I sat in a dark basement unsure how to operate a complex power tool when Mike approaches and I ask him why he bought so many complex things. He knows what I really mean,

"Why did you die and leave me with so many complex things to figure out?"

For once we aren't rushing into each other's arms, we aren't clasping to the wisps of each other that still linger in our subconscious. We just stand and talk, face to face. Like the soul mates we once were.

"When I had the choice to die, I couldn't resist. It was one of those once-in-a-lifetime opportunities".

I huff a little air out of my nose. My mind goes back, almost 3 years back. To the morning he lay on the couch, between this world and the next. He had survived before: I had revived him, others had revived him. But this time he chose to float further down the stream of nothingness. Losing his full consciousness to the void.

I tell him I understand. I can't hide the pain, but it doesn't boil on the surface like fresh blisters anymore. He leans down and looks me in the eye, "I am sorry I don't get to visit like I'd wanted, I don't get to see you grow up. I left a lot of pain, you and Mark took the brunt of it."

I remember last year at the cemetery - 2 years after. The only person who seemed to ache like I did was his closest brother. The sight of each other was almost too much for either of us to bear. The only other person his little brother Mikey loved as much as him, was me - and vice versa.

One last thing strikes me as my alarm starts robbing my time with Mike short: he isn't magically better. I am not talking to the Mike I fell in love with at 17, or the Mike that sits atop the pedestal in my memories: the one carved of the good times and not the bad. I am talking, albeit rationally, to the Mike that left.

There is no illusion that the mental illness and brain injuries that sold our time short would have reversed and graciously re-instituted our marriage.

Regardless of his decision to float away, we would never have lived the life we had planned. Those dreams were not meant for us. Even if he had chose to live, our marriage and love story had already died.





Thank you for joining June's Widowed Blog Hop. I hope you'll stop by the other widowed bloggers and send them some love. 

http://samanthalightgallagher.wordpress.com/widowed-blog-hop/


Samantha of the Crazy Courage blog
Janine of One Breath At A Time
Red’s The M3 Blog
Christine of Widow Island
Tim’s Diary of a Widower
Running Forward: Abel Keogh’s Blog
Tamara of Artful Living After Loss
Jessica at Buttons to Beans
Missing Bobby: A Widow’s Journey
The Grief Toolbox
The Widow’s Mite: Encouragement for Widows
Widowed Yogi
Choosing Grace Today

Forgiveness is the swan dive of freedom off the cliff of anxiety.
Can we muster the courage?  What if we-
Forgave ourselves
Forgave our partners for dying
Forgave our in laws for not understanding.

Is there a way to grant forgiveness
for transgressions you don't understand?
The search for responsibility: 
to sort the seed from the shaft,
truth from the pain that bore it.

There is power in accepting guilt,
The enticing illusion of control within reach.
Sometimes I can't stand the pain of reality.
Like a cold glass of vodka, soothing its way down the spine:
I delve into the fantasy that his voice is only a phone call away. 

Its a tempting trap.
One that I all-too-willingly step into each time I walk the trail alone.
Every damned time. 
The bear trap of guilt snaps through my bones and entraps my consciousness. 
Keeping my sanity captive until I manage to pry and drag my battered body away.

Limp and bruised I try harder to listen to the warnings and rationalizations:
I did the best I knew how.
It was his time.
There was just too much pain.

But not tonight.
Tonight I write to you with one leg stuck in the trap
and no more energy to battle.
My fingers are chilled and raw.
I have spent every night for nearly a week
flogging myself for each and every mistake.

I see Mike in my dreams,
watch the double hop on his right leg when the left couldn't keep up.
I find him unconscious again and again.
Watch the news of his car "accident" over and over.
Feel the deep emptiness in my chest when he would cry to me for help.

Every. Time. I. Am. Helpless.

I am bludgeoned by a subconscious
replaying each scenario to find a way out.
Like an investigator rewinding footage
in my relentless search for meaning.
If only I can find why,
maybe....

Maybe he could grow up,
Maybe he could breathe deep and laugh,
Maybe it's all a mistake.
Maybe he could be loved.
Maybe he could love me.
Maybe everything wasn't a mistake.
Maybe, just maybe he could live.

Welcome to monthly widowed blog hop. Please stop by my friends and fellow widowed blogger's sites and leave them some love. I hope you enjoyed the piece of my soul that I left for you today, please leave me some love in the comments as well.
With love and light,
Jess


Samantha of the Crazy Courage blog
Janine of One Breath At A Time
Red’s The M3 Blog
Becky’s Choosing Grace Today
Marriott of Miracles and Answers to the Prayers in the Life of Marriott Cole
Christine of Widow Island
Robin of The Fresh Widow
Tim’s Diary of a Widower
Running Forward: Abel Keogh’s Blog
Carolyn at Modern Widow’s Club
Andrea of International Brotherhood of Single Mothers
Tamara of Artful Living After Loss
Jessica at Buttons to Beans
Missing Bobby: A Widow’s Journey
The Grief Toolbox
Ferree of Widow’s Christian Place
From Me to We: A Young Widow’s Journey

 Baby widows, trying to find humor in "deer widows weekend"
I tell you - we have dark senses of humor!

(Post Publishing Note: I wrote this over a year ago and it has had well over a thousand page views, people who, like yourself, or someone you know searched for "baby" or "young widow" please don't feel as isolated and scared as you do. You are not alone.)

I identify myself as a baby widow.
Why?
Well probably because I made up the term.
But the story is simple...

The day after I received the horrible call I sat at a computer and tried to search "whats next?"
Mr Google didn't seem to know what I meant.
I tried searching for "young widow", hoping to find direction.
Instead I was horrified -
a "young widow" is one who loses their spouse before age 50.

EXCUSE ME! I am 25! 
I turn 26 next week, 
tomorrow is our 2 year wedding anniversary, 
what do you mean 50? 
My parents aren't even 50!

What does that make me -
a baby widow?

Yes, a baby widow.

I sent a text to my cousin
(married the same day, widowed one year earlier)
What are we - baby widows?!
She replied back that she still didn't know what we were,
But she was sorry I joined her ranks
"Baby Widow" fit as well as anything else.

So who is a baby widow?
Someone whose heart was broken before it was even fully developed.
A baby widow lost her future before she had even begun to live it.
A baby widow cries about the children she never got to have,
the legacy that has been lost, the connection severed.

Mike's 27th birthday - taken by my first "baby widow sister"

Baby widows cry next to grave sites,
and onlookers carefully ask if you are visiting your parents.

Baby widows get "hit on" when they transition their wedding ring to the other hand -
young lustful men sense the opportunity and assume divorce.
But baby widows are cunning, and a little bit spiteful of innocence -
they quietly savor the shock of putting a cocky gent in his place with words like:
"dead husband", "widow" or "cemetery".
Even better if you can sneak "autopsy", "cancer", "corpse" or "suicide" in there,
but those opportunities are harder to come by.

Baby widows become crusaders.
Their youth and feelings of powerlessness revolt against the sadness
they can't allow this world to push them so far down.
They rise back up
with a vengance they fight for anything they can:
better FMLA coverage, cancer screenings, suicide prevention, MS treatment, widow's support.

They tirelessly support each other.
There is nothing more important to a baby widow -
than the well being of another baby widow.
It is why we show up with bottles of wine to "help" clean out garages.
Why we hold each other while we sob about the sale of a house.
We offer to pick up each other's kids from ballet -
because we know the betrayal of the heart that comes from one more family member not getting why we don't "have it all together yet". 

A baby widow is isolated.
Not because she necessarily wants to be,
but at an age when your friends are either partying hard, or having their second planned child
who could possibly relate?

Friends have barely begun to lose grandparents,
and a few unfortunate ones have lost parent(s)
You start identifying those friends who "get it".
Those whom you don't have to tire yourself out
by trying to put on your "public face".
Death eyes I called it.
Those who had looked death in the eyes,
and were daring to continue living. 

Baby widow hear thoughtless things:
"you're pretty, you'll be remarried soon"
"at least you didn't have kids"
"this is all for the best"
"haven't you moved on yet"

The worst is when its from your own family.
The ones who supported you and celebrated at your wedding,
now barely 3 years later, struggle to look you in the eye
as you prepare your husband's grave for its one year memorial.
They wonder why you return.
Why you wipe the dirt, leaves and snow away.
Why you swear at his parents every time you come here.
Why can't you just let it go?
When in your heart you can't let go the one thing you were supposed to do
as his wife, was to ensure he was cremated - and scattered.
You curse his family every time the snow is deep, it means they haven't visited.
The cold hard earth that they interned him in.
Now he's lonely, not free on the breath of the plateau.

My pseudo ceremony with fake fire-pit ashes, but real tears.

A baby widow fights these feelings of inadequacy
as she begins to put her life back together.
She tries to date, but finds the pedestal hard to see around. 
As is the glaring fact that she has already failed.
He died! How much worse of a wife can you find?
Who would possibly want to stand where a dead man stood.

But baby widows are nothing if not resilient.
Baby widows love as if there is nothing left in their souls.
They wake up and find the sunshine -
or put on a record and find some within their own smile that sneaks out.
Baby widows are a miraculous breed of impassioned, dedicated, beautiful souls.

They will always get back up.
They will even have the strength to give in,
to look inside,
to examine how to do it better.
They will always find a way through.

Baby widows inspire me.



PS. If you like this post - please consider following me (available to the upper left)

Via Creative Commons

When someone dies you wonder why the world keeps on moving. 

People keep posting funny jokes, 

and pictures of their lunch on Facebook. 

You wonder why everyone else is so crass -

how could they be happy at a time like this?

Eventually the anger and resentment fades

with the cold realization that the loss of those most dear to you, 

didn't affect others the way it changed your world. 

It is weird to me that today, people experienced horrific loss

-and in many ways everyone did look up and take notice

and the world stopped moving - just for a minute. 

PS. I haven't left, deserted you or fallen off a bridge. I tore the ligaments in my elbow, making typing complicated and painful. I will be back to my blogging, yoga-ing, and krav maga-ing badass self in the near future. 

With love and light, 

Jess

In general I feel like I am able to fit into normal society with typical emotional and physical reactions to life. I can at least fake it until I get home. The auto shop is one of those places that, even 2 years later, invokes complete "widow brain".

feels like the world is coming at you like this

Widow Brain (noun): The state of complete disbelief and inability to remember facts or function logically after the death of spouse. See Also: break downs at grocery store, mechanics, car pool lane and any serious/mundane decisions points. Visualization can be seen at right:








Today I took my car to my usual mechanic's office, at the entire other edge of town, so running on my lunch break wasn't the brightest idea. This is the mechanic that I used when I lived on this side of town (read: when I lived with Mike in "Our House") (also note the inherent potential for underlying anxiety at getting off the exit which used to mean "home".) In spite of all of these things, I was cocky: I figured it would be a quick "nothing big" visit. I needed an oil change and my check engine light had come on over the weekend. But since I have a 13 year old Subaru, I wasn't worried about the check engine light, it wasn't flashing the impending-doom flash, and old Subarus are notorious for ghost lights.

Via

I was lucky enough that my little brother was headed to the same mechanic's for his emission and inspection. So he brought me a Pelligrino and I shared a bite of my lunch and we chatted and harassed each other like brothers and sisters do.

Then came the lecture from the mechanic:

• I apparently use the wrong gas (didn't know that was possible)
• I also apparently drive a legacy like a baja (whatever that means)
• not enough undercarriage washes (like I even knew that was a thing)
• dented exhaust (apparently, from a family reunion up a dirt road NOT meant for low clearance vehicles)
• leaking power steering (I don't want to deal with it!)
• leaking oil ("if its our fault I'll warranty it, but if you're adventures punctured something it'll be several hundred dollars")

And my not so composed responses:

• Uh huh
• huh?
• Sure
• Great
• Bring it in when?
• ok
• whatever
• Can I leave now?

I realized as soon as I pulled back onto the freeway to hurry back to work (after my now TWO HOUR lunch break) that I hadn't heard a thing. I called my brother = not that much help. So I called the mechanic back and explained that I had just been panicking instead of listening. He laughed and said "as soon as you left I turned to the other guy and told him you didn't get a word of that".

Its true. I panicked. I was shaking and in a cold sweat. Cars aren't my thing. Mike dealt with cars needing to go to the shop, he even dealt with oil changes. (I've learned that cars still need oil changes even when spouses die. ITS TRUE! Even when your husband dies, you're supposed to remember to take your car in for an oil change. Even if you haven't done that yourself in 6 years. Otherwise you have to pay to rebuild the engine. True, and pitiful story. )

I am reaching a new normal in so many areas of my life. But there are still these Kryptonite issues that humble my cocky-ass and remind me that I'm not so special. I can't defeat loss. I have good days and bad days, and sometimes both at once. In some ways I think its kind of (nice isn't the word) comforting maybe, to know that there are still places that Mike's life affects mine, for better or worse. Its good to be reminded that his impact in my life is still there. 

You can watch the tree today because it is still alive, but it is only alive because of the rain and the nutrients of all the years before. 

With Love and Light, 

Jess

Lately I have noticed a change in myself. Something shifted. I no longer automatically refer to Mike as "my late husband". There are a lot of people who don't even know that I was once married. When he comes up in anticdote I sometimes refer to him as "my first husband". But always with a smile.

A year ago, I couldn't imagine not speaking about Mike. Not making sure that EVERYONE knew that I was once married, he had left and now I was a widow. Doctors, grocers who inquired about my crying over the produce, mechanics who questioned my inability to make a decision without staring at my phone - wanting to call Mike but not knowing the number to heaven: all of them heard that I USED to have my act together, and death ripped it apart.

Maybe its because I'm less "apart" these days. I don't feel conflicted, or even guilty about living. I don't feel mad at Mike the way I used to. And I don't feel like I need to justify his absence with the shock word "widowed".

This doesn't mean that I feel any less widowed, I guess I don't feel just widowed anymore. I've been married to Mike in death longer than I was in life. We spent 8 (mostly) happy years of our lives intertwined. That may be a lie. We probably spent 6 1/2 (mostly) happy years and 1 1/2 insanely hellish (with blotches of joy) years.

I believe that being with Mike was the most revolutionary force in my life to date. But that doesn't mean he, or even his death, has been the only force. The sands of the desert are scarred by wind, sun and water. Etching deep samskara or scars/grooves that show the next rounds of breath and tears the paths that have already been carved.

via

There will be more pain, there will be more loss. There are more arguments, more relationships. Though each is affected by the existing scars, the new experiences shape the scenery and are constantly changing it into something new.

My landscape has now been shaped by so much since the loss of Mike, that though the chasms of his death remain, the lines are no longer sharp and the edges not so steep. They have been weathered and worn with time and patience.

via

Here's a song that I heard that completely expresses how I feel about Mike and our marriage. It brings happy, contented tears to my eyes every time. No Regrets.

 Darling, no regrets
I'm so glad we met
Even though we made a mess
I'm glad we said yes
Darling, no regrets

You know I love you still
and I always will.
Love is not a test,
I know we did our best.
darling, no regrets

oh darling,
no regrets
oh darling,
no regrets

Darling, no regrets
Here's to your success
may all you do be blessed
i wish you every happiness
darling, no regrets

oh darling,
no regrets
oh darling,
no regrets

- "No Regrets"  Forest Sun

With Love and Light,
Jess

Bored - Moyan Brenn

I am bored with grief.
I want it to retire,
grief is tired. (or I'm tired of grief)
Its like the drive to work -
I know every turn,
every pothole, every advertisement.
And I'm bored.

I want to take a new road
The side street with lush trees
cute little houses,
and kids walking to school.

I'm so sick of grief.
Its not even really traumatic anymore,
just worn-out and tired.
I see it coming and I just sigh
"oh this again, really?! We've done this before"
can't we change the channel?

My grief is becoming similar to a video
not one that I like,
but one I know every word to regardless.
Like the favorite of my little brother that was always playing.

Akin to Beauty & the Beast - I know every word to my grief story.
I can recite it without even thinking.
It can run in the background for a while before I even notice.

I have lots of other emotions,
lots of other movies.
But time after time,
every month or two,
something happens
and that same old dingy film plays again.

Today I am bored with grief.
But it won't turn off,
and I can't find a good side road to take instead.



With Light and love, 
Jess

Christmas 08
Mike, Me & my fav. nephew opening stockings

Muscle Memories

When I first lost Mike I didn't know how he smelled, tasted or felt.
I couldn't remember. 

I worried that I had lost those feelings forever. 

When I started dating, and then falling in love again, it felt even further away. 

It seemed like when I tried to think of holding Mike's hand, all I could conjure was "hand", 

this was indistinguishable from my new man's hand. 

I stumbled on the above picture today and it took my breath away. 

I could smell that sweatshirt, 

feel that day old scruff on my neck, 

taste those earlobes,

run my fingers through that wiry hair, 

feel what his giant hand feels like, 

stretching my fingers apart in an attempt to interlock. 

I could feel Mike again. 

This is an amazing realization. It feels like muscle memory. Akin to getting on a bike for the first time in a decade. I can truly feel Mike again. It took getting over two years away from the trauma of losing him to realize that he hasn't entirely left. 

I've felt shocked by my ability to recall Mike with my senses once before. When packing for Golden, Colorado's thewiddahood.com retreat I pulled out Mike's old sweatshirt from the box of clothing I kept hidden in the office closet. I put it up to my face and smelled. Inhaled all of the molecules of that sweaty neckband. I almost vomited, or passed out - or passed out in my vomit. Holy cow. It was overwhelming. I went to text a widda friend, and accidentally texted my boyfriend in my shaking haste. (He was a little stunned, but recovered gracefully.) 

I sat in my office and sobbed, truly sobbed. For one of the few times since Mike's death I allowed myself to cry alone. I usually didn't trust myself to really breakdown when alone. I knew what Mike's demons had led him to, and I extrapolated that to mean that I could never really let my grief, PTSD and heartache rule the show. As such, I tried to have a safety net if I really needed to break down.  I would either wait until I had to leave in 30 min,  someone was coming over shortly, or there was someone in the other room so I couldn't really be alone with the nitty gritty freak out indefinitely. But not this afternoon. I cried unabashedly. I wasn't alone. I had Mike there holding me. I held his sweatshirt, breathed him in, felt his presence, allowed myself to feel his love, and allowed myself to miss him. 

I look back on this day with fond memory actually. I remember having a glimpse of Mike again, not the "background task" of grief, but a front and center show of the man I missed and loved. I wasn't mourning a loss, I was missing a man. A flesh and blood person who truly existed. Smelling him again brought his actual existence into focus. 

This is what I experienced an hour ago when I found this picture. A "holy sh*t!! I loved a man that existed. A man who loved me, and I loved him. It really happened. I can feel/smell/taste and touch it again." Thank you muscles for remembering Mike, even when my crazy brain thought I had lost him for good. Thank you for saving pieces for me to find again later. Breadcrumbs back to memories. 

With Love and Light, 

Jess

I hope this message finds you well and happy. Anyone had similar circumstances? A picture that brought back memories that other pictures failed to elicit? A smell that took you to a moment in time? 

Complicated Love - used by Creative Commons

"When I saw how much pain love could bring I felt sorry for those in love, when I saw how much joy love could bring I envied those in love." - Unknown


Many widow/ers have a beautiful love story of the man/woman who passed long before their love could ever run dry. Of kissing someone and not knowing it was going to be the last time. 

I knew I'd kissed Mike for the last time. 
Not because he was physically ill. 
But because we filed for divorce. 
The day we decided that we could not continue to hold each other back, 
we both left work early, curled up in bed together and cried. 
Cried and cried 
and held each other as if there was a death in the family. 
It was the death of our "family".

We cried for the hopes and dreams that would never be, 
we mourned the relationship that never reached the potential that we dreamed so vividly.
We hated that we were giving up, 
but neither of us had the strength to carry ourselves 
and the gimping, bleeding, festering relationship any longer. 

We praised each other for the accomplishments and goals we set for our new lives. 
I was going to continue doing yoga, 
Mike was going to finish school. 
We would find our true selves again,
then remarry someone new.

The plan:
Learn from the mistakes of our marriage, 
and find our friendship again.
We always were best friends. 
We were good at that. 

I was so excited for him to find his path. 
I could see it vividly....
he would finish school, find a pretty young woman, 
more in-line with his parent's expectations - 
and they would raise a family and be happy. 
I wanted this for him. 
I loved him so much that I wanted him to find his peace, his family and his future - even if that meant without me.

That may have been my plan, 
may even have been Mike's plan, 
But that wasn't fate's plan. 

Turns out, 
I wasn't the one holding Mike back.
I was the one treading his water.
I was the one fighting the demons.

Sometimes when you let the baby bird out of the nest, 
they fly right into the window.
But you still had to let them fly. 

I don't regret filing for divorce.
Mike and I agreed it was the right thing to do. 
But he never signed the papers before he took his last breath. 
A breath filled with desperation, escape and inhalants.

Filing for divorce doesn't take away the pain of death,
Death doesn't take away the pain of a failed marriage. 
Both are ranked as the most stressful events of your life
Having both together... 
if you haven't experienced it....
just be kind to those who have...
you can never understand...
how deep the betrayal, 
how tangible the regrets
how abandoning the loss
and how isolated you feel. 

Being a divorcing widow is a unique form of solitary confinement. 
You feel
isolated from your family, 
hated by your in-laws,
distanced by your friends,
and (sometimes) chastised by other widows. 

To all of the other separated, divorced, or 
just-plain-complicated widows out there. 
You aren't alone, 
You aren't a horrible person.
You are loved.
You did the best you could.

Try to love the man you married, 
and forgive the man who died.
In time, that combination of love and forgiveness will give you peace. 
Nothing removes the pain, 
But the ever-elusive peace can be attained, even for only moments. 


*Author's note: If you like this post, please share it. Let the "complicated widows" know that they are not alone, that you stand next to them and realize that their pain is just as real. 



With Love and Light, 
Jess

You can also check out this, and other blog posts at http://www.thewiddahood.com/2012/08/27/divorcingwidow/

I had another visit from a sweet recent widowed employee George. This was my third visit since his wife passed 4 weeks ago. I really had never met the man before this.

He came in to change more forms and pulled me aside hurridly and whispered "But I have one more question too."
"Sure George, whats up"
He is obviously upset and keeps wringing his hands, then he looks at me: "What do I do with this?" Pulling at his wedding ring, "Someone asked me when I was going to take it off, and I didn't know the rule. Do I have to take it off?"

Ughh! He nearly broke my poor widowed overly-sensitive heart!
"George! You do whatever the hell you want to do."

"Ohh, ok. Someone asked me, and I didn't know the answer and I thought I'd ask you." He's still nervously fidgeting with his ring. Obviously not satisfied that he was doing the "right thing". **But I am a little flattered that I have suddenly become the how-to-be-widowed expert to a man 2.5 times my age.**

I inhale a deep breath and realize that attacking him into standing up for himself probably isn't the best technique (though usually my go-to method regardless).

"George," I ask, a bit more gently. "Do you still feel married?"
"Well, yes...."
"Then you are still married. Until you want to take that ring off, or move it to the other hand - you have no obligation. Some people leave their wedding rings on for months, some leave it on for years - some only days. Its completely up to you."

He seems relieved that he doesn't have to leave behind his precious ring. We continue on with the rest of the meeting.

...

I really love that he comes and visits me as often as possible. He always shares his achievements in the grief world.
"I made it past one month!"  "I figured out the washing machine!"
We all need a cheerleader sometimes

...

I have struggled with ring issues in my own life too. I used to get really excited when I had a "widows event" because it was the only time I gave myself permission to wear my wedding rings. I had convinced myself that my new boyfriend wouldn't care for me and wouldn't accept me if I was wearing Mike's wedding rings. (I had no basis in reality for this, but it was a really big fear - deepened every time someone asked me... "well what does "E" think about that?" Now I realize that it doesn't matter what anyone thinks about it - as long as I'm being true to myself.)
I LOVE my wedding set - it is very similar to my grandmothers - because it was her mother's. I knew the second that I saw it that it would be my wedding ring. My grandmother had just returned from visiting my cousins and passing out family heirlooms *like grandmas do* and she asked me if I'd like "this". And she pulled out the most perfect wedding set I'd ever seen. It had a unique "crown-like" setting that held the stone close instead of putting it on display and a simple white gold band. It currently had a crystal in it because it was my great-grandmother's "traveling set". This was even more perfect! Mike and I got to pick out the stone we wanted and make it our own. This ring, it just means so much to me, even if I only got to wear it for less than 3 years.

Around my 1 year mark I got myself a present, a "widows ring" . I wore it every day....For about 6 months. Then that didn't feel right anymore either. I felt strangely smothered. I felt stuck, and the ring that brought me closer to Mike when I bought it, felt like it was holding me in the past. So I took it off and added it to the ever-growing pile of unworn Mike-related jewelry.

Band of black stones on a gold side for Mike,
and a band of white diamonds on a white gold band for myself.

I used to carry Mike's wedding ring in my coin purse. I would pull it out occasionally to see the inscription of "My Favorite". It would make me smile to remember that mine says "My Only". Complete with the quotation marks because the form asked what you wanted inscribed and I wrote "my only" and "my favorite". When they arrived, just days before the wedding, and no time to fix it - I had to learn to live with "  ". Much to my own dismay.

I think I may replace the diamond in my great-grandmother's setting with a sapphire someday so it can be reclaimed as my own and worn on my right hand. I'm not really in an expensive-jewelry-wearing place right now. So we'll just wait and see. I also wish I wouldn't have been so timid about listening to my heart and its desires with my ring in the beginning.

I hereby give permission
(because sometimes we feel as if we need to be granted permission)
to anyone to do anything they want
with respect to their wedding rings and their own grief.
Tell them "some crazy widow who calls herself 'button and beans' told me I could!"

What have you done with your ring? 

I've seen beautiful tennis bracelets made, new rings, necklaces....feel free to share your story here - it gives hope and validation to other people who are fighting the same fight.

With Love and Light, 
Jess

I was reading an inspiring book today about creating a world beyond poverty called The Blue Sweater. I was highlighting quote after quote on my kindle.
The words on the page were speaking to me:
not only giving respect but insisting on respect, 
how much crueler the poverty of a broken spirit can be than the poverty of income alone,
listening as the key to leadership, 
action over talk as the catalyst of change. 

Then as I read I came to a line where I *gently* tossed the kindle aside and went running for the laptop because today's blog post had made itself known:
"My first-grade nun had instructed me that from those to whom much is given, much is expected. I was learning that this lesson had to be combined with Shakespeare's wisdom that one must 'to thine own self be true.' "

To thine own self be true.

That is the difference between the Jessica that stands and writes and bears her soul in front of you today and the Jessica of years and situations past.

I used to be too afraid to write, even a month ago - I couldn't comprehend who would care what I'm saying, and who would read. The fear of rejection was terrifying, so was the fear of success.

Who am I to write? Who am I to ask people to read what I write?

Then I realized....it didn't matter.

It doesn't matter.

If nobody reads this blog, it doesn't matter.

If someone dislikes this blog - still doesn't matter.

Will I embarrass my family, myself....doesn't matter.

I learned something from a dear widow friend of mine almost 2 years ago - Don't go along with something if it is not being true to yourself. You can only grieve, recover, flourish and thrive if you are true to yourself first. This was again reaffirmed a year ago when I met another radiant widow who again had vibrancy, purity and a spirit that was unmistakable. I asked her about her secret, for a second time I heard...following/finding your own north star.

The best part of being true to yourself is that you have nothing to apologize for.

Since I started on the journey of living for myself
I have never cried so purely,
I have never laughed so freely,
I have never loved so deeply,
I have never swam so naked,
I have never danced so confidently
as I do now that the only thing that matters is that I am being true to myself.

I have built a fence,
traveled internationally,
studied yoga,
gained control over my food allergies,
buried a husband - but remained open enough to love again,
counseled friends,
attended a music festival with 80,000 other people,
cried in public,
sold my house,
Most importantly I have released old dreams so that new ones could take seed.

It doesn't bother me if someone doesn't like that I am writing, or what I am writing. Because I don't write for them (obviously!) If what I write doesn't speak to their soul as something they need to hear, so what? That fact does not negate the fact that it may speak to another person's soul.

In the past 2 weeks I have seen that I can instil confidence, inspire self-reflection, encourage peace. Just by being willing to find myself in the open.*Who would have thought?*

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness that frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?
Actually, who are we not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small doesn’t serve the world.
There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.
We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
It’s not just in some of us, it’s in everyone.
And as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fears, our presence automatically liberates others.
Source: A Return to Love-Marianne Williamson, 
as quoted by Nelson Mandela in his inaugural speech (1994)

My purpose in writing this blog is not to be pigeonholed into any category (widow, activist, yogi), or to break any stereotype (that of the young widow, that of the bleeding heart, or the granola hippie).  Instead, it is to be true to myself. To honestly convey the feelings and motivations and inspirations that drive my day.
Hopefully to inspire and encourage even one more person to do the same.
I used to shy away and hide myself - for fear of being judged, for fear of not being good enough.
I will fear these things no more as long as I am true.

THIS WILL BE MY 30 DAY CHALLENGE:

To write down something every day that is TRUE.
True to myself.
It might be funny, it might be insightful, it might be tough to say...but it will all be true.

Another musing from my yoga mat.

Source

I have an idea to bounce off of you. I heard these two phrases while in yoga class on Saturday:


"What did you offer of yourself to your practice."
"Observe what you have received/accomplished/reached during your practice."

These concepts have changed the way I've try to frame my day.

I believe that the energy you send into a day is your offering to the universe.

OH WOW! You're telling me that when I'm having a crappy day, I should look back at what I was offering to the day, and see if it was only giving my own steaming piles of grumpy right back at me?

Source

Sometimes we think that day after day is crap that is just beating us down. And some days are just crap - unfair piles of crap - we all have those. And nothing is going to change that. But what if some of it lies on our shoulders.....

What if we are accountable for what we are offering the universe. 

What if we can only observe the good, if we offered good?

I like to believe that there is a balance of good and bad in the universe. If I wake up and put more negativity into the world - running late, spilling the coffee, tripping over the cat, yelling at the other cars, and arriving like a giant grumpy face - what else is the world supposed to give me back?

Source

I have offset the balance with my own negativity.

BUT! If I sing in the shower, pet the cat when I wake him up, listen to happy music (even if I'm late) and try to take it all in stride....maybe the events of my day won't have been ANY DIFFERENT - but when I look back and reflect on my day - what will I remember? I'll remember the sweet kitty who licked me, the goofy looks I got from other drivers while I sang and danced in the car, and all the other mediocre details that made the day not so bad. 

Source

Your Challenge:

Take a second when things are calm tonight. Observe what kind of a day you had. Observe the good and the bad. Observe what you are offering the universe: but don't judge. If you don't think you put your best offerings forward today - set the intention of what kind of energy you want to offer tomorrow. Maybe even leave yourself a sticky note in the bathroom or on the fridge.

Your Response:

What is your intention for tomorrow?

What little things can you do to improve your day?

What did you observe that you'd like to remember?
Maybe make a list of little joys and happiness to remember on those days when the negativity won't stop flowing.

PS - My happiness of the day....Its my birthday and I'm listening to the new Joss Stone album!

Link

When to be a widow. 

(this was written in May 2012 when I was playing with a transition in my widowhood experience)
I am a firm believer in always being yourself. Also, I believe that you shouldn’t hide a part of yourself just because it makes you or someone else uncomfortable. I believe that this goes for the beauty and the quirks alike. However, it has come to my attention that now that I am a year and a half away from the death of my husband, maybe I don’t need to be a widow all the time.

This is difficult for me. First off, I guess I don’t even identify myself as a widow all the time, but I reserve the right to feel like one whenever I darn well please. (Weddings, funerals, grocery lines, doctors offices). I don’t like the idea of people saying that I’ve moved past my grief. I consciously know I have moved FORWARD in my grieving, but I don’t think I’ll ever move past it. It does consume less of my time, and when it does consume my time and attention it is in a much different manner.

I used to spend hours at a time hiding in my office supply closet with a trash can and a box of tissues I kept hidden there (probably a significant factor in the end of my employment just a few months after Mike passed). Now my widowhood is expressed in spending hours at a time talking to other widows and widowers online, via text or on the phone, sharing my experiences and trying to help them see love and light in their own. I don’t sit and cry alone very often, but I often think about being a widow, what it means to be a widow, how to support other widows better, better outreach, better support, more funding, how to fundraise and how to help. I also think a lot about how to mesh the love that I have for my late husband with the love that I have for my new partner. How to be fair to both of them, more importantly how to be fair to my heart that won’t give up the ghost of the man that taught it to love but in turn wants to continue life with a man who reciprocates that love.

For example when I am helping a fellow widow move and her friends ask me how I know her, is that one of those moments when I am supposed to lie? She is moving to be with her new lover and mate, and I am no longer a “recent widow”, so are we now just “friends from a while back” so that nobody has to deal with the awkward “ohhh you’re too young to be a widow”... … … “yeah, I told God that and he didn’t listen”... … … “ok I’m going to move this box to the truck now”. But in some way, wouldn’t that also be denying who I am. I am not JUST a widow, but I am a widow.

And I think it is important for people to see that widows do grow up into [partially] functional individuals full of love and life and happiness. I am still a widow even if I’m not fresh and raw.

I don’t think of “widow” as a negative word anymore. I think it is one of the biggest POWER words in my arsenal. Widows are not weak and powerless. We are all, as humans, essentially powerless and widows are freaking amazing! We have loved and lost, and still have the gumption to rise out of bed in the morning. We know ourselves more intimately than those who have not lost because we have seen ourselves when we were mere shells and chose, yes CHOSE, to keep going. I love being a widow. I love the look of shock and awe that people get when they ask why I have a gap in my resume and I tell them I took some time off after my husband passed suddenly. But mostly, I love that I am still standing and that I am still living so I get to tell them all of this with an unabashed smile. I love that they get to see the beauty of a widow, not just the news story and fleeting thought of pity for the wife and kids left behind.

The Grief Bus

Last week I had George in my office. A man in his 60's changing the beneficiary forms because his wife died  suddenly 2 weeks prior. He came in reserved but strong, braced to complete another set of forms to remind himself that she was gone, and he was alone, and things were changing.

I didn't have the form he was expecting, I had the other ones that I knew he would need. He looked confused. I said "I'm just trying to help. My husband passed 2 years ago, trust me - you'll be glad you changed your withholdings. And if you need any help with the forms, let me know. I've done them all."

He seemed to need a second to absorb it. During that time, I kept filling things out and showing him where to sign. Then, without looking up, he said "I'm sorry for your loss, but I'm glad you understand."
I gently said, "I do"
He continued... "It just hurts. Not the way people think it does, I mean actually physically hurts,"
He looks up with these vulnerable eyes and pounds the center of his chest "right here, ya know?".

Yeah George - I know

....
A week later, I wake up.
The day after completing my 2nd year without Mike.
I have to roll out of bed, because I can't stand.
My back is in too much pain to climb the stairs at work without stopping for a break.
And I remember George.

I remember that I'm not alone.
We all feel the pain of grief.
Not just the emotional, but the physical pain.

Our bodies react to trauma and stress.
I can't hit a significant date without wanting to sleep all the time, but actually sleeping - never.
Then the body goes out. First I'm comatose on the couch because it hurts to lift my arms.
Then I realize I'm staring at the wall because it hurts to think.
Lastly, I wake up in the morning and have to roll because I can't stand until I've done some yoga.

Whats ironic- I'm not in emotional pain today.
Just that nagging - I've been hit by a bus feeling.
I feel relieved that I've passed the date.
Relieved to have it past. I'm officially in the third year.
Now I just have to build my body and immunity back up.
And recover from being hit by the grief bus.

....

My plan:

yoga - I have a class pass that has to be used soon. I will use that and start yoga-ing more frequently.
read - get back into the calm of reading at night.
massage - I'm going tonight to try to work out some of the muscular issues that have been plaguing me.
connecting - I will be genuine and connect with friends and family.
truth - I will be honest with myself about how much I am going through, and try not to judge myself

Your response:

What do you do to recover from the grief bus?
When do you notice the physical symptoms outweighing the emotional ones?

With love and light for your journey,
Jess

Wonderful women - All widows - All living life
Truly some of the best spirits I've been blessed with knowing. 

Why I love being a widow

It probably sounds morbid and crass
insensitive or uncouth to say,
but it is my story: “I love being a widow”.

I am lucky
I have found myself while still young
through primal and fundamental loss.
Loss of a husband at 25.

I do not like who I was before
before loss, before widow.
Turns out, Love isn’t enough
when mental illness is involved.

I was defining our relationship with negativity:
secrecy, isolation, guilt
short tempered, impatient, embarrassed
I missed the beauty
of what time we had left.

I “motivated” him with anger and intolerance.
Success and reprieve eluded him
the doctors were wrong,
nothing could bring back the boy I fell in love with
or the man he was trying to be.

Only substance offered moments of silence,
the last drops of a compressed can quieting the persistent chatter
that existed in the empty house.

Comfort wasn’t found in my arms,
the arms of his wife.
Only disapproval and hope for the future.

There was no future,
I wish I had loved
instead of trying to fix what couldn’t be.

After loss
I found myself.
No longer hiding
in the faults of others.
Bare and broken,
grieving and without purpose:
I chose to get back up

It was obvious that something was missing
something fundamental.
My life before had purpose,
but it was missing love and acceptance.  

I cannot control the darkness in others
I try not to try.
To do what I can to accept and love
in the moment.
Moments are all that is left
when our loved ones are only memories.

Weakness makes us human
acceptance of weakness makes us humble,
Humility allows us to ask for help
Asking for and receiving help is the pure beauty in this world.

Why do I love being a widow?
These words that I have written,
they did not belong to me two years ago.
I lived in fear of the inevitable
I lost my chance to love.

Now:
Now I love, Now I accept
I accept fear,
I love the inevitable darkness

When you hide from the darkness,
the demons only grow.
Standing in line like angry travelers at customs.
They are waiting for you to acknowledge them
to stamp their passport and invite them in.

You leave them in line,
they grow:
angrier, harrier and far more foul smelling.
Tempers flare and they stomp their feet.

Only once you have invited them in
Brought them tea and cookies and asked
“what business do you have here?”
Then you are loving your demon,
showing it respect. Giving it validation.
It is always there for a reason.

Only then are you open,
open to the universe and open enough to let the demons pass through.
And leave you in peace.

I love my demons,
I love myself,
I love the raw beauty of widowhood
and the opportunity to continue to love and accept others during their rawest time.

*Previously featured at http://www.griefproject.org/stories-list