OF LOVE, LONELINESS, AND AN ANNIVERSARY

I have been thinking about the varieties of loneliness I have experienced in my life.  I was lonely as a child.  I had playmates, but my main companions were books.  As a teenager, I had friends, but longed for a boyfriend.  (I was a late bloomer - no boyfriend until I was 18).  As the years went by, I found that I did not know how to be alone, and that I was lonely whenever I was not in love.  This made for some dark days.  Happily, as I wrote about in an old post, I eventually learned to enjoy my own company, and to treasure time alone.  

I rarely knew loneliness in midlife.  This was not just because I had a partner.  I remember years ago reading a quote from the actress Jessica Lange to the effect that she had never felt lonely since having children.  I did not understand.  I, who was both partnerless and childless at the time, could not fathom a life without loneliness.  

 

But Jessica was right.  I have never felt lonely since having children, even after my daughters were fully grown and launched. I do not look to them to fill my days--although their children, my grandchildren, do plenty of that, but there is something about having this net of family that has kept loneliness at bay.

 

At least, that was the case until six months ago when my husband died. I am now experiencing a new kind of lonely.  I do not want for people with whom to spend time. My life is filled to the brim with beloved family and friends.  I do not wish for another life partner. The loneliness I am feeling now is the loneliness that comes of missing a particular person. 

 

I am delighted to spend time with my friends and family. There is, however, a Bill-sized hole in my heart that no one else can fill. Evenings are the most challenging time, especially the long, dark evenings at this time of year. Evenings, I look for him in the funky old chair where he always sat.  Evenings, I am sad.

Today Bill and I would have celebrated 21 years of marriage, and although I had the joy of spending most of the day with precious granddaughters, there is a loneliness that comes of not being able to share the day with him.  

 

In the mid-century novel Love Story, a character famously says, "Love means never having to say you're sorry."  That's a crock.  I wish I could tell Bill I am sorry for the times I was impatient or otherwise a less-than-ideal wife.  I do tell him these things.  I believe he knew and knows how much I loved him.  Love means many things, including the possibility of loss and grief.  If not for the love that Bill and I shared, I would not be feeling the loneliness of missing him. 

 

I am grateful for that love.  It was worth the loss and loneliness. And in honor of that love, I will treasure my memories and seek to make the most of the years that are left to me.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

OF HULA HOOPS AND OTHER DISAPPOINTMENTS

When I was a child in New Jersey, there was a large discount store in our area called Two Guys From Harrison.* My father would take us to Two Guys--as the store was eventually known--on Saturdays, and we would walk what I remember as wide aisles with goods piled up on each side.  Given the decades that have passed since those Saturdays, my memory of the store layout could be off.  There is one thing I do remember clearly, however, and that is the day we came upon hula hoops - piles and piles of hula hoops.  In my memory, there were hundreds, and I, at age eight or nine, thought them beautiful.  Such a rainbow of bright colors.  

These excursions were generally occasions for looking, not buying, but, I begged to be allowed to take home a hula hoop, and, to my amazement, my father bought me one.

The next thing I remember was my disappointment upon examining my prize during the ride home.  I don't recall what color it was, but I do remember that without the other hoops in the pile, it wasn't much to look at.  It was the rainbow that had attracted me.  

Of course, I enjoyed my new toy, but I have never forgotten that disappointment.  

Our lives begin with small disappointments such as the one I just described.  As we grow older, the disappointments increase.  Here is one I experienced that was more than a little embarrassing. When I first heard "the cloud" spoken of, and for several years thereafter, I understood the term literally. I thought data was floating above us. What can I say?  My mother always said I had a vivid imagination. Can you picture my disappointment when I learned that "the cloud" was a giant data center in, among other places, rural Oregon?  I can just hear Anne Shirley** saying, "There's no scope for imagination in that."

Some disappointments are more consequential.  Here is the one I want to talk about today:  I have recycled for decades.  Long before there was curb-side pickup, I would take my plastic, glass, cans, and newspapers to a recycling center.  I thought I was doing a good thing.  I still think it is a good thing where glass and paper and cans are considered, but a number of years back, I learned that much of the plastic that we dutifully recycle ends up in landfills.  

That was disappointing, but I kept setting out my plastic every two weeks in the special bin provided by our garbage collector, hoping that at least some of it would be recycled. And then, came the disappointment that turned quickly to a feeling of helplessness; a friend told me he no longer recycles plastic after learning that much of it is sent to Africa, where it is dumped in the ocean or burned. He figured a landfill was a better option than either of these two.   

After this conversation, I did my due diligence, reading articles confirming that less than ten percent of plastic is actually recycled; the rest winds up in landfills or overseas in countries that do not have the infrastructure to deal with it, where it is dumped or burned unsafely. Here is just one of many articles that explains what goes on.  I encourage you to read it. 

So what is the solution?  We can take small steps - e.g., replacing plastic straws with metal ones, avoiding items encased in heavy plastic, and, for the love of God, unless we are victims of a natural disaster, can we stop buying bottled water? Spoiler alert:  Much of it is just tap water.  

These small steps, however, will do nothing to stem the flow of plastic at its source. (And is it really possible to avoid buying things encased in plastic?)  As long as manufacturers are pumping plastic into every part of our lives, there is little we can do as individuals to keep the stuff out of our landfills and waterways. 

This brings me to my sense of helplessness.  Other than the small steps we can take to avoid plastic, can anyone tell me what we can do to influence manufacturers or lawmakers?  

Thoughts and prayers aren't going to do it.

Lest I leave you in a state of catatonia, I will offer a couple of hopeful signs.  

We have a company called Ridwell operating in our area.  For a small monthly fee (cheaper if paid annually), this company picks up items such as plastic bags, batteries, flat plastic lids, used clothing, light bulbs, and styrofoam, every two weeks.  The company is transparent about who they partner with and what becomes of the items they collect.  They do not dump items in a landfill or burn them. 

There are also places that will recycle electronics, another big problem -- my research turned up sources reporting that 85 percent of electronic waste winds up in landfills or is incinerated.  Earth Friendly Recycling is such a place near me in southwest Washington.  Free Geek in Portland, Oregon also refurbishes and recycles electronics.  A Google search will probably turn up a place near you.  

Of course, we shouldn't have to search out places to take our difficult-to-recycle item, but while we are figuring out how to influence those who create the waste, it's a start - a small one for sure, but I'm damned if I'm going to throw dead electronics in the trash.

Parting thought:  How about we buy less stuff?

* Fun fact - According to Wikipedia and other sources, when brothers Herbert and Sidney Hubschman opened their first store (after selling televisions from a vacant lot), they wanted to name the store Two Bastards From Harrison because that was what their competitors were calling them. Finding that no newspapers would take their ads, they substituted Guys for Bastards.   

** In case there is anyone who doesn't recognize the name, Anne Shirley is the titular character in the Anne of Green Gables series of young adult novels.  

HAPPY MIDDLES

I have four young grandchildren.  One of them loves books about Disney princesses. When I read these books to her, I always balk at the final line - They lived happily ever after.  I usually change it slightly to read, They were very happy. 

Does anyone live happily ever after? 

When my husband died, a friend sent me an email, in which he said, among other things, "If I could write as you do, I would write about all the 'happy ever after' stuff that was put in our minds as we grew up and how now we are seeing how badly we were misled . . ."

And, so, as it appears my friend will not take on the topic, I sit down to write this post.

Here's the thing. I'm delighted to play along with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy.  Children should have their fantasies.  I love to read happy stories to the kids--thus, my they-were-very-happy compromise.  They don't need to know about the hard stuff before they learn to read.  But, I don't think that happily ever after is a thing, and this myth caused a lot of us to grow up with unrealistic expectations of unending and uninterrupted happiness.

As I see it, what we get instead are happy middles.

Here's my thinking.  Relationships begin and, after some period of time, they end, either because the people involved part ways or because one of them dies.  In between, if we are lucky, there is happiness.

Our lives are filled with happy middles - I think about my child-rearing years.  The girls were born, and there was a long stretch while their father and I raised them, and then they grew up and away.  It was a happy middle.  Same with places we live.  We move in, and eventually we move out, enjoying the middle period that is our life in each home. And so it goes with each chapter of our lives.  We are fully in the chapter, and then it is behind us. 

I don't mean for this to be depressing.  It doesn't have to be. What if we grew up understanding that there is no avoiding change? What if, as is taught in Buddhism, we understood that impermanence is an integral part of life, that clinging to what is or was leads only to suffering?

I'm not suggesting this is easy.  I hate that my husband died.  I will never "get over" losing him. I miss the little girls my daughters once were.  I miss people who are no longer in my life.  But I am doing my best to look back with pleasure on past happy middles and to make the most of what I am in the middle of now -- days with grandchildren and other family, days with friends, decent health, a warm and comfortable house, and much more. 

Of course, even happy middles have their rough patches, and some middles are not happy at all.  When life is at its most difficult we can take comfort in the fact that unhappy middles also end.  

So, let's try to pay attention to our happy middles while we are living them.  And when someone we know is enduring an unhappy middle, let's be there for them.

Can we do this?  

I would like to think so.

                                                                      Photo by Khadeeja Yasser on Unsplash

GLIMMERS

While walking up the path through my front garden a few days ago, I was arrested by the sight of a butterfly hovering over an aster.  I took this picture, and then just stood and gazed at the tableau until the butterfly moved on.

This got me thinking about glimmers. If you have never heard of glimmers, allow me to explain.  I can't remember who introduced me to the concept, but, as I understand it, a glimmer is more or less the opposite of a trigger.  A quick Google search tells me that glimmers and triggers have to do with polyvagal theory and the reactions of our autonomic nervous systems to cues in the environment. 

But I'm not interested in getting all scientific here.  I'm just going to tell you what a glimmer is for me.  It is something that slows me down and brings me pleasure. 

Here are a few more  recent glimmers of mine.  No words are required.

I see glimmers as tiny gifts in troubling times.  I think the important thing is to really stop and take in the glimmer.  While it is difficult to avoid being upset by a trigger, I think we often glance at a glimmer and move on.  

Let's stay with them.

What if we had "glimmer alerts" as well as "trigger warnings"?  What if a college professor walked into a classroom and said, Before we get started, please walk to the window and take in that amazing tree? What if a podcast host began a podcast with these words: The following program might bring you tears of joy.  Please invite your children to listen with you? 

This morning, as I left the building where I swim, I was greeted by beautiful autumn weather -- 75 degrees and sunny, with a slight breeze rustling the leaves of surrounding maple trees.   As far as I am concerned, any such day during my favorite season is an all-day glimmer. 

And you?  What are your glimmers?

SOME THOUGHTS ABOUT THE CATCHER IN THE RYE

Like many of you, I read The Catcher in The Rye in High School.  I think I liked it.  I don't really remember. 

As my recollection is hazy, I will share this description I found on the internet: 

  

Holden [the teenage protagonist] explains to [his sister] Phoebe that all he wants to be is the catcher in the rye. He pictures himself wearing a giant mitt, ready to catch kids as they fall off a cliff while playing in the rye. The kids represent childhood. The field represents innocence. The fall from the cliff represents the fall from innocence. 

 

I expect we talked about this theme of lost innocence in my English class, but I, at 15 or 16, was barely out of childhood myself. How could I have known what Holden was getting at? Fast forward twenty years to when I had children of my own, and I would have gladly accepted the assistance of Holden’s mitt.

 

I remember looking at my daughters when they were very young and wishing I could protect them from whatever heartaches lay ahead.**  And now, with the world feeling ever more perilous, I wonder what challenges - personal or societal – my grandchildren will face. 

 

Lately, though, my desire to protect others from harm extends beyond children. I don’t just want to preserve the innocence of the young; I want to keep children and adults alike safe from harms and heartbreak of all sorts.  Every day, I encounter or hear about people who are hurting. Today, a friend let me know that the husband of a dear friend of hers had died.  My heart ached for my friend’s friend, although I had never met her.

 

Every day, I read news about people who are living in war zones, hungry and afraid.  I hate my helplessness in the face of this anguish. When I learn of people who have lost their jobs, who are homeless, who are lonely, I want to protect them. I want Holden’s giant mitt to hold back the bombs, to carry food and blankets.

 

Of course, I can barely save myself, let alone anyone else. None of us has much control over very much, really.  At least that’s what we discover when life pulls the rug out from under us. That's what I discovered when my husband was diagnosed with cancer.

 

So, here's what I am (perhaps naively) asking myself today. Isn’t it enough that nature throws illness, hurricanes, floods, earthquakes etc. our way?  Why must we manufacture more destruction?  Why do we rain bombs on civilians? Why do we allow children to go hungry?  Why do we look away from anguish?  Why don't we pool and direct our talents and resources toward helping one another?  We know how to do this. When a natural disaster occurs, people show up to rescue and comfort each other.  When my husband fell sick, then died, friends and family showed up to help us, then me. Why can’t we approach one another with kindness all the time?  Why must humans be so infernally, so maddeningly cruel and self-destructive?

I know what you’re thinking.  It’s human nature to make war. To hoard wealth.  To look the other way.  

 

Maybe.

 

But, "human nature" notwithstanding, I think it's worth it to open our hearts, put on our mitts, and see what can be done.

And as I don't know where to begin, let's start with kindness and generosity close to home.  Perhaps the next step will then become clear.  

May it be so.  

    

                                                                  marek-studzinski-eaHMb9UJT0I-unsplash.jpg

** I wrote about this desire to keep my daughters safe here: https://woacanotes.blogspot.com/2015/03/luck-be-lady_21.html

BUY THE BANANAS

I wrote a little poem.  

Before I share it with you, let me give you the back story.  A couple of weeks ago, I went to a grief support group.  (No, this is not going to be a description of my grief.  Stay with me for a minute.)  There was an older man in the group who had clearly given up.  He told us that his wife had died three years ago, and, although he did not suggest that he was ill, he stated that he didn’t think he would live much longer.  He declared, in a morose attempt at humor, that he was not sure whether he should buy green bananas because he might not live to eat them. 

 

“Oh,” I said.  “Buy the bananas.”  Then, I went home and wrote these lines.

 

 

Buy the bananas 

Watch them ripen

Make banana bread

Take it outside

Savor its warm sweetness

Under the shade of a tree

Think of your sorrows

Think of the gift of taste

 

If you find

You are still here

When the bread is gone

Buy more bananas

Watch them ripen

Make banana pudding

Share it with a neighbor

Tell her your sorrows

Listen to hers

Sit in silence

 

Wait for Spring

Plant some seeds

Water them with your tears

Watch them grow 

Show a little faith

Plant a tree

 

Go to the beach

Build a sandcastle

The sea will take it

Build it anyway

Build a life

Death will take you

Build it anyway

May we all have faith enough to buy the green bananas.  May our sorrows not keep us from living as fully as we can for as long as we can.

 

                                Photo by Deen Md. on Unsplash

THE BED'S TOO BIG/THE FRYING PAN'S TOO WIDE

But when he’s gone

Me and them lonesome blues collide

The bed’s too big

The frying pan’s too wide.

           

              -   Joni Mitchell

  

In the post I wrote a week after my husband's passing, I confessed that I wasn’t ready to say much about being a widow.  It still feels raw and new, but now that a month has passed, I feel ready to share a bit about my experience of widowhood so far.  Once again, I write to sort and process my thoughts. I appreciate your patience with my ramblings – I intend to turn to other subjects soon.

Often, when I awake, I step outside, where I spend some time in the peace of my garden.  One morning, after I had done some watering and weeding, I looked down at my grubby clothes and thought, These are my morning clothes. I quickly noted the pun.  They were, in fact, my mourning clothes.

I continue to suffer from “widow’s brain.”  One day, I stood staring into a cupboard for a long time, before pulling out a mug and making myself a cup of tea.  After carrying it to kitchen table, I discovered the cup that I had already made.  Another day, I broke a glass while putting it in the dishwasher, a simple task that had never confounded me before.  A few days ago, I bought a bag of cat food and left it in the cart when I loaded my other groceries into the car. And then there was the day when I found myself stymied by the thought of preparing food for myself.  I had to call a couple of friends to ask what I should keep on hand in order to make simple meals.

I am having dreams about getting lost on complex staircases or losing my way in the city – my psyche must be attempting to figure out the path ahead.

I am discovering that grief is physical. The night after Bill died, I slept like a rock and woke up exhausted and feeling as if I had been beaten about the head and neck with a two-by-four. Of course, there was exhaustion after the intensity and physical and emotional toll of his final few weeks, but the fatigue has lingered. The nights of good sleep ended after about a week, and now I sleep poorly more-often-than-not. It doesn’t matter how I sleep, though.  Even after a good night, I wake up tired. 

There was relief at first.  Relief that he had left his weary body behind.  Relief that his sons and I would no longer be getting up in the night to administer medications.  Relief that the limbo of the dying process was over. In truth, the life I had been living with Bill had become more memory than reality over the months before his death, as he slept more and more hours each day and had less and less energy for interaction.

So, for a while, I thought I was doing pretty well.  I had some crying jags, but not too many. I started in on the mounds of paperwork attendant to a death.  I spent time with friends and family. I told myself I was OK.

And then, maybe three weeks in, my days became a lot more challenging. Here’s the thing -- I like spending time alone. When Bill would occasionally go away for a few days, I would relish having the house to myself.  But, after two or three days, I would be ready for him to come home.  Now, as time passes, it is becoming more and more real to me that he will not be coming home.  He hasn’t gone to the store.  He hasn’t taken a short trip.  I am repeatedly startled to realize that this is my life now, that I will be moving forward without him. Again, it's not that I mind being alone; it’s that I miss him in all of his particularity. I miss the man he was and the life we shared before his illness took over. 

My tears are flowing more freely now, as I look around and find:

He’s not here to hold me.

He's not here to talk with me.

He's not here to comfort me when I'm upset.

He’s not here to read my writing drafts. (I very nearly got up from my desk to ask him to read over his obituary.)

He’s not here to tell me I am pretty, that I look nice.  (Yes, after twenty years of marriage, he said such things to me almost daily.)

He’s not here to read to the grandkids.

He’s not here to work in the garden with me. 

He’s not here to eat dinner with me. 

He’s not here to hold my hand while we watch TV.

He’s not here to take out the garbage.

He’s not here to answer my phone calls and texts when I’m out.  

He’s not here to drive me crazy.  

Are you surprised by that last one?  Look, he was a gentle, steady, generous guy, but just because he has died, doesn’t mean I have to pretend he was perfect.  He was not.  And neither am I.  So, like most marriages, ours wasn’t perfect.  My speedy Jersey ways would bump up against his midwestern deliberation. I am impatient.  (He was patient with my impatience, bless him.) He was a pack rat. Getting rid of things makes me feel lighter; it made him feel anxious. Still, through it all, whatever our challenges, we loved each other deeply and shared a long-lasting attraction, as well as values and an ever-widening family. We chose each other and were never tempted to quit one other.  

Last Christmas, instead of exchanging gifts, we each wrote a letter to the other.  I keep re-reading his.  He closed it with these words:  “You are the pole against which I lean and I love you dearly.”  And, of course, he was the pole against which I leaned. To mix metaphors a bit, I feel untethered, like I might just float away.  Or to employ yet another metaphor, I have lost my tap root.  Of course, I am fortunate that I have family and friends to tether and root me, to keep me from floating away.  Still, I miss my main tether, my tap root, and expect I always will.

                                    Photo by Allison Saeng for Unsplash

(I cannot close this post without expressing my gratitude for the kindness I have experienced. The friends who have spent time with me.  The friends and family who have called and sent notes and cards.  The friend who helped me to clear out an entire room. The one who carted off medical supplies when I could not think through where to donate them and the one who took away a pile of rags that I didn't want to toss in the garbage -- she even found somewhere to donate those. My daughters and a son-in-law, who moved furniture for me.  Bill's sons and a son-in-law who have kept the lawn mowed. The dear fellow whom I occasionally hire to help with the garden, who refused to let me pay him for the work he did soon after Bill died. The manager of Bill's dentist's office, who, when I called to report Bill's death, told me she had seen his obituary and had written off the balance on his account.  I am sure there is more that I am forgetting.  Recounting all of this moves me to tears.)