Thanks!

I am sitting in gratitude, near the fire as the day slowly opens. There is so much to be thankful for.

I am thankful for all the relationships: with my amazing children, my wonderful sisters and my brother, their families, my parents, my aunts and uncles, cousins, my supportive friends. Connecting to so many interesting and unique people enriches me.

I am thankful for Alby and all the love, music, dancing, travel, great food we shared. I grew up with him and he gave me so much; his intuitive intelligence and his zesty, quirky way of being deepened me.

I am thankful for my life now. I am grateful that my brain works again and I can study, learn and grow. I am thankful for the opportunity to turn trouble into something good.

I am grateful for my new life partner. Our deep conversations, walks in the woods, travel around the world and the love we share lifts me out of sadness. He takes me to places I only dreamed of seeing, and shows me worlds I didn't know existed.

Thank you all. Thank you.

Identity Problem

"Who am I," the widow asked me. She was tall, with thick, wavy, grey hair. She wore a purple shirt with a gold linked chain; her glasses were rectangular with purple sides. "I left my parent's house when I was 20, and I've been The Doctor's Wife ever since. We were married for 51 years. I don't know who I am." She turned her hands up in the air, shrugged her shoulders then dabbed her left eye beneath the glass. "I didn't think I would cry," she said, surprised.

We were sitting in her comfortable living room, on opposite low green chairs. In addition to couches and lamps, the room had several tables with dozens of family photographs. Floor to ceiling shelves lined the walls, filled with books, a collection of Chinese jade and ceramics, partially hidden by more photographs. Many of them were family groupings of several generations. One showed a happy young bride dressed in a high necked, long sleeved gown, from which I surmised that the family was orthodox. I gently suggested that the woman married to the Doctor, who parented the children, who lived and loved in this home for so many years, was fully and vibrantly alive, even though, at this moment, it did not really feel so good.

The widow told me that she wandered through house, not quite believing that her husband is truly gone. According to her, she was in denial during the hospice process, convincing herself over and over that another treatment would work. For the past 9 ½ years, they had spent every waking moment together. Then she said that when she starts to break down, she remembers something important. She remembers that she is still standing, here in her house, with comfort and good food to eat, with her children and grandchildren nearby. She is even having company for dinner. She is, in fact, alive. I looked at her, as compassionately as possible. "I wish I could make this pain go away. But I am sorry to say there is no way to fix this. There is, however, a way to heal. It is called…Time."

There are a few things that she can do, if she wants to be proactive. She can nurture herself, carefully sensing what feels right and what does not. Slowly, she can begin to identify where her interests lie, what she likes to do. Perhaps she will decide to go to the Opera again; perhaps she will never return, preserving the memory of years of attending with her loving husband. Slowly, I believe that she will find her way through the grief to a renewed sense of herself.

At least I hope so.

Channeling

Last week, at the corner café, a woman in a perky straw hat and a draped red dress came up next to me to order her café au lait. "Nice dress," I said, smiling. "I like your shirt," she said back. I was wearing a leopard print blouse, since I was planning a visit to my cousin, who loves animal prints. "I don't usually wear this kind of thing," I shrugged. "Oh," said the woman, "you should wear that often, and more!"

"In fact," she went on, "you should channel your inner Janis Joplin. People will love you!! Go get some vests; you could wear a little fur here, there." She touched me lightly on the shoulder. "I hope you don't mind," she went on. "I am a designer and a little psychic. Really, you could go a little wild. We all should. "

How people will love me if I start to party (or at least dress) as if it is 1969 is quite puzzling, but I have been thinking about this all week. Would my inner Janis like lavender today? Dare I add a belt or a crocheted jacket over my dress? I am not sure if I can "channel" fur vests; I didn't wear them when I was a teenager and doubt if I will start now. I am not even sure if I have an inner Joplin; I was always more of Joni Mitchell fan. Then again, I was never a Marcie in a coat of flowers, nor did I dress in leather and lace. My hippy days were filled with peasant blouses and long skirts, bell-bottom jeans and vintage cashmere sweaters from my mother's closet. The thought of going completely retro so "people will love me" is both amusing and a reminder of how far I have traveled from the 16 year old, passionate folkie I used to be.

City life is filled with odd interactions like this, especially in New York. A glancing smile elicits a nugget from someone's life, a random philosophy or unsolicited advice from a stranger. A terminally ill psychology professor stands in the middle of a room full of people and states that, since nothing exists except this precious moment, he is actually not dying. Maybe tomorrow, who knows? The man next to me asks him if is he talking about positive thinking, and when the professor says there is no difference between him or me or illness or life or death, the man, a Jewish cantor, folds his arms across his chest and closes his eyes. I think the speaker is referring to Being, as in completely present, awake with each person and every interaction. He says his cancer is the biggest gift he's ever received in his life.

It is raining, and a flock of birds wheels by, swooping over the rooftop of the next building. A green parakeet with a bright red head hops on a rounded tile edge, cheeping loudly. It looks up at the other birds, then flies off in to the west, towards the river.

Presence

There is a quality we can achieve sometimes, a heightened sense of integration and focus. It is a transpersonal, extra-ordinary way of being, an indescribable sense of being more than the sum of our ordinary responses. When we enter this zone, we often generate a presence that is more centered, concentrated and open at the same time.

I have experienced this state of integration during artistic performance, when singing with others or dancing on stage, or in moments of sharing or intimacy. I have also experienced it during meditation practice, something I engage in rarely, I must admit. I am not particularly scheduled or disciplined in this regard, but have learned over the years how to drop into a calm state of open awareness for short spurts. The best meditation practice for me is a walking meditation, and sometimes a walk can generate this calm, quiet focus naturally, without engaging in a personal lecture to me on the benefits and necessity of meditating in the first place.

In preparation for my first public workshop, I invited a dear friend for a nature walk. We did not do this silently; we always talk about many things when we are together – our feelings, worries, relationship issues, goals in our fledgling endeavors – yet about halfway through the walk, everything came together. Time slowed, and my sensory awareness heightened, even as we continued to talk, stopping to notice the shape of green algae on the water, separated by patches of clear, reflection filled stream. The scent of goldenrod and butterfly bush caressed us and the breeze blew our hair around. She gathered acorn caps for an art project; I picked a yellow flower and stuck it behind my ear. We took the long way through Buttercup Nature Preserve, walking through tall pampas grass by the lake, skirting the fence on the hill behind a farmer's hay field, passing the stone Folly, which we could hear before we could see, its creaky metal flag calling to us as it turned in the wind. As we moved from a rolling field into a mossy, tree lined forest lane, she said, "A nature walk is a meditation."

That quality of awareness, of heightened presence floated me to my workshop. It carried me through my slight surprise at the age of my group – they were much older than I expected. The focused feeling helped me easily adjust my plan to fit the seasoned hospice volunteers, and to begin by saying there was much I had to learn from them since they had so much more experience with Active Listening than I did. To be in the presence of a group of compassionate volunteers, who regularly sit with the dying as they move through their transition, was an honor.

This sense of concentration and calm stayed with me all the way home. It seems to have been felt by the participants too, since the feedback was mostly positive. One person even mentioned my "calm presence" as a workshop leader. Considering how jangled I have felt in the last month, I am grateful for a meditative nature walk. I think I should take one every day.

There be Grief Monsters

Widows call it a monster and it has a sneaky, surprising quality, especially after several years, post widowing. It rears its massive, ugly head suddenly, causing overwhelming sadness and a feeling that death just happened and no healing has taken place. I try to imagine what the Monster looks like, and see a large leer, something like a mastiff dog, with a lion's mane curling around its face. My grief monster is probably a line drawing, colorless, its teeth sharp and its tongue dripping. It has wings and a long tail, like the dragons wrapped around the edges of a medieval map of the world. It sneaks up over the edge of my waking life, curling its tail and breathing hot, fetid sorrow all around me, coloring my world dreary. The Grief Monster has a tendency to pop up at the turning of the seasons, or when the children leave to go back to their lives, or at 3:33 am. While it is no longer a constant companion, it has been hanging around a lot lately, taking a seat on the chair next to me, waiting for me to calm down so it can rile me up again.

The Grief Monster likes to create misinterpretations, to cause tears to fill my eyes when I am driving so I have to intuit the road rather than actually see it. The Grief Monster enjoys a good argument about nothing important, and likes to remind me that I am very small, completely alone and not particularly worthy, even though none of this is true. Except perhaps the small part.

I want to banish it to the nether realms, send it careening off the edge of the flat, dull world, burn it into oblivion so it will leave me alone. I want it to sit in a corner with my Inner Critic and have a slightly bitter cup of tea, discuss the price of goods in far off places and then take a long hike somewhere else. In fact, the two of them should get a place together, preferably in another time zone and only visit me when and if I invite them, instead of when I least expect it. I could conveniently delete their contact information from all inboxes and never see them again. Now, wouldn't that be nice.

Cold Calls

"Hello," I said into the phone. I am calling from Hospice, to offer condolences on the death of your mother. "Oh, thank you, I suppose," said the man." But I expected my mother to die, after all. She was 93. But, perhaps you don't know this. My wife died two weeks before."

I asked him how he was doing and if he had thought to talk to anyone. After all, the purpose of my call was to make him aware of the bereavement program, which includes lectures, support groups and even one on one counseling. "Well," he said, "if someone could give me a clue as to how to rebuild my life, I'd really appreciate it."

How, in the face of what seems like insurmountable pain do we find a way to go on, let alone build a new life? Yet, most of us who are widowed do manage to find a way to live fully after loss. We get up in the morning, we eat, breathe, we pay our bills, we continue to raise the children, go to work, in fact, we live. In the beginning, we are often surprised at our ability to get through the day. We are shocked that the sun comes up every day. I was amazed for months that the birds sang in the morning, building nests, mating, feeding their little ones. Numbly, we float through, or we bravely plough through with tenacity. We really don't have a choice; after all, we are still alive. It would be prudent to live well. In fact, this is the highest honor we can offer our lost loves, to continue to live vibrantly, passionately.

This man, who has suffered two losses back to back, cannot see how he will accomplish this, yet I am confident that eventually, he will. It takes time and he is only in the first months. My motto in the early years was to "proceed as if." Even though I kept asking myself, "Whose life am I in," I went through the motions until the motions began to feel natural and part of me. I identified things I loved, activities that gave me joy and forced myself to participate in them.

The man said that he just wants everything to get back to normal. I told him gently that he would have to find a new normal and that I was confident he would, in time. I certainly hope he does.

The Life of Peggy

For eight months, I visited a family in my town. A matriarch of 95, Peg had been admitted to Hospice for "failure to thrive," although she rallied with the wealth of services and support. Her 64-year-old son, a magnanimous, intelligent and outspoken man had returned home several years ago to care for her and his brother. The younger brother, a Down's syndrome man of 55 named Larry, liked hugs and often inquired if I was single, pointing at his brother with a sly look. I smiled, touching him on his rounded shoulder, saying, "Thanks for thinking of me."

When Larry was born, the doctors told Peg and her husband to institutionalize him immediately. They said he would never walk or talk. Her husband Ed said, "If he won't walk or talk, he can do that in our home." They nurtured him and fought to have him included in regular school classes. They created Special Olympic programs in which Larry was a wrestling champion. His brother said that he has no agenda, which also means he has no guile. A kind word, a smile and a hug go a long way with him.

Peg was frail but feisty, a strong character. I asked questions about her childhood, her marriage, children, and work. She worked in insurance agencies and for the FBI during the World War II. She was a member of the Fire Department Ladies Auxiliary,with whom she marched in the middle of the street late at night, after drinking through their meeting. In turn, I entertained her with stories of my children, of weddings, travel. When I went away, I sent back chatty emails for Ed to read to her.

I asked her if she would like to "write" a book, and scribbled as she narrated. She told me about her mother, who generously helped a family in need only to glance up in a mirror and find the woman stealing her rings. She told me that her mother stole ribbons from the cemetery because they were so pretty. She said a boy who stole her tricycle threw a "clinker" at her. When I asked her to define "clinker," she started to answer, then looked at me sharply. "Girl, don't you know ANYTHING," she snapped. We both burst out laughing.

Even as she and her sparse white hair grew thinner, whether in bed or in her chair, she continued to tell me stories for our "book." Ed gave me photographs to scan; there was a picture in a striped bathing costume, inner tube around her waist. There were dozens of pictures of her with girlfriends. They wore shirtwaist dresses, coats with fur collars, shorts and peter pan collars. They sat on blankets at picnics, next to men in uniforms. Unable to see the tiny faded black and white photos, she identified most of the girls as "Helen who lived in Iowa."

Memory is impressionistic, imprinted on our psyches with emotion. Years later, it is hard to separate fact from feeling. Capturing her stories was also impressionistic; time shifted. She would start to tell me a story of her childhood, then turn to her son to ask him about it. "Ed, remember when we…" she would query. "That wasn't me, Mom," he responded. I told her the problem was that she had too many Eds. Her father, husband, son, son-in-law, grandson…No one could keep all those Eds straight!

Peggy died peacefully, with her daughter next to her. Despite Ed's diligent care or perhaps because of it, she waited until he left the house for a rare errand. I arrived an hour later, and Larry wailed when he saw me. "My mother's dead!" he cried. "Can I have a hug?"

The Life of Peggy was pasted into a spiral notebook, along with photographs. I brought it to the funeral home and left it on a table for people to see. "Do you want to see my mother? I can't believe she's dead," said Larry, holding my hand. I patted him on the shoulder and told him how much she loved him. His eyes filled with tears. I thanked them for allowing me in to their lives, gave Larry one more hug, and left.