It may seem like the firm foundation that you have been seeking is very close, even if it's still just out of reach. You nostalgically long for a lost certainty that could guide you through the choices ahead. But your potential growth may depend on your flexibility and your willingness to let go of your dream for stability. Be open to fulfillment in the present moment and not in some distant future. Monday, April 9, 2007
Yanno…it’s really inconvenient when my horror scope gets into the crevasses of my mind and ferrets out where my fears live. Even more inconvenient when it prints it out there in black and white making me look at it.
Since the world turned upside down almost 5 years ago a sense of firm foundation is something I have struggled find.
I liked my old life, dammit.
It was good…it was bad…it was fun...it was a pain…it was normal...it was crazy…but beneath it all was the foundation of me and him…him and me…Jim and Jo…Jo and Jim.
When Jim died, I felt as if what kept me stable had been vaporized from beneath the house that was our lives.
Despite my own frugality and eventual sound handling of ¼ of the salary I was used to living on…I lived in fear of making an economical mistake of such a catastrophic nature to land me on the streets with no home and no way of caring for myself. (Stephen King is alive, well and living comfortably in the confines of the sumtimes useless gray matter passing itself off as my brain.)
I used to tease my younger sister of being so tight with a dollar that it wouldn’t pass through an opening the width of a baby’s hair. I’ve come to regret that teasing with the unwelcome reality that I now emotionally live where she did for so many years as a single parent.
As much as I fancy myself a free spirited, fly by the seat of my pants, grab the brass ring kinda woman…there is also a sort of sea anchor behind me. While I continue to refuse to miss out on the joy that can be found in this altered life, I still struggle with the balance of living with abandon in the here and now and concern for being able to take care of myself in the nebulousness of time.
There is no longer the innocent, blind trust that there will always be someone there to catch me when I fall.
Welcome to Reality.
(Plus cards from the dogs and George Kitty. How cool izzat?)
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.
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.
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. 
Colors counterpoint to a gray mood and shifting emotions.
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. 
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.
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. 
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. 
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.
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.
