Small Woman with Big Shovel

It snowed again. I don't know why I should be surprised; it is winter and I expect snow.

I love it when it is falling, silently glittering in the light on the back of the house. This light is the Snow Gauge – it illuminates the velocity, the height of the snow piling up on the patio furniture. I peer out the kitchen window and guess at the depth – 6 inches, maybe 10. It is very pretty. It will have to be shoveled.

Out the front door, I sweep the snow away and discover that the blizzard dumped enough to come above the level of the porch. I take the wide grey shovel and start down the path. Alby made this walkway, laying the grey bricks in a herringbone pattern. We argued a lot about its placement, which he wanted to put to one side. I insisted that our symmetrical, Currier and Ives farmhouse needed a centered path. The path is here, somewhere. The snow is heavy.

The cars hunker under bulky white swells, the ends of their windshield wipers jutting out. I shovel a path towards the road, staring at the frozen mound left by the Town snowplow. This is more than two feet high and mixed with ice and sand. I can't do this, I mutter to myself as I continue shoveling. The snow seems almost blue in places. Blue, white, flecked with sand, it doesn't matter. It has to be shoveled.

Several trucks with snowplows hitched to their front ends drive by. Most drivers do not look my way. One of them waves jauntily. I am now closer to the end of the driveway; I've tried pushing the snow but there is too much of it. I settle on a two-stage method, lifting the top portion off and tossing it over my shoulder, then going in again to the same place, sliding the shovel along. I CAN do this, I mutter as I notice another truck. I stand up, and strike a pose, trying to combine frustration with the right touch of exaggerated helplessness. "Look at me, I am very small and this is a lot of Rather Heavy Snow." The truck belongs to the Highway Superintendent, and he shakes his head and drives by. Then, he backs up. He lowers his plow and swipes away the edge his workers left across my driveway. He rolls down the window and shouts, "just helping you out a little!" With a smile, I thank him and wave him on.

The piles on the sides of the driveway are up to my shoulders now. I hack away, carry, shove, sweep and lift. I take a break by the fire for a while and go back out, wearing Alby's bulky black Irish sweater and finish the job.

Winter waiting

Here, at the turning of the year, again I am standing at a crossroads. I am longing to take action, to jump over the steps it will take to develop the next phase. I've been working towards this for the past two years, maybe longer. There is value in methodical steps, there is the necessity of incubation. And I can't, as it has been said, push the river, especially when it appears to be frozen.

I am often impatient. I like to move quickly, I want to make things HAPPEN. I am restless; I have been internal for too long. Perhaps fear is clouding the situation, which actually is a good one.

Winter is the time for stillness. The world seems to be holding its breath; I am holding my breath, trying to fend off the panic generated by what seems like an endless transition. When I relax, I realize that the process is going well. I have spent a lot of time studying, dreaming, seeding. I am ready to manifest, once that proverbial river thaws.

Getting through the holidays

Grieving is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. The world felt like brittle glass; an awkward movement might suddenly shatter it. Sleep was a problem, except when I dreamt that his death was a hoax. Waking was a problem because my mind did not work; I would start something, then find myself in another part of the house, wondering why. Some days felt so bad I simply cancelled them and went back to bed. Surely the next day would be better than the one I was in. Someday I would not feel so crushed, broken and lost.

In early grief, it seems impossible to accomplish even the smallest task. We force ourselves because we know no alternative. Food must be eaten, bills need to be paid, you have to work, the children have to go to school. These children (and teenagers) need you to show them how to get through this pain. They need a model of how to live while grieving, how to heal and enjoy life again.

Holidays are perfect for this. Creating a family celebration despite your grief, or even because of it will not be easy. I can't promise it will even feel good. But finding a way to keep your traditions, simplified if necessary, will ultimately help you and your children understand, in a concrete way, that you CAN get through the sadness.

You don't have to do everything, but it is better to continue your life than to cancel it. It will take time to find it but there is joy in the midst of your sorrow. Continue to love. Light some candles, put on some music, decorate, share meals and thoughtful gifts. Remember something funny. Give yourself a metaphoric pat on the back once the holiday is over – you managed to get through it. Be compassionate to yourself. Raise a glass of something and offer a toast of gratitude.

Here are some tips that worked well for me over the years.

1. Only do what feels right but add a tiny bit more than you think you can handle.

2. Proceed As If…as if it feels okay, even though it doesn't.

3. Identify the most important things to do and let go of the rest.

4. Don't believe anyone who tells you how long grief should last. No one really understands, even if they insist that they do.

5. Don't let anyone tell you how you should feel. Don't listen to anyone who says you are "supposed to" or you "should". If someone says something hurtful, ignore it the first time. They may simply be unaware. If someone repeatedly says hurtful things, stop having contact with them for a while.

6. Allow yourself to cry; holding it in is destructive. Go to a quiet place, give yourself permission, a time limit and let it all out. Roll on the floor if you feel like it, rock back and forth, do anything that helps you release the intense emotions that are washing over you. After you reach your time limit, slow your breathing and hug yourself. Be thankful for the release. Wash your face with cold water, give yourself a little shake and return to whatever you were doing.

7. Repeat number 2 as necessary.

8. Drink a lot of water.

9. Talk about your loved one, as naturally as you can. Other people will be afraid to mention the name, for fear of "upsetting" you. Bring up his/her name, casually, often. We honor them by remembering them.

I wish you all a peaceful, compassionate holiday.

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.