Now. This moment.

Now. What are you feeling and experiencing right now? This moment.

Yes, Now. Where are you? What do see? Sunlight through the window or leaves on the tree. Your hands with a callous or a broken nail. The laundry to be folded or the inbox to be perused.

Now. Close your eyes. Feel the ground, the air, your body, each muscle, each movement, your breath, your breath… your breath.

Now. what do you smell? The bread on the counter, the plant in the earth, the soil, the wood on the floor where the sun excites the molecules. The potatoes in the bubbling pot or the fresh, soft linen on your bed. Sunlight like the warm rind of a lemon or rain like ozone and earth. Good. You are centering. Keep going. 

Now. What do you hear? Silence? No. Listen closer. Breeze in the trees, waves lap-lap-lapping, children laughing in the distance, insects buzzing around flowers, your air conditioner hum, the bird outside your window singing a familiar song.

Now. Go deeper. Within. What emotion are you experiencing at this moment? Pain is the past… let it go. Fear is the future… let it go. Now. Right there. Now. At the centre of it all. Gratitude. Gratefulness for the here, for now, for sight, for hearing, for touch, for breath, for sparkling sunlight and living soil, for bright birdsong and buzzy pollinators, for happy children and cooling rain. Breath deep. Sigh. Gratitude.

Now, did you find it, the gratefulness? Consider it, form it, feel it. And what is inside your rich, joyful gratitude? Yes. Now. Love.

Now… Love.

Soul-Oh: A journey of discovery

I’ve been spending quite a bit of time soul-oh since my spouse passed away in January. I do not mean solo or so-low, although I have done my share of these as well. As an introvert, I often spend time alone recharging my social batteries. Since my spouse passed, it has taken on a new aspect. I am discovering me, the me-after-him.

I have always told anyone who is just getting out of a relationship to make sure to take time alone, figure out who they are before getting into a new relationship. Any relationship, whether good or bad, changes us, teaches us. It may add a new layer of personality or peel another away. Perhaps, we discovered something that we do or do not like while with that other person and can apply it to another relationship. Take the time to adapt to that new aspect of you even if it is something small.

I spent eleven wonderful years with the man I love, seven of them very happily married. I am not the same woman I was when I met him. I am not the same woman I was when I was with him.

Before I met James, I had pretty much given up on finding love. All the men I came in contact with were interested in my friends. I was the side-kick and wing-man (wing-person?). I had finally accepted the fact that it just wasn’t meant to be for me. My prince charming wasn’t coming.  He was stuck in a tree. James changed that in a huge way. The night we met, he made a beeline across the dance floor and walked right up to me and asked me to dance. I’m not sure he even saw my friend. That was it. Simple as that. We danced the rest of the night. Even after the lights came up and the music stopped, we kept dancing. It happens in real life folks. I can attest to that. Lightning bolt.

James seemed oblivious to other women flirting with him. It just didn’t occur to him that they would. He only had eyes for me. And, believe me, the feeling was mutual. Mind you, we are not perfect physical specimens by any means. I’m overweight and have an old injury from a broken leg that didn’t quite heal right. He had bad teeth until a dentist fixed them up for him and one eye that sat a little lower than the other. I was ten years older than him. No, we weren’t perfect. We were perfect for each other.

I was told by the boys I dated (and I will say “boys,” not “men,” here) and society – through magazines, TV ads, and movies – that someone my size could never get the guy. I could aim for being the goofy, funny friend of the girl who gets the guy. Over the years that we had together – as I lost and gained weight, changed my hairstyle and hair colour, experienced loss of and starting new jobs – James never wavered from the way he saw me. The look in his eyes assured me he was not going anywhere. He stood firm and taught me that I am worthy of love. No one had been able to teach me that before. I’m not sure it had occurred to anyone to try.

So, now, he is gone but the love remains, the lessons remain. And I must take all that he taught me, all he changed in my heart, to move forward and build on who I am.

When I say that I went to a movie, took a drive, went on a hike or spent the weekend alone at home, do not feel sorry for the widow. I am on a journey of self-discovery. I am going to unearth the parts of my soul that were buried after others threw dirt on them because it offended them or did not suit their purpose. Each treasure I excavate will bring an exclamation of “Oh!”

If you happen to see me on the street, feel free to wave and cheer me on. I’m not alone; I’m travelling soul-oh!

The beauty of old things (or What the driftwood taught me)

I was walking along a rocky beach with a friend on her 49th birthday. We were enjoying a girls’ weekend at a cottage with BBQ, wine and hiking. We had celebrated my 49th the month before. As we picked our way over shifting stones, trying not to roll an ankle or stumble headlong into the line of driftwood at the high-tide mark, we discussed how we would be turning 50 the next year.

Fifty. That number, that age, is weighted with tears and laughter, music and silence, pauses and experiences. Some scars and wrinkles we bear with shame, some with pride.

As I stop to get my bearing, I balance on two semi-solid, salt-grey stones. I notice a long, slim piece of driftwood a little ahead of me and to my right. I step carefully, making my way over to pick it up. I examine it as I lean on it for balance. I am 5’8″ and it reaches my armpit. A slight notch at the top fits my hand comfortably.

It is warm from the mid-morning sun and beautifully marked as if some master craftsman had delicately and lovingly attended each part to make it so. I test its strength and it is sturdy and unbending, slightly bowed as if honouring the wind that once tickled its leaves. It is capable enough to bear my ample weight as I try to balance on the wobbly rocks. It’s solid enough to steady me even when my leg betrays me, the one that had been broken and fixed with a plate and screws 16 years before. It’s strong in spite of all that it must have been through on its journey to meet me on this beach on this day as I contemplate my own age and weathered frame.

The face of the wood is partly smoothed by sea, sand and stone, while artfully etched and aesthetically scraped in random spots. It was once young and supple supporting leaves, perhaps fruit, and woodland creatures. It gave and received life until, felled by an axe or storm, it landed in the sea and was tossed about on the waves. It had been bleached by burning salt and sun, ignored by the sea that beat it about. The sea’s strange creatures were oblivious to the existence of this forlorn stick. It wandered adrift and alone without the anchoring roots that once nourished and provided support. It had made its way up a rocky shore to be battered, reshaped and cast down. The cold, churning water left it there, foaming and roaming off to find another body to break, unaware of the mess it leaves in its wake. I don’t know how long the stick had remained here. I found it this day among the flotsam and jetsam. With the other driftwood and castoffs of humankind, it waited. As it wept the loss of its roots and leaves and woodland friends, it lingered.

We meet on that shore, the steadying driftwood and I. Subconsciously, I recognize a weary soul in need of purpose, lost and still adrift on solid land. The rest of the walk is stepped with more confidence. When my friend and I arrive back at the cottage and start packing the car for the trip home, I cannot leave this driftwood behind. I feel a need of it, even though my walk on the beach is done. So home it came with me, to stand in the corner of the room where I get ready for work each day.

Maybe it knew something I did not at the time in the way that loss and sorrow can attune one to the cosmic way of things. It may be, somehow, it was aware that in one month’s time my husband would start to get headaches, that the cancer he fought two years before had returned. Perhaps it knew that, even as I walked on that lovely beach, laughing with my friend, the metastatic melanoma was growing inside my love’s right frontal lobe.

That beautiful piece of driftwood had been one of the first things I saw as I prepared myself for each day of the next seven months until my husband was gone. He has been gone six months and it has stood silently in support as I continue to grieve.

I am weathering the storm of sickness and loss with the help of a silly stick. It reminds me each morning that, in spite of age, of storms, of drifting without touching ground, through waves of pain and love and sorrow, the seasickness of hope and despair, that this old body and heart can offer strength and balance to another, to myself. I still have a beauty and a purpose, though I will always mourn the loss of my nourishing roots and my wind-tickled leaves.

Forward into darkness

When you lose someone who has been such an essential part of your life, of your everyday, of…you, it shakes you to the core of your being. You are shattered on the floor in pieces and, at last, you understand Humpty’s predicament. There are no horses, no king’s men, no king.

You wrap up the business of dying, the paperwork, you’ve sorted through most of the pieces of your loved one’s life, the friends and family who gathered to support you have gone back to their lives and you sit alone. Very alone. You realize that an expansive, dark abyss exists in front of you. You slump at the weighty greatness of it. It has a terrifying beauty of its own. Your eyes widen just to try to take it all in.

This is the bulk of the dim and drab years ahead of you. The rest of your life without The One. Your future was woven and stitched together with the life of Your One. Now, you begin to pick at the glittering stitching and unravelling artful threads. Like the canker sore in the mouth, you continue to poke and pick in spite of the pain, maybe even because of it. A reminder that you still live, you exist, if only barely.

Some days the abyss gapes and you get dizzy at the stretch of years yet to come before you can rest from the agony of that damn soulful ache in the arms of love once more. Miles to go before I sleep.

Other days, the warm sun shines, the vivid flowers bloom, the sand and sea kiss and tickle your toes and you can focus on just today, just this moment. Then, without warning, you remember that The One loved days like this. Your hand clenches and unclenches. Nothing there. You hear laughter on the wind and gorgeous, excruciating memories swirl and buzz like gnats inside your head. Again the spinning void opens and vertigo swirls. The One is not there to catch you and yet…they are. They stand firm in your memories, your heart, your soul.

You know them – every smile, every turn of the head, every sound they make means something. You know. You know what they would do and say right now if they were standing beside you. You steady yourself and take a tentative step forward.

Hope Springs

My part of the world, Eastern Canada, is experiencing many spring-like days this winter. Last year at this time we were battling snow, piling it higher than our heads. No, really. I was shoveling snow up over my shoulder and, during a break, made a snow angel WHILE standing up. I’m 5’8″. You do the math.

Anyway, today has been a perfectly lovely spring day…in February. I was outside in my sandals, yoga pants, a t-shirt and a cardigan. My search for a new job continues, but this is the kind of day that lifts the spirit and allows one to open the windows of the soul. Throw open the sash and let the sunshine and fresh air in. It is a great time to sweep the cobwebs from the corners of the mind and sleep from the corners of the eyes.

People on my social media feeds are posting pictures of bright purple and yellow crocuses, curly points of tulips and pussy  willows. Oh, the joy these little buds bring!

This feels like the time of year when the heart stirs and quickens, the limbs shake off shivery thoughts of heavy quilts, mulled wine and Netflix. We start to dream again of bonfire sparks floating up to dance with the stars, of the cooling lick of salty waves on our toes, and of sultry kisses on sun-dappled, perspiration-dewed skin. Sigh.

We might be thrown back into a blizzard in the next few weeks, but, Hope, folks (yes, with a capital H), it springs to life and screams its rage at winter and sorrow and death. It stomps about and yells, “Not yet! Not today!”

If you are in a part of the world where winter still holds you in its icy grip, here are a couple of songs that helped inspire this blog as I danced around my living room. Be sure to crank the volume so ol’ man winter can hear the music through the closed (for now) windows.