Sometimes I crown myself queen of imagery–the princess of metaphor–archdeacon of allegory. I have read a lot of spiritual stuff lately. I have learned about the 4 agreements and the power of now. I have even read up on the new earth. This I have added to the ongoing search that is mindful meditation and celebrating the moment in which I live. From moment to moment it helps. Then I slip back into the habits of planning, hoping, dreaming. All those habits take me out of now and put me firmly  into a tomorrow that does not yet exist. When I am not in now, I don’t think I exist. The I that is me is somewhere else–in a non-existant future, or a distantly recalled past. What was yesterday? What was last year? Who is this woman living in my body?

So, here is the mountain. The mountain is now. It is one foot up, one foot down, repeat. I have no idea what I will find. I expect it will probably be whatever I give attention to in the moment. It usually happens that way. I find what I am looking for whether I know what that is or not. I find what I am looking for whether I recognize it or not.

In this moment, right this minute, I am at peace with myself. Cannot speak for 5 minutes from now, but in this moment I am at peace with Lane dying and going on to whatever comes next for him. I am at peace with my children aging and raising their families–each very differently–but neither with less love than the other. I am at peace with my home, with my sustenance, with the level of comfort I still maintain. I am at peace that I have somehow put a very nice man on the defensive and I don’t understand how, only that he is. He will either come round or not. It will be whatever it is. Now it is quiet and it is just me. ..and it is ok.

I am at peace that my work may not be my work for much longer. It isn’t that I am weary of my job, My job may just be weary of the changes that the past year has made in me. I cannot say I see the differences, but those who make the decisions about staying and going do. I think I am aware, present, but my reality may flow through a different filter. Whatever happens, I will do my best in the moment and try not to take it personally. I will be impeccable with the word and believe that He who has held me this long in my life will not let me go just yet.

While I wait for that nice man to stop being afraid, I will live this moment as best I can. The breath flows softly and sweetly in and out of my lungs.  The love falls softly and sweetly out of my heart. Were he here I would stroke his arm and tell him he is in no danger from me. I have no plans for his life or his freedom. I have no plans for my own. In this moment I want to be, and I want to see the other side of the mountain as each moment unfolds.

I am coming back to life. I have been somewhere between living and dying for most of the past year. Now, I am pretty sure that survival is immanent, if recovery is not. Lane is dead. I am alive. I choose to live instead of crawling into the niche beside his ashes to wait for my turn.

Some weeks ago I started seeing a very nice man. He is not unhappy with his long-single condition. I doubt we are on the same relationship path…I fully expect to marry again or at least find a new best friend and lover who will share my life on whatever terms we find agreeable. He seems content with evenings out and walks near the beach from time to time. We seldom plan more than a day ahead. Sometimes I wonder if I am an afterthought more than a conscious intention.

With Lane, I knew. I can never replace Lane. He is one of a kind. He will live as the part of me he shaped. He will live in my heart and in the way I make a chocolate souffle and in every glass of zin I pour. He will be the same thought if ever I am able to whip up another chocolate mousse–he married me for that mousse, you know. I digress. I am seeing a very nice man. Seeing has many levels of meaning–choose one.

Tonight I am going to a dance. I will meet another nice man at this dance–for which I dressed fully two hours prematurely. I worry about what my friends will think. I worry about what they may say when I am out of the room. I wonder if it is too soon, too much, somehow unsavory to kickstart life again. I worry and I wonder about nearly everything except what I feel.

I feel alone and I do not like it. I am a woman primarily built for caretaking and I have no one to take care of –with the possible exception of an ill-mannered Yorkshire Terrorist. So I am actively meeting single people. I am meeting single women who have single friends. I am meeting single men by whatever means presents itself and I am actively looking for a new best friend, a new chapter heading for the next segment of my life. I am living. How effectively is yet to be seen.

I am going dancing. I don’t know how long I can stay on my feet. I don’t know what to do with my purse and key I don’t know whether my shoes will pinch before the evening is done. I am ready. I am dressed. I buckled my own shoes and combed my own hair. I look nice..particularly nice for 60 years old.

I am going to dance and I do not care who is watching.

I am insured through my employers, yet I see the therapist I have seen off and on for 15 years. I pay the full tariff even though I could retell the whole darned life thing and start over with someone I don’t know–at much less monetary expense. Even the paying is a struggle.

When my mother was ill I went a little bonkers. Alzheimer’s will make the people around you crazy too I have learned. At that moment, I could deal with the fact (for me) that I was unraveling and needed to find a bottle of clear fingernail polish (or its emotional equivalent).

I could not deal with reliving the whole “in the beginning…tell me about your childhood” thing. I went back to see Colleen because I WOULD NOT retell the whole pile-o-stuff I had already explored. She knew. She didn’t need life history 1-A and 1-B. I needed the context and the trust I have with her. One of the things Colleen helps me put into perspective is “what is enough?”

I did absolutely everything that could be done to make Lane comfortable and secure in his last months…and still in the dark of the night I wonder was there something I missed? There must have been because he is gone. My thought process takes an unexpected left turn from rational to magical. Nothing I could do would cure cancer. Cancer killed Lane. Not me. I was not even responsible for the Second World War–even though sometimes I am willing to take the blame.

I get wound around the axel over the difference between what I believe and what I know. I am learning that I can choose what I believe–what I give attention to and what I reject. It is hard work, staying rational, not going to places where there is no possibility of an answer. The grief, the pain makes rational thinking more difficult. I have to concentrate to decompose a thought or feeling from “Lane is dead; I am terrible.” To “Lane died and I was blessing to him while he lived.” All the rational evidence supports the latter.

Your life is yours. Your history is yours. I am 60 next month. I think I have at least a passing understanding of my life after high school. I have no understanding of yours. It is yours. So whenever I tell you what is working for me, it is just that…working for me (at least most of the time) and that not perfectly. “Advice is worth what you pay for it” is an old adage–I have heard it for years. I just want you to know that the advice–or more correctly–the testimonyI offer is not free. It came at a price, which I have paid. I am willing to share whatever might make your load a little lighter.

There is nothing wrong with me except that Lane is gone and I cannot seem to find myself without him.

We have a concert series here on the Ranch. I have worked on the committee for more than 20 years. I have wonderful friends from the committee, from the neighborhood, from the mens’ beer and softball society. There is always a week’s supply of hugs and kisses…and I am still alone. The music is a summer tradition. I go to the concerts, I pack the picnic supper for one, and I look for his face in the crowd. Most often I leave early because it hurts to look for what is never there.

I try not to dwell on the aloneness. I try to remember the love. But even remembering the love reminds me that there is not a soul in the world today who knows me as well or really ever wanted to.

Lane’s brother is ill. Yes, cancer. His stomach will be history this time next week. Lane died on February 20th. Bob’s surgery is July 20th. It isn’t nice that mom has so many unpleasant 20s so close together. I would try to comfort her, but I remind her Lane is dead and she doesn’t like to be reminded. She is 86. She can grieve or not however she wishes. I think we could have given comfort to each other but since she didn’t want to find out, we go through whatever these steps are 20 miles apart. I wonder if she feels alone. I wonder if she wishes her heart to slow and stop or if she wonders that it beats at all.

I was surprised that mom would not participate in the memorial celebration that had rock and roll ringing from the hills and 300 people eating street tacos and drinking beer to the memory of her son. I was even more surprised that she declined attending the inurnment at the National Cemetary–family only. She acts as if he is being obstinant in not coming to visit her. Or perhaps, I am keeping him away.

It is the end of another day. The hour approaches when all working women must tuck themselves in or risk very bleary eyes in the morning. The hardest time of the day is the half hour between the shower, sleeping pill, and the 11:00 news and the blessed relief of sleep. Sleep would be more blessed if Lane even came into my dreams but I cannot even find him there.

In the past month, I have learned that the world is very tolerant of the holes in my brain. When I called the management company, the nice lady was happy to reverse the charge. She just couldn’t quite figure out how to put the account in my name rather than his. He is dead. He isn’t answering the mail.

It’s not like they don’t have a complete profile of the property, including that my name is on the title. Indeed, by now, mine is the only name on the title. Note to world: DO NOT argue with a new widow. The waves of emotion that have absolutely nothing to do with property management or HOAs crashed over me in wracking sobs. I don’t want to do anything, particularly anything extra or requiring thought. Don’t ask me to find the title and send it to you when it is on file somewhere in your archives.

The waves crashed over me and they also crashed over the nice lady who was just trying to do as little of her job as possible. She felt bad. She called IT and yes they had the information…no problem. The name is changed. Just quit crying please, please?

Twenty five dollars is not the end of the world. I just spent more than that on a ledger that will not work for my accounts and I owe the government an order of magnitude more money than that (unless I figured the taxes wrong). This grief thing hurts. It makes me act like a crazy lady. It makes me feel out of control and out of my mind and really lame.

I am supposed to be kind to myself. How do I be kind to myself when I don’t even know who I am? I have been his wife for so long. His wife, his friend, his partner, his…what am I going to be going forward? I know I have to go forward. Backward is not an option. Dead stop is, I suppose, but it doesn’t appeal.

It has been six weeks–a month and a half–a century–a lifetime–the blink of an eye. I cannot tell time with holes in my heart.

Thank Heaven for books that tell you what normal is. I have never appreciated normalcy nearly so much. This is normal. This is okay. The books don’t get around to saying when it isn’t okay any more and when one has crossed the line between normal and truly wacked. I suppose that would be diagnosis more than self help. You have to have a license for diagnosis.

Just when I get used to sleeping more than two hours at a time, drugs or no, my head revolts and forces my eyes open. There are no orders for more drugs in the middle of the night. I read the descriptions on all my scripts–some are addiction risks–I don’t really want to take them as prescribed, much less play doctor with their timing and dosage. Addiction is one thing I know I can do without.

I wake in the night and reach for Lane. I listen for the more recent cadence of the pump that subtly and noisily changed the pressure in his matress pad. The slight and constant movement meant it was easier to keep him free of bed sores. It was a distracting helper and soothing in its constancy. I find myself looking for things that are soothing and things that are constant. Lane isn’t here–oh, I remember–heavy sigh, catch my breath, sniff back a sob, and go on to the next thought. What the Hell am I going to do?

Bread and butter is a constant soother. I would have expected cookies and milk but toast with butter melting in golden pools and rivulets seem to grease the constant grinding more effectively. I’d rather wallow in the butter than the pain. That is only partly true. I rather not wallow at all.

Tonight I went to see a silly movie with friends. Confessions of a Shopaholic is not going to win a thing at Cannes and Sundance would laugh it off the mountain. I have practiced retail therapy. I know that for a moment, in the moment between the wish and the purchase, there is a feeling of power and control. There are few other moments so certain these days. I try to keep my therapy to dollar stores and thrift boutiques. I don’t always succeed. Lane would have hated this chick flick. He would have teased me about the lack of action, pathos, and believability. I would love to have Lane tease me.

When I sat to write, I had a well defined thought about losing great hunks of memory, intention, and motivation between concept and commencement. I digressed, again. A shiny object caught my eye and, like the six-year-olds, I chased it down and, again, my attention lapsed.

I am becoming adept at writing lists and making pile of things I have to do. Some things have consequences attached to forgetfulness. Swiss cheese for brains only holds so long as an excuse. I wonder how long that is? When will “Get over it” replace “Poor dear?” The perfectionist/pragmatist in my head is already screaming for return to predictability. But I cannot predict when that might come.