Rainbow Journey
The rainbow....
Yeah, the rainbow is that magical thing,
The thing that we want to transcend
Because of all it promises to deliver
Once we get to the other side of it,
If and when we do.
I have never forgotten a single rainbow--
Those spied as a kid at home or even in the old sod of Erin.
Rainbows give us hope and promise--
Something to cling to like a teddy bear at night
That says, "Everything is going to be alright."
They are like that hot cup of cocoa on a cold winter morning,
Or like the hug you so desperately need in your deepest abyss of grief.
Rainbows are what keep us afloat in the seas of uncertainty.
Rainbows are the bridge between strife and life
At its worst and its best.
A life unfulfilled and stuck
Looks to the rainbow for a shred of possibility
That maybe there is a brighter future,
A promise of something better.....
The path to a rainbow is part faith, part innocence, and part adventure
To get to the other side of that beautiful array of color,
You must open your heart and believe and never give up
Even though the terrain to the other side is steep and rugged.
The journey to the other side of the rainbow is long and hard.
The pot of gold is there waiting for you.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Twenty-Six Feathers
Twenty-Six Feathers
The phoenix rose up above me
Jerking herself in sudden flight.
I asked her, "What are you doing?
Where are you going?"
She said. "I am on a journey.
I have a lot to do."
I asked, "Where are you going?
What do you have to do?"
She was impatient and only said,
"I have things to do. You will see..."
I felt abandoned.
No answers. No help.
I always knew the Phoenix promised
A new life grown from the ashes of old.....
Every day I searched the ashes and rubble
For signs of life, signs of hope, signs of renewal.....
Suddenly a few feathers began to drop from the sky.
Those feathers were family and friends present in my deepest canyons of grief!
Time went on and I didn't find any feathers dropping my way,
Sure that my chance encounter with this mystical bird was a hoax or a hallucination.
New personal committments and a lot of hard work kept my mind off
Of any hope or expectations from the bird of fire.
Over time and through perserverance, many finish lines were crossed
Alone, yes alone with no expectations.
So often I would reflect, looking into the mirror,
Asking all of those questions and wonder,
What is the point? What is next?
Then a single feather droppped down upon my face.
It told me to look down, to look around.
I counted the feathers around my feet.
There were twenty-six feathers.
Each represented a person, an accomplishment, a victory.
She did not abandon me.
Her long flight had a purpose.
The bird said,
"Those were not my feathers, but yours.
Twenty-six feathers,
Each one for every one who loves you.
And one for every time you believed in yourself,
For courage, for strength, and for what you gave,
I gave back to you
For every year you had with your beloved."
Twenty-six feathers burn eternally
As a sign that I am renewed, alive, and live on.....
The phoenix rose up above me
Jerking herself in sudden flight.
I asked her, "What are you doing?
Where are you going?"
She said. "I am on a journey.
I have a lot to do."
I asked, "Where are you going?
What do you have to do?"
She was impatient and only said,
"I have things to do. You will see..."
I felt abandoned.
No answers. No help.
I always knew the Phoenix promised
A new life grown from the ashes of old.....
Every day I searched the ashes and rubble
For signs of life, signs of hope, signs of renewal.....
Suddenly a few feathers began to drop from the sky.
Those feathers were family and friends present in my deepest canyons of grief!
Time went on and I didn't find any feathers dropping my way,
Sure that my chance encounter with this mystical bird was a hoax or a hallucination.
New personal committments and a lot of hard work kept my mind off
Of any hope or expectations from the bird of fire.
Over time and through perserverance, many finish lines were crossed
Alone, yes alone with no expectations.
So often I would reflect, looking into the mirror,
Asking all of those questions and wonder,
What is the point? What is next?
Then a single feather droppped down upon my face.
It told me to look down, to look around.
I counted the feathers around my feet.
There were twenty-six feathers.
Each represented a person, an accomplishment, a victory.
She did not abandon me.
Her long flight had a purpose.
The bird said,
"Those were not my feathers, but yours.
Twenty-six feathers,
Each one for every one who loves you.
And one for every time you believed in yourself,
For courage, for strength, and for what you gave,
I gave back to you
For every year you had with your beloved."
Twenty-six feathers burn eternally
As a sign that I am renewed, alive, and live on.....
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Kindred Spirits and Unspoken Words
I walked into the room. Several tables were draped with crisp linen, with colorful summertime bouquets and lit candles atop. A large framed photo of a strong, strapping man along with several other smaller photos, his FAA inspector badge, his pilot log books, old newspaper clippings, models of airplanes, and a guestbook lined a long table. The big flat-screen television flashed photos that summed up a life that had ended unexpectedly. The widow turned my way, her eyes fixed upon mine. Her grief was new and raw. It was as if the rest of the world had temporarily stood still and frozen. We walked up to one another, our eyes and our embrace communicated more than any words could possibly say. I whispered, "I am so sorry." She said, "You know." "Yes," I replied, "I get it." Nothing more needed to be said, at least through spoken words.
Widows have a special connection. Some may say we are on the same page. Others will say we "get it." Those of us who are farther along in our grief journey understand the shock, disbelief, confusion, and pain all too well. We understand because we have lived it. We continue to live it. It is real to us. Those who have not lost a life partner cannot possibly fathom what it is like. They do not "get it." They can't. They haven't lived it. They haven't experienced it. The newly widowed are treading water in a vast ocean of uncertainty, fear, vulnerability, and gut-wrenching grief. They need someone who has been there to extend a hand that conveys understanding, comfort, and hope that will help pull them out of the depths of dispair, or at least help them remain afloat. And yes, those who haven't walked in our shoes can certainly be a source of love and support. But it is only those of us in exclusive membership of this loathsome club who can stand as living proof that survival is possible and real.
Almost two days later after the celebration of her late husband's life, I keep thinking about my colleague so freshly new to widowhood. I feel so much sadness for her. I know the days, months, and years ahead will be hard for her. I know she will miss the man she loved. I know the hard work that stands before her, the hard work of grief and redefining herself in this new chapter of her life.
Widows have a special connection. Some may say we are on the same page. Others will say we "get it." Those of us who are farther along in our grief journey understand the shock, disbelief, confusion, and pain all too well. We understand because we have lived it. We continue to live it. It is real to us. Those who have not lost a life partner cannot possibly fathom what it is like. They do not "get it." They can't. They haven't lived it. They haven't experienced it. The newly widowed are treading water in a vast ocean of uncertainty, fear, vulnerability, and gut-wrenching grief. They need someone who has been there to extend a hand that conveys understanding, comfort, and hope that will help pull them out of the depths of dispair, or at least help them remain afloat. And yes, those who haven't walked in our shoes can certainly be a source of love and support. But it is only those of us in exclusive membership of this loathsome club who can stand as living proof that survival is possible and real.
Almost two days later after the celebration of her late husband's life, I keep thinking about my colleague so freshly new to widowhood. I feel so much sadness for her. I know the days, months, and years ahead will be hard for her. I know she will miss the man she loved. I know the hard work that stands before her, the hard work of grief and redefining herself in this new chapter of her life.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Trading Death Stories
In my previous life, pre-widowhood that is, I recall people talking about lost loved ones. Since childhood, my parents and friends would share stories about their parents and other relatives who had passed on. I remember these being opportunities to share with a trusted loved one, the emotionally laced memories of the dead. When my brother Tom died unexpectedly at the age of 31 in 1982, the reality and impact of a loss of a close family member hit home with me for the first time. It was a devastating loss for his wife, his children (one of whom was born the day after his death), his parents, his grandparents, extended family, friends, and me. It sent the family reeling into a sea of grief for a very long time. When I think back, I think it is safe to say it was most likely the most horrible experience for my sister-in-law and her three very young children. At the age of 23 and newly married, I was so clueless about widowhood at the time. All I could think in my young adult mind was losing a beloved brother who was to others a wonderful husband, father, son, and friend. I didn't get the gravity of the whole widow component and honestly felt very clumsy around the whole subject and my sister-in-law--now with a great deal of embarassment, shame, and regret. Looking back as a widow, I wish I could have and would have done more. However I know that it was impossible because of my own life experience at the time or lack thereof.
In the past few years several of my friends have shared with me about the deaths of their parents, some laid to rest years ago and some very recently. I listen but am thankfully clueless as I am fortunate to still have my parents in my life as I write this. It is uncertain whether or not I will ever know what it is to lose a parent, but the odds are I will some day. I haved experienced the deaths of my late husband's parents which had a very profound impact on our life as a married couple. My male and female friends have shared stories about their deceased parents with a great deal of emotion that is only given permission to make its appearance out of trust. Some have reflected upon the grueling long illnesses suffered by their parents. Some have shared experiences about their dead parents appearing to them in dreams to offer assurance of comfort. They have shared stories that are very emotional and detailed, including specifics around the illness that lead to death, the care they gave to the dying, the death itself, the aftermath, its impact on family dynamics, finances, etc. In particular I want to recognize my male friends for their stength in grief because in our culture males are not supposed to cry or show sadness. My grieving male friends are not afraid to share these deeply personal reflections, nor are they afraid to cry in my presence. In my book, male or female, strength is shown through courage to express thoughts, feelings, and emotions freely with those you trust.
Widowed for over three years, I can listen to other widows/ers and say, "I get it." I can listen with a heart and an ear of experience. Our exact circumstances may not be the same. We may differ on cause of spouse's death, gender, sexual orientation, age, having children or not, culture, socio-economic status, extended family dynamics, religion, and much more..... Being a widow also makes me much more in tune with those who have had losses other than that of a life partner. I think the key here is to not only listen with an ear, but also with a heart. None of us asked to lose a loved one. None of us was handed an instruction book. The common denominator in losing a loved one is that we did not have a choice in this major life-changing experience. The best we can hope for is to have someone else who is traveling this loss journey to listen and maybe trade a story with us. For me, the most comfort I have found on this grief journey is knowing that there are others who have experienced similar losses. Because of that, I know I am not alone and I can traverse the vast deserts and the steep mountains of the journey I never signed up for.
In the past few years several of my friends have shared with me about the deaths of their parents, some laid to rest years ago and some very recently. I listen but am thankfully clueless as I am fortunate to still have my parents in my life as I write this. It is uncertain whether or not I will ever know what it is to lose a parent, but the odds are I will some day. I haved experienced the deaths of my late husband's parents which had a very profound impact on our life as a married couple. My male and female friends have shared stories about their deceased parents with a great deal of emotion that is only given permission to make its appearance out of trust. Some have reflected upon the grueling long illnesses suffered by their parents. Some have shared experiences about their dead parents appearing to them in dreams to offer assurance of comfort. They have shared stories that are very emotional and detailed, including specifics around the illness that lead to death, the care they gave to the dying, the death itself, the aftermath, its impact on family dynamics, finances, etc. In particular I want to recognize my male friends for their stength in grief because in our culture males are not supposed to cry or show sadness. My grieving male friends are not afraid to share these deeply personal reflections, nor are they afraid to cry in my presence. In my book, male or female, strength is shown through courage to express thoughts, feelings, and emotions freely with those you trust.
Widowed for over three years, I can listen to other widows/ers and say, "I get it." I can listen with a heart and an ear of experience. Our exact circumstances may not be the same. We may differ on cause of spouse's death, gender, sexual orientation, age, having children or not, culture, socio-economic status, extended family dynamics, religion, and much more..... Being a widow also makes me much more in tune with those who have had losses other than that of a life partner. I think the key here is to not only listen with an ear, but also with a heart. None of us asked to lose a loved one. None of us was handed an instruction book. The common denominator in losing a loved one is that we did not have a choice in this major life-changing experience. The best we can hope for is to have someone else who is traveling this loss journey to listen and maybe trade a story with us. For me, the most comfort I have found on this grief journey is knowing that there are others who have experienced similar losses. Because of that, I know I am not alone and I can traverse the vast deserts and the steep mountains of the journey I never signed up for.
Daily Quote
"I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new." ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Tattoo
Nearly three years ago, I got my first tattoo, to the presumed disgust of my late husband, Steve. I think he would have been disgusted because in our 26 years of marriage he made it clear that he did not approve of "body art." I can recall during that time, singing in his choir, agreeing with him, saying. "I would never get a tattoo. They are so disgusting." Hmmmmm. Now I recall Steve saying, "Never say never. Never is a long time." That one saying of his resonates with me much louder than his disaproval over body art. Funny how one big turn of events in one's life can change an opinion, a perspective, or a direction. That first tattoo was carefully thought out, planned, and designed. I even had a good friend accompany me during the process. It is a Celtic cross, very similar to the one on Steve's gravestone---a perfect tribute to him, my marriage to him, and at the same time, a nod to our heritage. I had it placed on my lower back,. The whole process was a positive one. I selected the same tattoo studio that my late brother had used. It is a long-time establishment that is clean and highly rated. My artist, Andy, from Philly, is fabulous. He made me feel at ease that first time. It was relatively painless. His artwork blew me away! Four more pieces followed after that by Andy, which is a testament to his artistry and to the studio's professionalism.
Recenty, in the last eight months, I began to experience a lot of lower back, hip, and leg pain--so much that I could not at times even walk up stairs or walk for any distance without pain. I could not engage in my passion--running, without experiencing intense back, glute, and leg pain. I was afraid to go on any road bike rides with my local bike club out of fear of experiencing intense pain. I was miserable at work, especially on field trips that involved walking or stairs. I missed more work than I ever had because of the pain. Finally, after six months of repeated visits to doctors, a masseuse, a physical therapist, and a sports chiropractor, it was finally determined through an MRI that I had a synovial cyst and a herniated disc between L4 and L5. I was fortunate to have the chief of spinal surgery, the chief of anesthesia at Kaiser San Jose, and the best surgical team one could hope for!
So how did the tattoo fare during the surgery? My mother warned me that the tattoo would probably take a real beating and this was going to be Steve's way of getting back at me for the tattoo he would never have approved. I just replied, "Oh well, it'll just be the 'Old Rugged Cross'"--also the name of an old familiar Christian hymn Steve most likely sang as a kid. Just a few minutes before I went into surgery, the spine surgeon spoke with me for some final discussion. I told him about my tattoo and asked if he would be cutting into it. He looked at it and said, "Yes.....That is really nice......Does it have any significance?" I replied, "Yes.....my husband died three years ago and this is just like the cross on his gravestone.....it is in his honor....." The surgeon's eyes filled with tears. His voice was somber and sincere, "I am so sorry......Really.......I am so sorry........We will do our best......Really......." And then there were some last minute exchanges that are usual prior to a surgery and we were off to the surgery room. I still remember the surgeon being so comforting and reassuring just before the surgery as he was introducing the surgery team . Before I knew it, I was looking up at him, asking him when the team was going to begin. He replied, "Begin? We are finished!" Hooray!
Therein followed days and even weeks of how my tattoo fared the incisions from the surgery. Of course, my main concern was the internal progress and ongoing healing from the surgery. Little by little, family and friends looked at the tattoo and commented, "Hey, it doesn't look too bad!" Even my father, an old salt from the Navy, but an anomaly who never let ink or needle touch his paddy skin, said that it looked good. Now over four weeks out, my family and friends tell me that they cannot even tell there was surgery there. My mother said that it looks like a plastic surgeon had a hand in this. The tattoo looks untouched. The nurse who took the stitches out said that "If you have a tattoo, the stitching and scar usually end up looking better than if you didn't have a tattoo---they tend to do a better job." I think that little conversation between the surgeon and me had a lot of influence on the results. He seemed to really respect and care for the meaning that cross holds for me. The cross is not rugged. It is smooth and strong. It withstood the trauma with grace. I would like to think that cross tattoo is symbolic of me.
Recenty, in the last eight months, I began to experience a lot of lower back, hip, and leg pain--so much that I could not at times even walk up stairs or walk for any distance without pain. I could not engage in my passion--running, without experiencing intense back, glute, and leg pain. I was afraid to go on any road bike rides with my local bike club out of fear of experiencing intense pain. I was miserable at work, especially on field trips that involved walking or stairs. I missed more work than I ever had because of the pain. Finally, after six months of repeated visits to doctors, a masseuse, a physical therapist, and a sports chiropractor, it was finally determined through an MRI that I had a synovial cyst and a herniated disc between L4 and L5. I was fortunate to have the chief of spinal surgery, the chief of anesthesia at Kaiser San Jose, and the best surgical team one could hope for!
So how did the tattoo fare during the surgery? My mother warned me that the tattoo would probably take a real beating and this was going to be Steve's way of getting back at me for the tattoo he would never have approved. I just replied, "Oh well, it'll just be the 'Old Rugged Cross'"--also the name of an old familiar Christian hymn Steve most likely sang as a kid. Just a few minutes before I went into surgery, the spine surgeon spoke with me for some final discussion. I told him about my tattoo and asked if he would be cutting into it. He looked at it and said, "Yes.....That is really nice......Does it have any significance?" I replied, "Yes.....my husband died three years ago and this is just like the cross on his gravestone.....it is in his honor....." The surgeon's eyes filled with tears. His voice was somber and sincere, "I am so sorry......Really.......I am so sorry........We will do our best......Really......." And then there were some last minute exchanges that are usual prior to a surgery and we were off to the surgery room. I still remember the surgeon being so comforting and reassuring just before the surgery as he was introducing the surgery team . Before I knew it, I was looking up at him, asking him when the team was going to begin. He replied, "Begin? We are finished!" Hooray!
Therein followed days and even weeks of how my tattoo fared the incisions from the surgery. Of course, my main concern was the internal progress and ongoing healing from the surgery. Little by little, family and friends looked at the tattoo and commented, "Hey, it doesn't look too bad!" Even my father, an old salt from the Navy, but an anomaly who never let ink or needle touch his paddy skin, said that it looked good. Now over four weeks out, my family and friends tell me that they cannot even tell there was surgery there. My mother said that it looks like a plastic surgeon had a hand in this. The tattoo looks untouched. The nurse who took the stitches out said that "If you have a tattoo, the stitching and scar usually end up looking better than if you didn't have a tattoo---they tend to do a better job." I think that little conversation between the surgeon and me had a lot of influence on the results. He seemed to really respect and care for the meaning that cross holds for me. The cross is not rugged. It is smooth and strong. It withstood the trauma with grace. I would like to think that cross tattoo is symbolic of me.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Today's Quote
"In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me lay an invincible summer." ~ Camus
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
Camp Widow 2010
Almost 200 widows and widowers attended Camp Widow, August 6th-8th in San Diego this year. It was the second annual conference sponsored through the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation. I feel very blessed. Because of a recent surgery, it was questionable whether or not my surgeon would clear me to attend. Thank goodness for skycaps, bell-hops, taxi drivers, and good-willed folks, I was able to have my physical restrictions addressed and take part once again. Camp Widow is a gathering of widows/ers from their mid-20's to their 60's, partners of widows, speakers, and other supporters of widows. It is a weekend of unity, empowerment, education, inspiration, reflection, friendship, fellowship, tears, hugs, laughter, and celebration--yes, celebration--celebration of our strength, independence, growth, and hope as we embark on and navigate through this new journey none of us chose. Social gatherings, speakers, workshops, a semi-formal dinner/dance, and a 5K widows dash were the highlights of the weekend.
Camp Widow was kicked off with an inspirational keynote address given by Michele Neff-Hernandez, founder of SSLF. She used the analogy of rock climbing to that of widowhood. She suggested that the early period of widowhood is much like being thrust to the bottom of a steep canyon flanked with rock walls. Those at the bottom may gaze up to see others climbing above, reassuring us that these walls have been navigated by those before us, providing hope and inspiration that, yes, it can be done and we will get to the top in our own time based on our unique circumstances. Every foothold, every crevice has been touched by those farther along in the journey. And yes, we may at times slip and lose a foothold, forcing us to lose ground, forcing us starting over again from that place. As we know, rock climbing takes discipline, concentration, perseverance, patience, encouragement, initiative, courage, and strength. I believe every widow/er at Camp Widow possesses those qualities. We are all progressing along that steep canyon wall. We are all at different places on that wall. Above us are those who support, encourage and inspire us. Below are those who need our support, encouragement, and inspiration. I am confident that we will all get to the top. We are survivors. We are strong. We have one another. Thank you to Michele and all the widows/ers. In unity there is strength.
For more information on the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation, please visit: http://www.sslf.org/
Thanks for stopping by....
Mary
Camp Widow was kicked off with an inspirational keynote address given by Michele Neff-Hernandez, founder of SSLF. She used the analogy of rock climbing to that of widowhood. She suggested that the early period of widowhood is much like being thrust to the bottom of a steep canyon flanked with rock walls. Those at the bottom may gaze up to see others climbing above, reassuring us that these walls have been navigated by those before us, providing hope and inspiration that, yes, it can be done and we will get to the top in our own time based on our unique circumstances. Every foothold, every crevice has been touched by those farther along in the journey. And yes, we may at times slip and lose a foothold, forcing us to lose ground, forcing us starting over again from that place. As we know, rock climbing takes discipline, concentration, perseverance, patience, encouragement, initiative, courage, and strength. I believe every widow/er at Camp Widow possesses those qualities. We are all progressing along that steep canyon wall. We are all at different places on that wall. Above us are those who support, encourage and inspire us. Below are those who need our support, encouragement, and inspiration. I am confident that we will all get to the top. We are survivors. We are strong. We have one another. Thank you to Michele and all the widows/ers. In unity there is strength.
For more information on the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation, please visit: http://www.sslf.org/
Thanks for stopping by....
Mary
Today's Quote
"Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass. . . it is about learning to dance in the rain." ~ unknown
Welcome to my blog, Learning to Fly Again, A Widow's Journey
August 16, 2010
On May 27, 2007, at the age of 48, I joined a club in which no one wants membership--widowhood. Eight days before I became a widow, my husband, Steve suffered a heart attack while training for a triathlon at a local reservoir. Because a great deal of time lapsed before paramedics arrived to administer CPR, Steve suffered from brain damage. His healthy, fit body succumbed to brain annoxia. It was then that I was thrust into a new, unwelcome, strange, and frightening chapter of my life. This blog is not about Steve. It is about me. Although I will often refer to or reflect on my 26 year marriage to Steve, it is about me and my journey as a widow who is redefining herself. I invite you to visit my blog often, to learn about me and young widowhood, whether you are a friend, a relative, a widow, a widower, or a friend or relative of a widow.
Thanks for stopping by.
Mary
On May 27, 2007, at the age of 48, I joined a club in which no one wants membership--widowhood. Eight days before I became a widow, my husband, Steve suffered a heart attack while training for a triathlon at a local reservoir. Because a great deal of time lapsed before paramedics arrived to administer CPR, Steve suffered from brain damage. His healthy, fit body succumbed to brain annoxia. It was then that I was thrust into a new, unwelcome, strange, and frightening chapter of my life. This blog is not about Steve. It is about me. Although I will often refer to or reflect on my 26 year marriage to Steve, it is about me and my journey as a widow who is redefining herself. I invite you to visit my blog often, to learn about me and young widowhood, whether you are a friend, a relative, a widow, a widower, or a friend or relative of a widow.
Thanks for stopping by.
Mary
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