It's Only Time and Writing Assignment #10

I stared dumbfounded at the doctor.

He stared dumfounded at me.

It was just an annual checkup. Everything physically is normal, no complaints but he asked if I was ever depressed. I said, “Well I still miss my husband, that’s a bit depressing!”

He said, “How long has it been?”

I said, “Two years”.

With the tsk tsk of his tongue and a shake of his head I didn’t have to hear the words he was thinking…two years was enough, I should get over it.

As I looked at him my mind swirled and my heart ached. It occurred to me that I had been married over 40 years which is longer than this young doctor has been alive. Can you say…well you’ve lived your life for 42 years, now get over it?

I looked away.

When I looked back his look was still one of incredulity so I just forced a smile and asked when I needed to come back. “Unless you sprain an ankle….not until next year” he said.

I walked to the car and climbed in. The days are finally starting to warm up and it felt cozy inside. I put the key in the ignition but instead of turning it, I laid my head back, absorbed the sunshine and allowed my mind to wander. Am I boring people with my journey? Does everyone else think it’s time for me to get over it?

When I roll over in bed at night and the moonlight glows on an empty pillow next to me where Dale should be…must I just “get over it?”.

When there is something clever, or beautiful, or funny or amazing and I want to share it with him but he’s not there…do I just “get over it?”.

I think of the words to an Enya song,

Who can say where the road goes?

Where the day flows?

Only time

Perhaps time works differently for each of us. To a child two years is incomprehensible, to a 14 year old wanting to get a driver’s license at 16, two years seems to be an eternal stretch of never ending months and to a young doctor - its ample time for a widow to get over the loss of her husband. For me, is two years enough?

Suddenly, too warm now, I drive home not having arrived at an answer deciding instead to think about it another day….

So, today I’m sitting at my art table painting a rainy April day picture that I will give the caption “No showers, no flowers”. Pandora is playing my favorite songs – gentle instrumentals that make me feel happy and creative. I suddenly realize I’m listening to an instrumental of the song “I’ve loved you for a thousand years and I’ll love you for a thousand more.”

And my heart skips a beat, the way it does when your mind grasps onto something important.

My mind goes back to Enya....

And who can say if your love grows

As your heart chose?

Only time

Time told me that my love continued to grow for nearly half a century as my heart chose. I made my choice and it was more than a “til death do we part” choice.

Who can say why your heart sighs

As your love flies?

Only time

So my dear reader, in my concern that you are also feeling that it’s time for me to get over it and since I’m now convinced that for what will seem like a thousand years my heart will sigh with no prospect and amazingly no desire of ever "getting over it" until Dale and I are together again, I will move on to writing about something else. Thank you for sharing this journey with me.  I have appreciated your kind comments so very much. I am stronger, I am braver, I am more determined and I am more independent, I'm just not over it!

So now....

I have been remiss in posting the weekly questions for you to write your autobiography! I’m so sorry.

So let’s go forward with this:

• Enjoy every Moment
• Be Fearless
• Breathe Deeply
• Always Believe in Yourself
• Follow your Heart and
• WRITE YOUR STORY

I will post a new assignment every Thursday with love and a sincere belief that everyone has a story and it should be told. And with the assignments you will do it in a year’s time. Now that’s a time period we can all agree upon!

I have posted 9 assignments so far, please go back through the posts if you have missed any. Assignment #10 is here:

AUTOBIOGRAPHY ASSIGNMENT #10

GRANDPARENTS' HOMES

Describe your grandparents' houses. From your perspective, how YOU remember each home. Was it an old house? Tell us about it's cracking paint or it's squeaky door or the mature trees in the yard for example or perhaps it was ultra modern?  Paint pictures with your words.

Did you visit their homes often? Why or why not? (Don't include too many details of the lives of the people here, just the homes and yards etc)

Where did you play? What did you play? What was the spirit of the home?

Close your eyes and be there and now open your eyes and WRITE!! No one can tell it like you!

To love gives you strength - To be loved gives you courage

The sun is up, just barely and with a yawn, so am I. 

We both go silently about our morning tasks.  The sun’s task at this moment is to illuminate the world while my task is to…well, make the bed. 

And it’s silent. And at this brief moment (that rolls around unfailingly and yet unexpectedly each and every morning) I am once again deeply aware of the fact that I am totally, completely and without the distraction of a sound or a smile….All alone.

But today the voice inside my head says; “No you’re not alone, you are with You”. 

I squeeze the pillow I’m holding and think; “Hmmmm” and then as I chuckle and begin to roll my eyes, it seems as if I hear Dale’s voice whisper; “And I used to love being with You”.

My knees buckle and I sit on the edge of the bed.  What a remarkable notion.

This intelligent, charming and witty man used to love being with me! For someone who could carry her ego in a small coin purse, this was an interesting concept.  Perhaps it should be obvious that we are always our own constant companion.  Doesn’t it follow then that we need to love and accept ourselves and glory in the fact that we are unique and interesting and that we should enjoy being in our own company?

My eye shifts to the drawer of my nightstand.  A few days ago, while rummaging through boxes in the garage in the attempt to find an Easter basket, I came upon the long lost battery charger for my beloved old friend, my Nikon SLR Camera. I reluctantly had taken out the camera, charged the battery that had died waiting for me to pick it up these last two years and then replaced the battery and shoved the camera back into the drawer.  I grimaced and shrugged my shoulders at the futility of charging it since going out on photography excursions was such an “us” thing the battery would just die again before I used it.  And die it would because it pained me to remember how at a moment’s notice Dale used to say, “Grab your camera, let’s go out and see what we can see!”  Together we would watch for anything remarkable to capture and the thrill of the clickity click of the shutter was satisfying and joyful.  Side by side we would work and yet our photos were never the same.  He saw things that I didn’t and vice-versa.  Sharing the photos at day’s end was always a delightful event. He always went for the panoramas while I loved to focus in on the smallest, remarkable details.  "God’s in the details", I would tell him.  "I think He’s in the trees and the sky and the clouds" he would tell me.  We were both right.  What’s that saying? Oh yes….“I am so glad you are here, it helps me realize how beautiful my world is.”

But he’s not here and my camera sitting in the drawer has only been an exclamation point on that fact. I don’t want to be alone when I use it.

But with this fresh new concept today…I reach into the drawer and pull out the camera by its telephoto lens.  It feels comfortable in my hands.  Minutes later I am in the car heading toward the lake.

I hadn’t realized it was so cold out, glad I had grabbed my warm jacket.  Due to the low temperature I was the only one at the shore.  “Alone?” I thought.  “Nope not this time” and I hopped out of the car and walked towards the water.

It only took a moment before I was capturing things that intrigued my eye. A pair of Canadian Geese became my willful models until they tired of me and leapt into the water, wings outstretched.

I meandered down the beach snapping shots of drift wood and feathers in the sand and waves lapping onto washed up logs.  And as I stood to pull my collar up against the cold I noticed the two geese floating in the chilly water quietly beside me.  As I wandered a good half mile down the beach, they paddled, when I stopped, they stopped.  And when I realized that my fingers were now too cold to push the shutter release I reluctantly turned to go back and they made a U-turn and glided along silently with me.

I climbed back into my car and as I fastened my seat belt I looked up and smiled as I saw them hop out of the water, stretch out their wings and then comfortably settle back down where I had first found them.

I have been reunited with my camera and now I will take it out on my own little photo shoots...just me…and I’m ok with that.  Thanks dear Dale for this new concept and for perhaps encouraging a couple of geese to accompany my first outing!  Another milestone.

What is Normal?

The seas were violent that day. The gray of the sky and the gray of the water were only broken by the white caps of a million billowing waves that stretched endlessly across the English Channel.   

The France to England bound tickets we held for the hovercraft catamaran ferry were useless.  It couldn’t operate under these torrential conditions.  We were told that we could instead board the cruise-ship-like ferry. So my sister and mother and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders, it seemed to be the only way.  We boarded the ship - whether it be an act of faith or like lambs to the slaughter, we weren’t quite sure but as the true shoppers that we are…we headed straight to the gift shop to purchase anything that could help us with the inevitable threat of sea sickness and a postcard!  We found ourselves in long lines and the ship departed while we were making our purchases.  The ship, that seemed so large and sea worthy from the dock was now being tossed and battered like the toy tugboats in my son’s bathtub!  Making our way to our seats through the corridor we were thrown from one side to the other, unable to hold on to the handrails.  But we made the decision to put our faith in the Lord and our trust in the captain and reached our seats. The long and nauseating journey ended nearly two hours later and with trembling legs we disembarked on the English shore.

Many years later on a journey back from Ireland to Italy, the English Channel once again divided my smooth travel plans.  Dale was calm with his decision, hmmmm let’s make that nearly giddy with his decision to purchase tickets for the Chunnel; the 20 minute journey by train that goes beneath the churning sea into a dark and buried tunnel (at depths I didn’t want to consider) and speeds its way to France.  I shrugged my shoulders and thought well it beats the two hour journey across the waves right?  RIGHT??   The high speed train smoothly left the station as we sat comfortably (although a bit fidgety on my part) in our cozy seats.  I held Dale’s reassuring hand and watched the English countryside pass by as we worked our way towards the shore.  Suddenly darkness outside the window, a relentless darkness that seemed to go on and on and I remembered something Corrie Ten Boom wrote in her book The Hiding Place:  “When a train goes through a tunnel and it gets dark, you don’t throw away the ticket and jump off.  You sit still and trust the engineer.”  So I took a sip of my soda, nibbled on my scone and smiled at Dale who gave me his reassuring “Everything is going to turn out fine” look.

It has been a long two year journey.  This passage through life without Dale by my side.  I have encountered many violent waves and dark tunnels.  I have also experienced many moments of joy, delivered directly to my heart and soul through my faith and trust in the Lord (my Captain and Engineer) and the love of my dear angels on both sides of the veil. My earthly angels, who have sacrificed for me, succored me and have given me their unconditional love; my Dale who has orchestrated things from his side of the veil and my departed parents and grandparents whose stories and strengths have given me guidance and hope as I seek to regain some form of normalcy again in my life.

One big thing that I have discovered is that “normal” is a moving target. What was normal for over 40 years with Dale by my side 24/7 is not what’s normal now.  Even though I have established a comfortable daily routine which could be considered my new normal, I also still experience moments of that dark tunnel journey when the absolute silence and void that is and can only be called "Aloneness" is also a normal thing now but so is my faith and prayers and the “pull myself up and out of it” techniques that I can grab quickly and put to use:

I’m aware that I am a visual person who needs beauty to “keep down the overwhelm”.  I escape into music, or focus on the incredible complexity of God’s natural creations, or watch the most recent videos my son sends of my granddaughter flipping through the air off gymnastics bars and landing as softly as a butterfly or my grandson riding his bike without training wheels for the first time with his family woohooing and cheering as he makes his successful journey across the empty parking lot; or click on a comedy show…or just imagining Dale’s hand on mine assuring me that everything is going to turn out just fine. 

You know it seems that the most normal people I see are the ones that I don’t know very well!  The ones who seem to be sailing happily along on perpetually calm seas.  LOL. Yet in spite of myself, that’s the normal that I seek!

And yet… as Boyd K. Packer said; “It was meant to be that life would be a challenge.  To suffer some anxiety, some depression, even some failure is normal.”

My sister and I laughed at ourselves the other day while musing that along with our normal daily tasks we also seem to be given normal daily tests!

Do these tests and the challenge to pass them make for a more interesting life than sailing along on endlessly serene and unbroken seas? Does calling upon our faith and trust and continuously developing a better understanding of “What’s life all about anyway” make for a better journey?  I somewhat reluctantly must say it is.

And I've heard it said that “Anyone who imagines that bliss is normal is going to waste a lot of time running around shouting that he’s been robbed. The fact is that most putts don’t drop,  most beef is tough, most children grow up to just be people, most successful marriages require a high degree of mutual toleration, most jobs are more often dull than otherwise….The trick is to thank the Lord for letting you have the ride.”

So what is normal?  I suppose it’s a comfortable acceptance and even a gratitude that life changes, on a daily basis. It’s normal to expect that each day will be filled with challenges and filled with joy. It’s normal to experience a of myriad of emotions. From fear to loneliness, to ever changing challenges and some failures, to success and joy and unexpected answers and little miracles.

I look out of my window now, the skies are gray and rain is in the forecast, heavy rain…I’ve spent a silent and quiet Sunday morning writing and I’m alone…..but I’m fine.  It’s all quite normal.

May I just skip January please?

It occurs to me that I have never been a really big fan of January. It’s always cold, the holiday guests are gone, the tree and all of the decorations are back in boxes in the garage, there are no more Secret Santa gifts being left with a quick knock; the sound of hushed giggling and the patter of running feet at my front door. My mind is no longer occupied with what holiday food should I serve? What gifts should I buy? how should I wrap them? Life is supposed to return to normal in January but January memories for me now include Dale’s last days.  I’m coming upon the two year mark.  He died on the 27^th, isn’t that an ugly date? January 27^th? 

It’s been quite a journey, these last 24 heart wrenching months and I'm grateful that I have been able to share bits and pieces of it with you.

I am finally feeling at home in my new place and realize that I need to own up to my aloneness and actually establish it as the new norm. The quiet moments of morning are especially filled with the silence of being alone. Breakfast, doing the dishes, making the bed and making plans for the day…. I’m so grateful that I actually enjoyed and appreciated the mornings when Dale and I were together; so many happy years of sitting at the breakfast table watching the world awaken through the windows!

Tears threaten to fall as I type this memory so I open my desk drawer for a tissue and think, “Oh I need to organize this drawer” and then realize that I hadn’t performed my family’s annual tradition of cleaning out a drawer on New Year’s Day.

It’s a tradition we have had for many years (as traditions often are!) and it stems from a cold January day in the life of my great grandparents.

They had lived for many years in a picture perfect white farmhouse built by their own hands that was surrounded by their prolific orchards of apple and peach trees.  The home was tidy as a pin and filled with the laughter of 12 children and a mother and father who loved each other.

But then one day a distressed woman who lived in the town came to them with her sad story of her home being taken from her if she didn’t pay her mortgage and begged for financial help. She promised if they gave her the money she needed she would be able to repay them quickly with money she was to receive soon.  Out of the goodness of their hearts they agreed and mortgaged their home and farm believing that they would be repaid before the payment was due.  Sadly, the woman was dishonest and never intended to pay them back.  When the mortgage came due, they had not been repaid, the woman had spent the money and their home was confiscated by the bank.  They were told that they must vacate the premises on New Year’s Day, January 1^st.

The eldest daughter was married and living many miles to the north where there was land to homestead. Forty Acres of land could be theirs if they would clear the sagebrush and turn it into a working farm.  The only living arrangements available in that rugged frontier in the dead of winter would be a dug out which was a large cavern dug into the side of a hill with a door.  This being their only hope they packed up their belongings and on the morning of New Year’s Day dear Great-Grandma was standing alone in her beloved but now bare kitchen wearing her traveling clothes and dabbing her eyes with a delicate hankie. Great Grandpa opened the door and seeing her there wrapped her in his arms and whispered, “Well dear, we have everything packed and ready to go now except for the little children’s handprints on the wall.” 

The wagon loaded with their precious items and precious children headed to the train station where they were surprised to see the entire town waiting for them. After many tearful hugs and handshakes they climbed aboard and their friends sang “God Be With You Til We Meet Again” and waved their white hankies until the train was out of site.

The subzero weather in a dark and windowless dugout for the long winter was a challenge for the family but the parents would not allow discouragement or discontent.  The floor was swept and swept and swept until the dirt was hard and then white washed.  Pictures were hung on the dirt walls, beds were constructed and the children slept side by side by side under layers and layers of homespun quilts.

With spring and the thawing of the soil, the family cleared the land and built a home. A new home, a new start.  A few winters later, Great-Grandpa caught pneumonia and died at the early age of 52. Great-Grandma continued to raise her many children and manage the farm, never remarrying and living a full and productive life for the next 31 years.  She is one of my heroes.

And so in the memory of that sad New Year’s Day as the family was packed to move ~ our family cleans out a drawer and then puts it back in order as they did with their lives. 

I turn and look over my shoulder at the handprints on my wall.  My wonderful son and daughter-in-law have sent me my precious grandchildren's handprints each year for 6 years now (because of this story) telling me with the very first one that if I ever move I can take their handprints with me. So it was a poignant moment when I took them off the wall on moving day after Dale died and oh so carefully packed them to move from our home and they are hanging here in my new home now.  Handprints that span the generations with a message of hope and courage, love and tenacity. One that makes me feel as if my Great-Grandmother is telling me to never give up, and that I can do this.

I'll clean out that drawer now and make it through January just fine.

My Palomino Ride

Over the years, in times of stress, I have resorted to visiting a childhood memory that lulls me away from the anxiety of the moment and into a peaceful escape.

An unconceivably beautiful carousel, which had originally been crafted by skillful hands in 1926, was purchased from another city by my childhood home town’s Chamber of Commerce many years later.  It touched the ground in our city park the same summer that I touched down in the maternity ward of the town hospital.

Through the years as I grew I watched the magnificent horses go round and round while the calliope music wafted through the air compelling me to hop on until finally I was old enough and tall enough to ride by myself! I purchased what seemed to me to be a magic ticket and ran to the pony that I had long since chosen as my favorite of them all.  A cream colored palomino with a flowing blonde mane and tail.

“Oh you’ve chosen a fine one!” the carousel man said as he hoisted me up onto the saddle and wrapped the soft leather security belt around my waist which fastened me securely to my steed.

I ran my hands lovingly along the smooth painted surface of the mane and leaned over to look into my pony’s big brown eyes.  “Hi” I whispered and felt we were already good friends.

Then the music started and the carousel slowly moved forward. I reached for the brass pole in front of me with both hands and closed my eyes, around and around and around we flew.  Up and down in a happy world with the rest of the world spinning by in a blur.

These exhilarating and yet peaceful moments in time have morphed into a liberating and centering meditation memory for those frazzled moments when I needed a quick mental break from stress in my later years.

I mentioned in a previous blog that I have trudged through the stressful journey over the last two years since Dale died and I am now finally at a virtual blank canvas ready for me to paint what’s next for my life.

It occurs to me that the realization that I actually have control of this pivotal time of my life is making me lean towards a desire to avoid stress!  Why would I ask for more? Aren’t I entitled to a break from stress for heaven’s sake?  I find that I am even very guarded about letting in the stress of the terror that is happening in the world right now.   Because…for the first time in a very very long time…it’s all about ME now!  And this ME wants peace. What possible good can this ME, all by my lonesome self, do that would be of any use anyway!

I have the flu today. The kind with the deep cough that won’t let me sleep kind of flu. The kind that forces me to stay home today; this rainy day, and think about what peaceful and self-absorbing things I want to plan for myself.  I settle down into the comfy chair by the window and watch the rain hit the window and send droplets slithering down in artistic patterns. I consider drawing a raindrop and then I glance over and spy a magazine I selected (for future use) at the local visitors center.  A travel magazine.  I pick it up and flip through it.  I land on an article by Susan Moore titled  “Stress? Bring it On!”  

Really? I think!  In a travel magazine!!  But I start reading it in spite of myself!  Her first sentence reads: “Stress. The name itself is synonymous with all negativity in our lives”

“You’ve got it right there sister”, I whisper in my froggy voice and I read on. She writes (and I paraphrase here):

“Our lives are the byproduct of our decisions. It isn’t the stress that gets us; it’s our belief that we deserve better. You only deserve better when you work to be better.  Earn your better!” …“We have the ability to change. Every action and every inaction has a consequence. Do not be a victim in your life. Meet your stress head on and do something about it. Realize that some things are out of your control, and that’s OK, but most things aren’t. As Ghandi said, “be the change you wish to see in the world.”

She ends with a suggestion to: “Spend less time trying to be happy and more time trying to be useful”.

I know without looking that a blank watercolor paper is taped to my drawing board and my mind wanders to an idea I’ve had for quite some time of a sequence of motivational images that I have wanted to paint. But then I’m instantly hit with the all too familiar stress of whether I’m good enough; reminding myself that my first attempt at this project was sitting in the shredder pile…

And then, my phone blings.  It’s the Daily Message that I signed up to receive each day and it’s a quote by Kim B. Clark today.  It says simply “We do not have to be perfect, but we need to be good and getting better”.

So, OK, I climb off my safe AND peaceful AND stress free mental carousel ride and start sketching. It will be a challenge but I’m already feeling happy and perhaps even useful.  So…bring it on blank white canvases - both real and metaphorical I prefer the consequences of diligent actions to the consequences of a safe and stress-free inaction.  And that thought alone gives me hope that I can be a part of the change I wish to see in the world. Even if it’s just a small contribution, it can be my widow’s mite.

And so my journey into widowhood continues with new challenges.

Live and Learn

I had an Ah-Hah moment this morning.  Interestingly it wasn’t as the shower water turned to an icy spray just as my hair was lathered into a riot of white bubbles and it wasn’t when my brain registered that in my new place I CAN’T run the dishwasher, the clothes washer AND a hot shower all at the same time!  No, the Ah-Hah hit after I had screeched; then blindly flipped off the water; leapt out of the shower; wrapped my head in a towel to keep the shampoo suds from dripping into my eyes and wrapped my shivering body in a warm robe then rolled my eyes, shook my head and muttered under my breath; 

”Well….Live and Learn!” 

And then….bling....

It occurred to me at that moment just what a gift those two things are to me.  Such a precious gift of still being Alive.  And amazingly, I can still LEARN.  It’s a flippant little statement, “Live and Learn” one that I’ve said and heard many times over the years but now, when I know how quickly life can be taken, and how there is still so much I want to do and learn that this good old throw-away statement changed direction and marched to the top of my motivational list as a highly valued mantra!

Like my water heater’s capacity, I often learn things the hard way.  I’d like to avoid that form of learning in the future as much as possible.

I’ll always remember a hard lesson learned the early autumn day when I was six years old while walking around the yard of my Grandpa’s old white farmhouse. I had picked up a twig and was dragging it behind me in the dark green grass when my eye caught site of a teeny-tiny bird falling through the air from the branches of the giant apple tree and bouncing abruptly onto the thick carpeting of lawn below. I ran to it, and oh it was so tiny, no feathers yet, just a bit of hair on its flesh colored body and skeleton wings. His oversized eyes were closed tight but his yellow beak opened and closed as if to say; “Whoa, what just happened!!”

I gently scooped him up into my hand and examined him closely to make certain nothing was broken, looked up to locate his nest and then tucked the trembling little body into the pocket of my sweater.  I climbed up on the white picket fence next to the tree and reached for a branch, pulling and inching my way up, up, up. My sweater caught on a sharp branch and R-I-P but that didn’t matter, I was on a mission to bring the little fellow back to his home.  I arrived at the nest, found a good branch to sit upon and felt inside my pocket…all was well there!  Whew.  I pulled him out and gently dropped him back in the nest with his brothers and sisters.  “Where’s your mommy?” I asked as I carefully tapped each one on their cute little heads and did some nest cleaning by pulling out some of the brilliant blue cracked shells.  Then I settled back on my branch chair and pulled a bright red apple hanging from another branch to munch, pleased as punch with my compassionate service.

I heard my Grandpa calling from down below.

“Up here!” I called back. Grandpa was a tall man, with hair as white as a baby lamb and eyes as blue as the broken robins-egg-blue shells that had been in the nest.  He was close to 80 years old but he was easily able to hoist himself up to sit by me in the giant 50 year old apple tree.  I told him what I had done and thought I would get a good pat on the back.  But instead, he said, “Oh dear. When a human hand has touched a baby bird, or a nest, the mother robin might not return”. The apple fell from my hand as the tears fell from my eyes. I didn’t know!

“What will happen to them?” I sobbed, feeling more miserable than I had ever felt in my whole 6 years of life.

“Well, I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ll watch to see if she returns but what I do know is that the Bible tells us that Heavenly Father knows and loves each and every little bird and he will protect those little birds or take them safely to live with him again.”

“Is Heavenly Father mad at me?” I asked Grandpa.

“I’m sure He knows that you were trying to help and that now because you know, you’ll do better next time…Live and Learn”. And he climbed out of the tree, lifted his arms and helped me down.

I prayed and prayed that Heavenly Father would forgive me and asked if He would kindly take care of the little birds and to please tell them I was so very sorry.

When I came back to the farm a week later, Grandpa didn’t mention the birds so I didn’t ask.  I assumed the worst and then pictured in my mind the little birds sitting by Heavenly Father singing Him a cheerful song.

So, today, I am committing to learn something new every day while I’m still alive. Never before has so much information been so readily available for learning and learning the easy way, not the hard way.  In fact, I think I’ll just start out every day by saying “LIVE AND LEARN” and have it be a ‘woohoo’ instead of an ‘oops, oh well’.

Possibilites

I awoke before daylight this morning, a thing that is not so very hard to do on a winter’s day when even the sun itself wants to sleep in just a tad longer. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I slipped out of my warm bed and into my fuzzy slippers that were waiting by my bedside and padded into the living room. I blindly clicked a switch and the lights on my Christmas tree illuminated a cozy corner of the room and touched my heart with a gentle joy.  I noted that there are still no ornaments on the tree, just the white lights shining among the branches like tiny little ice crystals.  There seemed to be a hope in the simplicity of the sight. A feeling of possibilities.

Through the window I could see just a touch of daylight.  I wrapped my robe more tightly around me and walked to the large window that looks out over the rooftops of the charming homes in my neighborhood and the banks of the river with the pine-tree-covered hills beyond. Everything appeared to be white. I stood entranced as if watching a beautiful stage being slowly illuminated.  As the lightness grew I could see snowflakes the size of goose feathers silently falling and I was again struck with the beauty of the quiet simplicity and pureness of what was unfolding before me.  Again, in that moment, a feeling of hope and possibilities seemed to recharge my lonely heart.

I walked to my studio desk where just last night I had tidied up my paints and brushes and attached a clean white watercolor paper to my art board.  This morning it appeared to be another beautiful white enticement with a hope of possibilities waiting for my touch.

My stomach growled and I suddenly remembered that yesterday I had purchased a box of hot chocolate mix in anticipation of the arrival of my grandchildren on Christmas Eve, so I headed to the kitchen to heat some water and to take the bow off the new mug that I found on my doorstep last night just moments after I heard the knock on the door, no one was there, just the mug in a festive bag and no gift giver’s name on the card. It had my initial on the mug which was filled with candy and nuts. It came at a moment when I was feeling discouraged and more than a little bit lost.

For over two years I have known what I needed to do.  From the time of Dale’s illness I knew that I needed to help him fight, take him to the many doctor’s appointments, survive the sleepless nights trying to comfort him while he courageously dealt with the pain. Then, his death and knowing that I needed to take care of all the things related to that horrific and yet in the final moments, beautiful event. The sudden new requirements of widowhood, the lawyers, the bills, getting the house ready to sell, giving away so much, going through Dale’s many things with all of the memories attached, packing, moving to my sister and brother-in-law’s home that became a beautiful bridge between the then and the now periods of my life while I still worked at Dale’s business and searched for a new home. I finally found my place and then came the quest to fit into smaller quarters what I had packed away in storage, establish a new décor design, buy new furniture, pack up (again), retire from work, move in and work at the task of getting settled.  Fill the pantries, establish a routine, become familiar with my surroundings, where to shop, where to get gas etc. etc. etc.

And now, this morning I realize that the angst I was feeling last night stems from the fact that I’ve done it - All those things on my to-do list.  My life now is a blank canvas. No wonder I’m concerned, when was the last time my life fit into that description? I’m a bit stuck with this new realization.  Nothing and no one (at least of the mortal kind) is guiding or directing my steps through the long days now. Everything and everyone else is tucked neatly into their places now. I’m not responsible for anyone or any thing really. It’s actually a little unnerving, somewhat confusing and quite lonely on the other side of the long, rough and unexpected journey that brought me to this destination in my life.  

I think I should give this cartoon a new caption now being: 

                     “Ok, I’m Finally Here!!…Now what?”

And then in my mind’s eye I see the me of nearly 10 years ago pulling my carry-on bag out of the overhead bin of the plane that had landed in Copenhagen Denmark after a long and often times bumpy journey across the American continent and the wide Atlantic Ocean. I was alone, I didn’t have a plan other than it was something I had always wanted to do since I was a child and now here it was, my ancestral home waiting for me to explore; an entire country filled with possibilities and all I had was…time and a desire to figure out why I had been given this opportunity.

I pour the boiling water into the mug and the hot chocolate is now too hot to sip so I take it into my study. I see a blank paper on my desk. It’s my “to-do” list.  And normally, in the past, it would be filled with more items than I could possibly do in a day’s time but today it doesn’t even say “To-Do”, just a blank white page. I sit at my computer and open up a blank white Word document....

I’m suddenly reminded of a statement by Larry R. Lawrence that I read recently:

"Our Heavenly Father knows our divine potential. He rejoices every time we take a step forward.”

And so I take a drink of the hot chocolate, set it down, look at the blank screen, pick up the mug again and take another drink, it’s good and it’s warm and it’s comforting and I begin to write.

The sun is up now, there is even a break in the snow clouds. As I take on the task of stepping into my next reality, I realize I need to reach into the inner me. The time is mine now and I don’t want to waste it in any way. I need to pray for comfort and ask for an understanding of what I am to do now, at this new juncture:  this actual arrival at blank canvases and possibilities.

I remember standing at the quarry in Carrera Italy and thinking of Michelangelo’s statement that he would look at a block of white marble until he could see the figure inside that needed to be released and then he would get to work. And then later while standing at the Academia in Florence I studied and absorbed the mastery of his work - Atlas, a prisoner escaping from the stone.

Clearly, it’s a time for me to bundle up in my warmest attire and take a walk along the shore to think and pray and seek to understand how I can release the inner me now.  The me that is focused on being right here, right now and determining how I am to fill in all of these blank white canvases, both real and metaphorical.

I’ll keep you posted on this next un-requested step of being a widow!