Like a Room With Out a Roof

Am I depressed?   No.

Am I sad, unhappy, broken hearted and pissed off?   Yes. You bet. All that and more. 

But I am not that ALL of the time.

I think that grief is sort of like being really drunk—reality seems to come and go. Time is not orderly or even sequential, there are long dark periods and brief flashes of light. Then I wonder that if grief is like being drunk—what do you suppose the hangovers are like? And would proper hydration help? Then I realize that my natural facetiousness is making itself known again and it feels...good. I want to be MYSELF again.

How do I do that? I didn't realize how much of me was made up of him.

My Wish Well

But I swear I will be happy again, I swear it. If I am sad at times, then I will be happy in between those times. Even if it turns out that happiness is only small stepping stones on a lake of sadness, I will be happy again. I will cross to terra firma and I will be happy again. Even on this journey of grief I will count my blessings and I will call them happiness. I will stitch together happiness out of little pieces until it becomes a whole cloth and I will wear it.

I am going to look for little pieces of happiness and I will define my life in those terms. My blanket is fuzzy, it gives me comfort. My cats are pretty good cuddle-ers. The sun was warm this week. I am a happy person and I WILL be happy. I am starting my happiness collection today, I will number my blessings as the stars are numbered. There are so many acts of kindness from so many people, so much concern and care. There is love, all around me and I am foolish to dismiss it because it is not Shane’s love.

I am a happy person and I will be Happy.

And So It Goes

The terrible of beauty of life is that it goes on.

The world turns, the sun comes up, some are born, some die, life goes on. Seasons come, seasons go, and life goes on. Even on the days when all I want to do is crawl into a hole and pull the hole in after me, life goes on. Whether I laugh or cry, life goes on. The cats need to be fed, the dog needs to be let out, the bills still need to be paid, and life goes on.

Rust and new growth...

Most days, I do what is expected of me. I rise, I shower, I dress, I do what the day requires of me. Life goes on. Months somehow pass.

It has been three months since that awful day, three months of “After,” and life has gone on. Sometimes that thought makes me so angry, I cry and stomp and demand the Universe reverse its self, that another month not pass without Shane in it. But life goes on.

Winter is gone, spring is here, life—it goes on.

So I feed the cats, I let the dog out, I pay my bills. Life goes on, and I go with it. I learn by going where it is I have to go. I learn to sleep on the “other” side of the bed, I learn that I am not in a hurry to go home after work or school. I learn new habits, and life goes on.

I have “fun,” I do things I would never have done “Before.” Life goes on.

I have decided that if happiness is a choice, then I choose happiness. I will work to be happy.  I will do the work of grief that love requires of me and, someday, I will be happy again.

And life, it goes on.

Ah, Spring!

Abbey is NOT amused

In the spring everything is born anew and life seems full of possibilities. 

Even dandelions are welcomed in the spring, if only briefly. 

Their friendly yellow faces add color to the landscape and remind me of a time when they were not my arch enemy, but instead the best way to check to see if my friends liked butter --rub one under your friend’s chin to see if they still do. It’s spring, after all, a time for high spirits and dandelion hijinks. There will be time enough to consider them—that’s dandelions, not your butter loving friends with yellow chins-- the gardener’s nemesis. For now, they seem like old friends. And dandelions are good for the beleaguered honey bees. Dandelions provide an early source of nectar for bees, so letting dandelions be for the time being is a good thing. The bees will thank you for it.

Daffodils are the stars of the show in early spring, mastering the art ---unlike dandelions—of the brief visit. If spring is the earth’s party then tulips are the guests that always show up late and demand all the attention. So much color! So many varieties! Such a demand for attention! But no party would be complete without them and every year I wrangle with the uninvited elk who seem to think that tulips are mere hors d' oeuvres and act accordingly. Stupid party crashers anyway. My garden party would benefit from a bouncer, that’s for sure.

Spring Springing and Such Stuff

Robins are tugging worms from soft ground. The breezes have gone from being wind to being breezes again and now can be paired with the modifiers gentle, soft, playful... The grass greens up and begins to grow—almost overnight you begin to think about lawnmowers and tune ups and refilling the gas can.

Crocuses have popped up in the yard at random intervals. Years ago they were planted in large swaths bordering the flowerbeds, but the workings of mole and vole and pesky chipmunks have thinned their ranks to no more than a handful of plucky survivors acting as an advance party for the rest of the garden, encouraging primrose and English daisy to follow suit, to leap the edge of their retaining stones and flower freely in the grass.

Tree branches swell with bud, then burst into blossom or leaf, unable to restrain themselves any longer. Robins wallow and splash in puddles, enthusiastic hedonists of the bath.

The world is born anew in the spring, everything dresses up in fresh green finery with a bedazzle of flower or blossom. It is a great time to get outdoors and spend a little time with Mother Nature.

Spring, there is poetry in its very name.

Next week: Spring part II

Life is a Big Old Bed of Roses

I was thinking about Life, and Roses and a bed of roses and a rose garden and before you know it I had that old song from the 70’s stuck in my head: “I beg your pardon. I never promised you a rose garden. Along with the sunshine, there’s got to be a little rain sometime.”

But what if life really IS a bed a roses? There are beautiful moments that will take your breath away and there are sharp hidden things that will make you bleed unexpectedly.

There is new growth and black spot mold, beautiful blossoms and nasty aphids. It’s all there, jumbled together, the good and the bad, but if you take good care of your garden---and you’re lucky---you’ll have more blooms than bugs.

But sometimes, no matter how carefully you tend your garden all your efforts can be overrun by a herd of hungry, marauding elk, so there is that consideration to my clumsy metaphor. Maybe the “Life is a bed of roses” school of thought is pretty accurate after all—and that’s not even taking into to account all the “fertilizer” required to make your roses bloom. Sometimes life will give you a generous scoop of that as well.

Speaking of fertilizer, now is a good time to add some of the aged stuff---personally, I am a big fan of the chicken poop variety---to your flower beds. Cooler temps keep the odor down and a little sprinkling of fertilizer will discourage elk from nibbling on your new greens.

So far we’ve talked about roses and music from the 70’s, elk and chicken poop and I’ve even managed to work in both advice and a cliché or two. I think my work here is done. Go outside and play in the dirt, it’s good for your soul.

Festive Front Yard

The other day the sun was out and so was I—taking a stroll through my yard and looking at nature’s handiwork.

The grass is already starting to green up and grow, my snow drops are just finishing their peak blooming cycle and the crocuses are up as well. Right in the middle of my lawn.

It is kind of a cool look, to see there happy little purple faces shining up at me in random intervals all over the front yard and I’d like to take credit for it. But I didn’t do it. Oh sure I planted them originally…in large drifts that bordered the front flowerbed. But, over time, they have “migrated” to the middle of the front yard, in ones and twos over even larger clusters---all without the help of human hands.

I suspect chipmunks are to blame. Over time they have dug up and “stolen” my crocuses from their garden location and “hidden” them at random intervals in the front yard, to be feasted upon later. Luckily for me, the rodent’s memories are as rotten as their morals and the crocuses happily bloom in their new location. Or maybe that’s not what happened at all. Maybe there is some other rational for the phenomenon and I just watched too many episodes of Chip & Dale in my formative years.

No, I don't need to weed--that's not my flowerbed,
it's my front yard

Whatever the explanation, it certainly adds a whimsical, if somewhat wacky look to my landscaping.