketchup he used to smother his fries is still there. The tube of toothpaste that's reaching the end was the one he bought for his last hospitalization. The ice cream in the freezer was the one I served him the day before he died. My brain is somehow keeping tally of which things in the house were here during his life and which ones are new since then.
As with every object I first feel the strong pull to keep whatever it is; to find a way to never throw it away somehow. I have now learned I can set things aside and give them time. After a few days I realize I don't need to keep certain object anymore - sometimes I realize I don't even like them.
Then I can let them go.
I am surprised I keep two houses
I am surprised by the fact that I still live part-time in Tad's house, still pay rent on a lease in his name, still pick up his mail and scrawl "DECEASED RETURN TO SENDER" on his bills. But more than that I am surprised at my capacity to give myself permission to keep this place. Well actually I haven't quite given myself full permission.
It makes no sense to me how this place fits into my "plan". I don't understand how it makes sense to live part time in one city and part time in another without being fabulously wealthy. Even though I paid an accountant who sat down to look at my financial situation and deemed it perfectly affordable - I still feel deep down that I'm not allowed this frivolous situation.
But here is what really surprises me: I am allowing myself to do something that doesn't make sense long-term but completely makes sense one day to the next. When I chat with my neighbors, play with my cat or walk on the beach -- all in Santa Cruz -- I can't find a reason in the world why I woudn't be there.
I am surprised people don't ask more questions
Having my beloved die in my arms feels like the biggest, most incredible event I have ever lived through. It surpasses all the major events of my life: exploring wildlife in South Africa, helping push through new legislation to protect patients, being published in fancy magazines, getting a masters in midlife.
Daily I tell people I am in mourning because my husband died of cancer a few months ago. It's the most prominent fact in my mind. I would be an impostor if I didn't say outloud what was filling up so much of my mind and body these days.
And yet I am surprised no one asks questions about it.
If the same thing happened to a close friend I would want to say: "How did it go?" "Was it peaceful or a struggle?" "What were his last words?" "Tell me what it's like because my spouse will die one day and I'd like to be prepared."
Then again - I have never asked this of any of my friends or acquaintances. (Though I did have long loving talks with my grandma in her sweet little house by the lake the year before she died - asking her to share her thoughts and feelings about it all).
I am surprised I have no attachment to Tad's ashes
The crematorium assured me that in exchange for his war-torn corpse which I reluctantly handed over to them - I would get a bag of ashes within 48 hours. It actually took them far longer than that causing me to sputter and blame for a good week. During that time I couldn't wait to get the ashes.
My beloved friend Carl took me to a houseware store to help me find a handsome urn while I awaited the return of what was left of Tad's beautiful body. So it is quite a surprise to me that I have no attachment to these ashes or the urn they sit in.
I keep them in a prominent place, with a few photos of him beside them, a sitting Buddha smiling peacefully, a candle and some incense which I light from time to time. But the truth is I feel no connection to them; they are nothing to me.
They are not Tad. They are not love. They are not a sweet touch on the hand and a murmur in my ear, "Could you bring me some more coffee please?"
I have decided to join some friends for a two week hike in the deserts of Southern Morocco. I will take Tad's ashes with me and leave them there. I will take the urn and break it into pieces to be used for potting in my garden.
I am surprised at how little compassion I have for myself
Yesterday I tried a new strategy during my morning meditation: I imagined a therapy session with myself. I sat down across from myself and lovingly asked: "So tell me: how can I help you?". Then I told my other self about losing my partner, about the pain, the loneliness. What I saw was that when I see myself with my therapist eyes I am amazed at all the good things I've done, all the positive healthy things I do daily to take care of myself. I am deeply moved by the other me's sorrow and the incredible enormity of what the other me has been through and is still here to tell.
Sadly during the day I find myself thinking I should be better at this, thinking I should be doing things differently, thinking I should have my sea-legs by now.
In the same way if I put myself in Tad's shoes, if I imagine for a moment that it is me with the cancer who has died I see how serene I am with that. I feel very fatalistic about the idea that I have lived a good life and that -if it were to come to this - I could say good-bye serenely.
But I can't accord the same serenity to Tad. I see his death as "premature" and "unfair". I see his absence as not part of the normal way things work and I resent it, lament it, blame someone for it.
I am surprised by the insidiousness of numbing behaviors and gratitude
A strange tragic phenomenon occurs with people who have severe depression. They actually attempt (or succeed) suicide when they start to get better. It seems that in the throes of mind-boggling depression they have very little strength to do anything but once they start medication and are on the upward slope they finally have the energy to do what they've been wanting to do for a long time: find a permanent end to their pain.
I am not suicidal. Far from it.
However I see that I am healing, I am getting stronger. And in so doing I see that I have the strength to do things I couldn't before.
For instance I am numbing more. I recently went out with friends and before I knew it I was drinking more alcohol than I ever would in normal times (a very moderate level compared to most people but a lot for me!).
I am purchasing more. I see that if I am not careful I could start spending in ways that are wasteful and unnecessary.
I am staying up more. I tried moving our bed into the office and putting the office in the bedroom. For various logistical reasons mostly having to do with a loud furnace it didn't work. So after repainting the death bed bedroom I put the bed back there. I now stay up late and watch silly drivel on television then find myself clicking it off at some single-digit hour.
In the same way I had my first fender-bender in the weeks soon after Tad died I got my first speeding ticket in my life this week. In all my years of mindlessly driving fast I had never been ticketed for it. Not so anymore.
And I am surprised at how quickly these various numbing strategies slipped into my life while I was looking the other way.
But an important good thing I see sneaking in as I gain strength is a deep undertow of gratitude.
Maybe in my new practice to be more compassionate with myself I should have started with this one.
I find myself wanting to buy cards, flowers and chocolates for the bevy of caregivers who spent time with Tad and me during the seventeen months of hell. I find myself wanting to stop at the various Oncology Units and give warmth and thanks to all the people who greeted us, hugged us, fed us and loved us day in and day out.
When I think about it I usually cry which could mean I'm not ready yet but I see the day is getting closer.
Ironically this week I crossed paths with Kelly one of the more proactive and loving nurse practitioners working with us locally. I glimpsed her across a busy avenue so I yelled her name and waved. She looked then turned and walked away. Later when I called to tell her it was me she apologized profusely. "I thought it was some straight guy making cat calls and hitting on me!" she said. I forget that women constantly get solicited in unsavory ways by men like me.
I am surprised how much I know what's good for me
I have spent a good chunk of my life not always knowing what is good for me.
Many times I have turned towards the mystery of what is behind door number two all the while seeing that door number one was wide open and behind it were an array of healthy things for me.
I am surprised that despite my sorrow and my fears that many times I do know how to turn to what is good for me.
I know when the clutter in the house is beginning to affect my serenity and I need to stop doing what I'm doing.
I usually know when it's time to pick up my phone and call another person, to let someone else's healthier brain help me pick over the details of the giant museum of memories that is my mind.
I know how to call my doctor when I feel sick, to stop and eat when I feel hungry, to let the tears come out when I feel sad/moved/overwhelmed.
I know I need to keep going to therapy each week.
I know I need to keep letting go of Tad's belongings that don't serve me.
I know I need to keep stepping into the mystery of nature.
I know I need to shut down my brain after a certain time by meditating, watching silly TV or changing the topic to something light and inconsequential.
This inventory may seem frivolous to some but to me this is huge. Self-care has not always come naturally to me. For years it never occurred to me that after a long hike in the rain or in wetlands I could actually take my socks off to dry therefore avoiding a cold.
I am surprised that my broken heart is actually an open invitation
to something bigger, something more alive
I know this sounds crazy.
When we walk around with a heart this tender, this fragile the first thing we want to do is bolt down a thick protective concrete shield to keep it from being hurt more.
We want to tell people "I'm fine". We want to wait til we're in the privacy of our own home to blubber til the drool comes out. We want to share few details with strangers because we don't want to burden but mostly because they're not intimate enough and our cave man brain thinks they might use it against us.
Fortunately my level of sorrow - and no doubt years of learning not to apologize for being gay - have made it such that I can't keep the cement cover on any longer.
When people ask me how I am I stop and identify - as well as I can - what's really happening for me. And it is difficult since it changes so quickly and comes so intensely these days.
What I'm seeing is that somehow this open vulnerability is leading me to something bigger. And I must admit I don't want it to go away - or at least not entirely.
I was planning on joining a group of friends on the beach of a small remote island in Southern Thailand. I've been there before and it's quite glorious in its simplicity and beauty. But at the last minute instead of booking that ticket I chose to join a group of 20 or so people who will hike in silence in Southern Morocco for two weeks.
I know this sounds masochistic. Let's call it the "road less traveled". I just have a hunch that - as scary as this is - it is the better place for me to deepen this living with an open heart.
I've already shared that I noticed that complete strangers offered me loving kindness during Tad's hospitalization in Seattle when I tearfully wandered the streets trying to find housing, public transportation vouchers, an open-hearted clergy and goodwill stores to buy clothing.
This experience is teaching that part of my brain which wants to have a Five Year Plan that I can just trust myself and other people each day.
Yesterday for the first time I got out on a sort of surfboard in the Pacific Ocean - a passion shared by a good half of the inhabitants of Santa Cruz it seems.
I am suddenly obsessed by the idea of getting back out in the water and doing it again. I feel like all of a sudden it makes sense to me why I see all those people walk, bike or drive with a surfboard over to the coast day in and day out, sitting for hours in the water waiting for the thrill of a good wave.
My next thought was: Now it all makes sense to me!! This is why I needed to stay in Santa Cruz.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)