Christmas 2006

As gift of love is to be shared, I take what I learned from one who loved life, his family and me and share it with another heart as wounded as mine.

I am grateful for the love of my past life and for the love of the life I now share with my Handyman.

And, so, I march on...me and my drum...pa rum pa pa pum.


Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum
A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum
Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum
To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,

So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
When we come.

Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum
I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum
I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum
That's fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,

Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum,
On my drum?

Mary nodded, pa rum pum pum pum
The ox and lamb kept time, pa rum pum pum pum
I played my drum for Him, pa rum pum pum pum
I played my best for Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,

Then He smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum
Me and my drum.
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum.

Happy Birthday,,,

…to me.

56 today.

See I had this long, thoughtful post planned out. Talk about where I am in my life and how I feel about it…the things I appreciate from an altered view.

Yada, yada, blah, blah…etcetera, etcetera.

Waking up in the wee hours before light thought of tinting the sky…this is what I found from my Handyman.

(Plus cards from the dogs and George Kitty. How cool izzat?)

Screw the grown up stuff…

I’m gonna go play…

feed the inner child he so obviously knows is there.

Boo-Yeah.

I’ll catch y’all later.

Happy Birthday to meeeeeee.

Justice

July 31, 1995…My anniversary…forever etched into my heart as the day a beautiful soul was so heartlessly and brutally removed from this world.

After 11 years, 4 months, 29 days, a two day jury trial and 20 minutes of deliberation there is finally justice for her.

Justice for two now almost grown children who spent those years without their mother.

Justice for the husband who lived under the microscope of suspicion.

Justice for the parents who lost their only daughter.

Justice for the friends who can no longer laugh with her.

Only 17 when he committed the crime, he will not face the death penalty. Life imprisonment with possible parole in 20 years (universe forbid)

And, yet he is also implicated in the disappearance of his former fiancé 4 years ago. She looks remarkably like my friend.

Should the investigation proceed to a point where he is put on trial and found guilty the penalty could change.

What is the value of his also losing his life?

It will not bring either Dana or Heather back.

It will not change the years each family has mourned the loss of their loved one.

A life for a life?

Is it justice?

Is it too easy a sentence?

Living the remainder of his years locked away from the world…his life…his own children…would that not be a more hellish punishment? Equal to that of those who have suffered for Dana’s death.

He’s lived with his actions as a free man for over 11 years; making a life for himself; starting a family. Will it make a difference behind bars?

What is the greater justice…for Dana…her children…her husband…her family…her friends?

I don't know.

What ever the justice truly is - may she finally rest in peace.

Reframing Life

You’d think with change being the single most constant in the first 20 years of my life I’d be used to it. Growing up a Military Brat change was inevitable. I was a living Joseph’s coat of many colors. Just as I’d get used to one spot Uncle Sam would request our presence in another.

That pattern continued even after Dad retired. He simply had itchy feet and by the time we settled in a west coast beach town in 7th grade I’d changed schools 14 times…revisiting some more than once.

In soon to be 56 years, I’ve worn the changing frames of daughter...student...friend...wife...mother...grandmother...widow.

Change.

You’d think I’d be used to it.

But, no.

Change throws me into a temper not unlike that of a toddler forced to go to bed. Or a teen being told, “No. You may NOT have the keys to the car.”

My travels on this grief journey have been much the same…fought tooth and nail, stumbled through as the bull in the china shop with “NO, NO…I will NOT go!!” being wailed at every turn.

I have not gone “gentle into that good night”. (Dylan Thomas)

I’ve not been full of grace and charm.

Not the genteel woman wearing her grief softly as though looking through gauzy curtains.

Not for me the internal examination of whether I am doing things in the right order or according to some predetermined plan for the widowed. After my embarrassing realization at the one year mark that things did not become “all better” because of a number, I truly realized what a lonely, rocky path this is.

Had I known then what I know now I’d not have been so arrogant to think I could do this trip alone. I’d have eaten that humble pie sooner and asked for help. This is damn hard work and doing it alone sux big hairy donkey balls, as my son puts it.

I have fought that demon called Grief. Lost numerous battles with the many headed monster with the attendant emotional scars to prove it. Won a few…enough to remain standing…bruised but not beaten. Hidden away in both an emotional cave and within the cocoon of alcohol only to discover…”Damn...He’s still DEAD and I’m still HERE.”

Slow to learn the lesson.

Slow to realize with finality that here is where I am and that my railing against the world and my miniscule place innit will not change one damn thing.

I do not wallow in the sorrow any longer. The shadow of Death remains, but I am no longer cowed by it.

I AM changed. I am NOT who I used to be.

Unwillingly changed by the passage of 4 years, some months and several days…here I stand wearing yet another frame to my life…a window upon a world I’ve had no idea how to survive except that written above. I may not be proud of each step I have taken to get here, but I AM proud that I am still standing and that I can look back on a life full of more smiles than tears.

I AM a survivor.

And, I will NOT “go gentle into that good night”

The poem:

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT (Dylan Thomas)

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

(This post was prompted by a conversation with a group of creative people whom I’ve come to greatly admire for their view on the world. Thank you for the inspiration.)

Daddy's Hands*

Daddy’s hands were soft and kind when I was crying
Daddy’s hands were hard as steel when I’d done wrong,
Daddy’s hands weren’t always gentle,
But I’ve come to understand,
There was always love in daddy’s hands.
(*Daddy's Hands by Holly Dunn)

My Handyman has hands like that. So, did my Jim and so did my Granddad.

As I watched his hands work to put together this wagon for his firstborn grandchild’s first birthday, I could not help but think of the other two strong men in my life and the chorus of that song.

Roughened by years of working with wood, he yet has a gentle touch with all he meets. How fortunate are the people in this man’s life.

And, how grateful I am that he is in mine.

(Thank you to My Handyman allowing me to photograph his hands while at work.)

Daddy’s Girl…

was born at this moment...10:36 pm…34 years ago today.

Coming from a family of brothers only, he was besotted from the instant she rolled her eyes around to catch his face in her baby vision. Theirs was a precious love affair from day one to day last.

5 birthdays have passed without him to tell how much he loved and was proud of his girl.

Today…I cried like I have not cried in a long time for all that he has missed and all that his girl continues to miss without him here to love and guide her even as a young adult raising Papa’s girl on her own…but…that’s another story.

Happy Birthday, baby girl…I love you and I wish I could give you your old world back again.

The Fire Within

Truth be told, I thought of Bob Seger's "Fire Down Below", but this piece is about the synchronicity of the fire within a piece of jewlery called Dichroic Glass purchased at a street fair and the fire within a person's soul.
This piece spoke to me and captured what I believe is the fire that lives within me...or at least that I hope to nurture within.



Fire… we’re all born with it. The unbridled curiosity to see, taste, touch, hear smell…explore…everything in the universe.

"There are seven lost secret fascinations and abilities:
~ animals can talk;
~ your favorite blanket is woven from a fabric so mighty, that once pulled over your head, it becomes an impenetrable force field;
~ nothing is too heavy to lift with the aid of a cape;
~ your hand, held forefinger out and thumb up, actually fires bullets;
~ jumping from any height with an umbrella is completely safe;
~ monsters exist and can be both seen an done battle with;
and the greatest, most special and regrettable loss of all…
~ the ability to fly."
(Older Mike in 1992 movie Radio Flyer)

Born in 1950 and living in a time before television became entertainment…I believed those things.

Somewhere in the time of aging…I lost them. Or, perhaps more correctly, evolved them into a different set of fascinations and abilities. Mother says I’ve always marched to the beat of a different drummer….pa rum pa pa pum.

Even through the dark grey days of early mourning the fire smoldered within waiting for that first Phoenix Moment to let me know it was still there. Little clues and nudges snuck in here and there in form of little people dragging me into their world of magic and unbounded energy. Or the gift of a crystal rainbow painting my room with the literal multi-faceted play of light and color as the sun moved across the sky.

Until, finally, I stand at a point where a piece of fused glass can speak to me on a level that reflects the fire that still lives within this aging carapace.

And, just because it's now stuck in my head:

The Fire Down Below

Here comes old rosie shes looking mighty fine Here comes hot nancy shes steppin right on time There go the street lights bringin on the night Here come the men faces hidden from the light All through the shadows they come and they go With only one thing in common They got the fire down below (Words and Music by Bob Seger)

(All pictures taken by and property of Outlaw Photography)

The Other Side of Midnight

Between the moon and sun lie the hours before the first glimmerings of dawn as the full moon sweeps across the sky bathing it with the waning glow of her light in the dying night. She wraps it tenderly and gently, as a mother, enfolding all of creation in her loving embrace.
Slowly, her light releases it’s hold on the dark revealing gold, and rose, and violet against the steely blue tones of first light. She is the Mistress of Re-birth…the other side of midnight.

The Other Side of Midnight

Nothing here, I'll look again
Another place, in darker light
Take a walk to journey's end
The other side of midnight.

Keep the watch, to count the hours
And hold the hands before they move,
Forever stare, from the dark black Tower
The other side of midnight.

Something sad, beyond my mind
I cannot hear, as silence roars
The madmen scream, "Who cannot find
The other side of midnight?"

Crossing o'er, the madness comes
The chaos loud, in frantic fear;
Forever means no time at all . . . .
The other side of midnight.

—Robert William McCallum (c) 1986, Dunipace, Stirlingshire, Scotland

Though I’m sure he shared it with me, I don’t recall now what my friend had in mind when he wrote this song. I know when I first laid eyes on it I was in one of those long dark nights of the soul after my husband’s death. He knew the depth of my sorrow and shared the words with me in silent understanding of my overwhelming pain. A kindred spirit. One lost soul touching another.

In the moving years since, I have come from that infernal place to one where the cycle of the night more accurately reflects where I am…a rebirth of each day and another chance to begin again this awkward path from dark to light. Once it seemed only the path to more darkness and the achingly lonely anguish that tore at my bones. The other side of midnight now leads to light, color and whimsy.
Yes, I still fall…landing on bruised and scarred knees. Yet, not as hard nor as far. I know now, with the passage of time, that it will hurt like hell…but, it WILL pass. And, I know I have connected fellow travelers still there for me to lean upon when those dark nights come again.

I am grateful for that gift of kindred as I have walked those dimly lit hours between the moon and the sun. Without them to bolster my own stubborn unwillingness to let the demon win I am not sure where my soul would live. It would survive…as it has done other marked events in my life…but would it really live? To my eternal gratitude I do not have to answer that question.

(All photos taken by and property of Outlaw Photography)

In Search of Serenity

The definition of Serenity: the quality or state of being serene.

Now that was helpful.

Not.

Definition of Serene: clear and free of storms or unpleasant change.

Synonyms: calm, tranquil, placid, peaceful.

Hmmm.

I don’t think so.

Jangled, disconnected, out of synch with myself, unable to sleep and frantically in search of something approaching serenity a little creative therapy seemed in order.

But, what to do at 3 ayem?

Some inexpensive glass bottles from the Wally World Clearance aisle, a coil of copper wire, a handful of glass beads, a tube of adhere to anything cement, a few sticky fingers and several hours later this would be the result.
Colors counterpoint to a gray mood and shifting emotions.

Sigh.

This too shall pass.

Fear

The Serenity I crave escapes me today…nebulous…just fingertips out of reach.

4 years, 3 months, 6 days and 3 hours. The fear still lives with me. Beneath the surface a giant tentacled sea monster waiting for me to lose my focus so it can ensnare me in is oily embrace.

Fear.

Such a waste of psychic energy.

Still...I will not let it defeat me.

So much for which to feel grateful in this life.

Back straight, fists clenched, jaw set; I continue.

Honor his life...his love…treasure the past…fight the fear…live.

I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.
(The Bene Gesserit Litany against Fear. Pg 19 of Dune )

It’s not quite accurate.

I live…hope endures…love remains.

But, I need a friggen' hug.

What a bloomin' whiner.

Light and Shadow

Yanno...the rising sun feels different in the morning sky....mayhap has been for a few days now but I have failed to previously note it. I HAVE, howsumever, noticed the sunsets slightly altered in hue the last 2 nights that they could be seen. Whether the heat recedes or no the impending change of season is in the light and burgeoning restlessness creeping into my soul.
From my east facing window I can note the change in angle as the seasons rotate back and forth. Amazing how a few degrees make such a difference in the way the shadows play across the opposing wall. Not unlike the subtle changes that take place within each of us on this path that modifies the way we view not only the world at large, but ourselves as well. And, the seasonal beginnings and endings do not necessarily agree with man's calendar but follow their own course...as do we.
The rising sun hits the new arbor at the corner now rather than more towards center. Perhaps a sort of symbolism of my own slightly off center feelings in recent days.
Morning ambers skiddle across the leaves turning them a mellower shade of green and highlighting the Morning Glories in Rose’s Garden in muted golden tones rather than the usual rose-gold of mid-summer. The light shimmers altered through the dew that covers everything on my trek outdoors to photograph my perceived camera obscura view.
Dunno why I decided to remark on that this morning. Perhaps it's the subtle itching in my head and bones that something feels afoot. Restlessness, perhaps. Despite my attachment to home there are times itchy feet and the gypsy longing to wander come out. This, I think, is a genetic gift/curse from Dad and goes far to explain my father's need to move even after his stint with that traveling troupe known as the Army was done with him.

And, yet the dichotomy is that I have planted myself on this particular little plot for over 30 years. Roots. Someplace solid once the thirst for adventure has been quenched for a time.

Roots are good...my children have them. I never had them as a child…roots. By the time I’d taken hold somewhere we were gone again…even after Dad left the military. Outwardly confident, melting into the framework quickly; while inwardly feeling out of step and fearing I’d be found out as a fraud.Despite my urge to roam I need them...roots…solid…grounding...safe...faithfully awaiting the return of this seasonal and, oft times, only imaginary wanderer.

I don’t know the point of this ruminating. It was in my head. Crazy stuff up there sometimes. Which leads me to a thought for another day….

(All photos poperty of Outlaw Photography)

Blurred Vision

Taking this picture last week was supposed to chronicle the latest redesign project at La Casa de Demolition. What happened as I peered through the view finder watching the light play through the plastic dust curtain blowing softly in the breeze of the ceiling fan was not what I expected.

Suddenly, it seemed a metaphor to this journey called Grief.

I saw the sledge hammer as death itself having smashed my life to bits as represented by the shards…large and small...of sheet rock ripped from the closet framing littering the floor at my feet. To my eyes the frosted images of light that filtered through the plastic seemed to speak of the way in which my vision was fogged as I struggled to make sense of a world that was totally alien even in its familiarity.

Thinking on this, I pored through the myriad of folders full of pictures I’ve taken since beginning the rugged trek on this path 4 years ago. Surprised at the result, I found that I could attach a metaphor to widowed life to many that flicked before me on the screen.
My beloved and often fog shrouded Blue Ridge Mountains became the clouded vision I had of a world that seemed to be filled with one barely climbable mountain after another. The view was so vague I could not see my way out of the grey.
Always a water person, the river falls became the harsh reality of facing the daunting maelstrom in a canoe with neither paddle nor rudder to steer my way. I was at the mercy of my grief, never knowing which way it would turn or if it would drown me in its turbulence.
The waves crashing against the rocks near the shore morphed into the pain of being beaten and bloodied by the Grief Monster only to be left in a mangled heap upon the jagged reef begging for peace and mercy each time I fought to find my way out of the anguish that threatened to drown me.
A small cave in the beautiful New Mexico mountains of the Jemez came to represent that dark black hole into which I fell time after time struggling to live with the memories of a beloved life past and learning to survive in the hated present alone.

The ever present distance path seemed filled with roots and stones alive with the intent purpose of bringing to me to my knees as I stumbled ever forward in a world I came to despise.
Over time the world righted itself and became filled with light and color again…slowly at first…then gaining momentum…until I could appreciate the sight and smell of the wildness of the roses in my untended garden. Yet, another metaphor relating to my untended life.
I may often still stumble bruising my heart along the way, but no longer am I filled with dread and fear of the unknown waters that spread before me. Survival is instinct…one I have in more abundance than I ever imagined possible. Still, I know I did not get here alone. Along with my own dogged, though often halting, plodding forward, Jim’s love for me and life itself, kind friends and even strangers have given hand in helping me find my own strength to carry forward what he shared with me and even take the scary step to share it again with another wounded heart like mine.

What a surreal journey this continues to be.

Oh…Brave new world, indeed. As my dear New Mexico by way of Scotland friend would say.

Pictures have long been a means to add expression to my writing, but never quite in the way it did beginning with that photograph I took last week.

(All photos property of Outlaw Photography)

A River Runs Through It*

"Now nearly all those I loved and did not understand when I was young are dead, but I still reach out to them.

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters."

Norman Maclean

As I took these pictures onna warm day in June, I thought of the peace I felt standing under the canopy of trees that shaded the ruins of the old mill by this spot on the small creek at my feet.

As I looked at the covered bridge a number of yards away I could almost hear the clatter of hooves and creak of wooden wheels as the wagons loaded with grain were brought across to be milled into flour or grits. Peace has often been challenging to find on the journey along this path called widowhood. Occasionally, it is still transitory and elusive.

Listening as the water rushed across the stones, I remembered times past when I was dead certain I could not possibly breathe one more moment without Jim in my life. I often felt as crushed as the grains being transformed into fine powder by the massive grindstones of the mill.

Staring down the dark expanse of the bridge’s interior I was reminded of how my grief often felt as if I were in a tunnel which had no end. Plodding blindly forward, I eventually came to the place that always appears in a tunnel where a small light can be seen. Slowly, the constant constriction of my throat from stifling the near animal angst I felt seemed to ease slightly and I felt as if I could walk on without stumbling so much. Stepping gingerly again into the light my eyes needed time to adjust to the new surroundings as I finally emerged on what now seems like the other side of this grief and my acceptance of the new and radically altered life I never asked for appeared on the other side.

Just as the road from the fields to the mill is often long and full of ruts, so has the journey down this long dark tunnel of grief been. I have been transformed same as the grain into something different from where I started.

Yet, through all the darkness, pain and tears, a river of life and love, though changed beyond measure, has tumbled along beside me. It will abide so long as I breathe upon this earth ever reshaping me as the stones of the mill relentlessly grind the farmer’s grains into dust.

The peace may sometimes yet fade and be hard to regain as certain days come and go throughout my life. However, the river of Jim’s love will always run through me as I walk the redesigned path carved from the grief that once enveloped me day and night.

*Title borrowed from the book by Norman Maclean

A Single Memory

A single memory
I hold close as a dream
shape-shifting the dark:
an intensity of ocean,
a memory of water
this green.

From “A Green Glass Bowl” by Antonia Clark

The Guardian of the Garden, my friend says holds all our memories safe within her globe available for retrieval by those who left them there.

The stones around the Butterfly Garden are in remembrance of all of you who follow the same path as I. Monarchs were everywhere dancing in the warm mountain air teasing us with their antics, but declining to light long enough take their picture. Flighty lot those Monarchs.
Outlaw’s Garden…well…who needs an explanation of that…wild child all over the place just like me…she as well.

We are kindred, she and I…my friend…another with fire within her soul and an outlaw’s take on life. She is such a special gift. She loved my husband I think almost as much as I and mourns his loss in equal measure.
Her sense of humor, offbeat as mine, set the tone for the day when she popped the lid on the marble urn and said “Hi, Jim. Want some coffee?”

He would have loved that and would smile that we giggled our way through the garden spots she chose. A last bit she saved to take up to the hidden waterfall to spread among the fern, hosta and liriope growing there.
She said she was honored to have a bit of him in her gardens and tend to the stones we left in memory of y’all.

It was a day filled with hugs, smiles, laughter and easy memories.

All in all it was a good day.

(All pictures taken by me with Handyman's Olympus digi-cam at Melrose Junction, Saluda Mt., NC 5-24-2006)

"Not A Day Goes By"

Got a picture of you I carry in my heart
Close my eyes to see it when the world gets dark

Got a memory of you I carry in my soul
I wrap it close around me when the nights get cold

If you asked me how I'm doin' I'd say just fine
But the truth is baby, if you could read my mind

Minutes turn to hours, and the hours to days
Seems it's been forever that I've felt this way

Not a day goes by that I don't think of you
After all this time you're still with me it's true

Somehow you remain locked so deep inside
Baby, baby, oh baby, not a day goes by.

Lonestar

To anyone who knew Jim, this picture is exactly how they’d think of him…ball cap, coffee cup and smoke in hand and a smile on his face.

May 24, 2002 - 4 years today - 4 years too long.

In honor of the man who made me laugh, made me cry, loved me like crazy for over 30 years then died.

It was not long enough.

I am grateful for his easy laughter, his gentle ways, his crooked smile, his passion for life, his love for me.

Jim Ingle ~ December 3, 1950 - May 24, 2002 Always loved…always remembered.

*From the song by Lonestar.

Full Moon on Broken Water

It rained all day, blustery and raw…abysmal for mid-May on the NC coast. Not having seen sunrise, sunset was also looming as a bust. The only saving grace was the room being on the top floor so that the waves could be viewed from horizon to shore.

Angry and sickly gray-green it was still balm to my soul to stand on the balcony, close my eyes and listen to the music I hear in the sound of the of the wave breaking the crest and rolling to the beach.

For a fire sign I seem to have an abundant partiality to water. Particularly moving water…the more movement the better. This gray day’s waves doubtless barely topped 5 feet. Yet, they harnessed enough of the storm’s discordance to seep into my head and vibrate there.

Big wave action is preferable...like those I grew up with on Southern California’s beaches…sometimes topping 15 feet even without a storm to push them. Perhaps I find their cacophony as counterpoint to the thoughts often noisily rolling through the gray matter squishing about in the hollows of my cranial cavity.

Throughout the evening the storm lingered. Sometimes nearby. Sometimes out on the horizon dancing through the clouds like lights on spaceships from Close Encounters. Always booming and echoing across the now darkened sky.

There is nothing as beautiful to me as a night storm across the ocean’s horizon. It appears almost primal…often reminding me of a friend’s full moon drummings…a pulse beat both audible and visible.

Retiring to the symphony of wavecrash in my ears I awoke in the wee hours to the gift of the full moon reflecting off the now much stilled waters. The music subtle and almost muted in harmony with the silver strands glimmering in the moon’s light.

Mayhap it was the change in tempo that woke me. I remained sleepless staring across the gently undulating sea from the balcony until daylight crept into the easternmost corner of the horizon.

My mind and heart have been somewhat unsettled with the impending anniversary of Jim’s death. Mesmerized by movement and sound my mind traveled back and forth across this widow’s path I have traveled. Yet, not for myself did the tears fall this time. They fell for the finality of loss for my children and my grand…the man who loved them never to be in their lives again while they have so much yet ahead of them. I thought of my peers in places both early and matured in their grief and for those yet to come as life moves ever forward in its endless circle of birth, living and dying.

In analyzing my own journey I realize I have not so suddenly come to that place where my memories bring me more joy than sadness. But, I also feel as if I have not really lived that life…that it was somehow something of a phantasy. A friend recently said she felt that the longer the time since her spouse had died the more she felt as if it were a dream. I can relate to that. He will always be in my heart…yet…I feel further and further away from him with each year that passes. Still, the thought does not distress me as it once might have…it was a pleasant dream which I was glad to have had…I have memories of a man who loved me unconditionally for over 30 years of my life…a treasure none can plunder.

We who are widowed are the broken waters awaiting the full moon’s grace to heal us and bless us with a sense of peace. That full moon on that particular night was a gift from the universe to let me know that while I still walk this path, I am more whole than I have been in almost 4 years. I am grateful for that and I am grateful for having had Jim in my life.

(The photo at the top of the page was taken by me at Ocean Isle Beach in NC over this past weekend.)

Under Construction

(Updated 4-26-2006)

I love neat and tidy gardens.

I really do.

Other people's neat and tidy gardens.

Mine is not and I think is not meant to be.

It has rather become a reflection of the chaos that often lives inside myself. One month short of 4 years on this journey I often still feel as if I am under construction or perhaps some sort of permanent emotional fog.Or is it the evolution of an eclectically creative and scattered mind?

Still…the gift of the tiny rose from Rose’s Garden was a welcome bit of unexpected early spring serendipity.

Some days I hardly recognize myself and I wonder who I will be in another 4 years????

I wonder would he recognize and love the woman who is and continues to become as he did the one who was in the imagined happenstance that I saw him again on this earth?

But...that is food for another post.

In the meantime, I reckon I'll be like my clumsy Charlie Dawg rooting around among the wild blackberries out in the back 40.

Should I be plagued by the desire for order...I can just look across the fence into Old MacDonald's well tamed parcel of real estate. (He's the only person I know who would neatly groom goat and bunny poop)

(All photos taken by me withing the last 7 days using either my Nikon pocket camera or himself's Sony big-boy digi-cams.)

This Old Truck

“Big ol' truck
10 feet tall and 10 feet wide
It's a big ol' truck
Here she come again, man”

(Toby Keith – Big Old Truck)

It's done...truck is mine legal as well as physical.

They wouldn’t let the old tag stay on the truck. But, the DMV gal is also widowed so let me keep it rather than turn it in.

It’s a piece of tin. Metal with paint, number and letters on it. Why obsess over such a small thing when I know truck will either be farmed out or traded in sooner rather than later?

Who knows why we do these things?

Reckon I'll just tuck it under the seat for a spell...talisman I s’pose.

Not sad...just sentimental. Yanno?

There was no doubt that truck was his. He fell in love with her the minute he yanked opened the door and his rump hit the seat. Sat behind the wheel and fell in love with a truck. Little boy with stars in his eyes.

Had to have it.

Men are funny that way.

“4 wheel drive”, he said, “perfect for the roads on the mountain up at Boy Scout Camp.” (Uh, huh.)

“Jump seats for the Grandmonkey”, he continued hopefully. (OK)

“Big enough bed to haul stuff” (Yup)

“Trailer hitch for pulling a pop-up” (Another new toy)

“4 wheel drive,” he repeated going for the deal clincher, “No more worries about me on the road for a call out in bad weather.” (Right…one of my least favorite things about his working for a utility company)

Oh, yeah…he test drove a few more attempting to convince me he was making comparison studies. I let him think I bought into his little charade.

Yeah, right…I knew from day one and that first starry eyed look we’d be driving that truck home.

A few days and a bit of negotiating later she sat in our drive.

Within a week he had his first ding innit.

Twinkling blue eyes and lopsided grin he snickered “I broke her in today” and pointed out an odd wedge shaped dent in the tail gate.

“Light post. Couldn’t quite tell where the back of the truck was.” (Yup)

First of many.

He had fun in that truck…WE had fun in that truck. There was no road he would not try. Bumping over dirt roads, plowing through mud, sliding on sand…she was his favorite toy.

Then he died and truck was mine.

His scent…his touch…his music permeated her interior. In the beginning I could still catch just the faintest whiff of his Swisher Sweets Little Cigars and almost feel his hands over mine on the steering wheel. Driving down the road I often felt the touch of his fingers on my free hand or his knee pressed against mine as it would be when I drove with him beside me in the passenger seat.

The radio, however, remained silent for 6 months after my first outing alone and tears blinded me to the point of having to pull over and compose myself. Our station…our songs…his songs…the tears would have watered the desert. Even without the music I shed enough tears to fill a pond. The odd song or de-ja-vu moment can still cause my eyes to mist over and my heart to give the odd thump. Yet, I feel safe within the confines of the metal and the memories.

So…there she is…thousands of miles on the engine, multitudes of on and off road adventures beneath her frame and a million tears later…she’s sits in the drive…his truck…my truck...waiting for the next adventure.

I love driving her as much as he did.

A Rose Among the Ruins

Sumtimes the universe gives me a gift I ill deserve.

2 1/2 years I've let Rose's Garden tend itself; so named January 6, 2001 in honor of my late next door neighbor who enjoyed from her front window the roses in my little garden when she felt too ill to sit outdoors for a closer look. She always wanted me to plant more; so, after her death I did just that and named it after her.

Rose's Garden was my salvation when Jim died in 2002. Midnight raids to pull weeds by lantern's light when I could not sleep. Railing...and wailing…to the heavens how unfair it all was. It did not mind the splash of salted tears as the weeds were pulled in vicious attempts to beat GM into submission.

As a final reward that year it gifted me with a single coral colored rose huddled next to the mulch on a chilled November afternoon long past bloom time on a day when I was heartsore and weary of the path I walked. It seemed a sign from Jim and Rose that I should, at least for that day, appreciate the gift of life.

It was beautiful then.

Not so now.

It is a wild tumble of weeds and interloping saplings from years of neglect. What seemed so hantingly extraordinary in the ice of December seemed suddenly shabby and sad in the brilliance of February’s sun.

This morning as warmth crept into this sunny day on my return mission from life in the fast lane, I could not bear to see that wildness and began tearing through the weeds and trimming the saplings till I can get a saw in there and hack them to the ground.

Suddenly….nestled deep in the weeds and saplings, I literally stumbled upon sprouts growing from beneath the dead canes of my once beautiful English and Old World roses. All gone natural, I reckon, back to the stock root.

Rosa rugosa’s…wild…rugged…tenacious…outlaws.

Even so...a rose is a rose is a rose.

And, there they are; evidence that life goes on even amid the ruins of death: The circle of life right in my front yard. How can I ignore the rebirth fighting to emerge from those dead canes? Just as we who are left behind battle to breathe, scrabble to find life among the ashes and at some point thrive again, I reckon I must answer the call to bring Rose’s Garden back to life.

After 2 ½ hours I've made bare a dent in the jungle and twill likely take me all spring and summer to tame Rose's now wild garden.

Still…begun I have.

To be continued…