On writing, longing, knowing eternal love and the search for peace and cake. 

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

My David at Seven Months

I now begin my seventh month of being a widow. 
Each day I awake believing that something different will occur that will enable me to make sense of everything.  The final chapter that explains what on earth the rest of the book was about.  When you can say, well I got a bit bored, though I'm glad I finished it. 

The focus of my sixth month was moving home.  Not my choice.  The preparation, going through every belonging, taping up boxes, crying over each piece of clothing, daily visits to donation drop offs and then the actual day.  Three young men striding through your home removing furniture quickly from the places that had taken so long to choose. 

The day I moved was the hardest day I have experienced.  Ever in my life.  Far, far harder than the time of passing or the funeral - which many people say is handled by the outer and/or inner spirits protecting you from the truth. 

My love, my purpose, my safety, my protection was ripped out of me.  I felt as though dreams, tears and laughter that were ours, were being slammed with a sledge hammer and thrown out onto a pile of rejected dung. " You do not matter" - was constantly ringing in my ears.  Moving this soon, is forcing me away too quickly from the things and importantly memories that make this widow stuff feel manageable.  It has considerably added to my vulnerability.  Decisions, to do lists and understanding instructions from the DMV, run around in my head like a circus. 

I can't visualize David here because he hasn't been here.  One day I actually showed him around and danced with him in the kitchen, like we often did. Trying to create a sense of protection. 
Are you surprised to hear that I cry a lot?  That I feel as though I have gone back in my grief to month one?  That a day doing things can then equal a day where you wonder where you are. 

Being a widow is like acting in a play.  You forget your lines.  You forget which role you are playing.  Bright lights confuse you.  Other characters get their lines wrong and blame you.  Your wardrobe doesn't fit.  You do not recognize the set.  Sometimes you want all the lines while at others you are relieved that you have only one.  Where is the exit?  What was that cue?  Voices are muffled (it is actually true that your hearing and sight are temporarily effected by grief) Sometimes you are in a comedy while others it is a classical piece with a language of its own.  It is totally exhausting.  Tension has seeped into every pore of your being and you never see the directors face who sits at the back and doesn't know your name. 

Can you really now say "I know how you feel.  I'm the same,"
when you are, for example; wealthy, still married, have a family, two
homes, security, money, protection and sadness? 

Widows need in the tricky six to seven month period things to refuel them.  Times that bring inspiration and a reason to smile.  I welcome those.  Even a warm text message is received as a bouquet of flowers. 
I will grow when I am ready and water and sunlight is necessary.  It cannot be pushed, I know because I do push. 
I walk with an invisible sign that states "Be gentle and kind please.  I'm learning to grow again."