Maine Islands

My friends MaryMargaret, Alice and I went out to Islesford, orLittle Cranberry, island this past weekend. There's something very magical about visiting an island in Maine. You don't have to exchange any money and they still speak the same language but you feel like you've truly left home and really gone somewhere for a little while.

I have wonderful friends out there who own a cottage that has been in Chris's family for years. As a young boy he grew up on this island so he knows all the nooks and crannies on this spit of land in the Atlantic. His boys now have the same history of wonderful boyhood adventures and memories of summers spent out on this island.

Everybody knows Chris and Marion so we name dropped a bit on our ferry ride from Southwest Harbor to Islesford; we aren't really tourists you see, we know people out here!

Last Fall my sisters-in-law, Donna and Stacie, and I went out there to stay in Chris and Marion's cabin. The island population drops dramatically after Labor Day and all the shops (all three of them!) close up as well. In the fall this island is a real haven; quiet and intimate. The three of us spread some of Jim's ashes off the rock beach down in front of the cottage. Jim, though not a "true Mainah" like myself, loved Maine and I wanted to have some of his remains in the Atlantic .... off Islesford was the perfect place for his carbon to return to the cycle.

Obviously this island is pretty special to me now. I found myself feeling a little melancholy when I first got out there. Jim's ashes are long gone from that spot. And I am coming to terms with this reality that Jim is gone from this spot .... here ... with me. But his laughter, his crazy faces, his lust for life and his loving nature are still here with me. When I'm not feeling so damn sad about this loss I can feel truly grateful for having had this man in my life for as long as I did. I guess "healing" will mean I can be in that grateful place more often then not.

Spending time on Little Cranberry Island is healing for me. Watching Eagles swoop over us as we walked around the point that was perfumed with the wild sea roses; playing cards on the kitchen table and laughing while the fog bank rolled in and out, in and out; kayaking to the dock for a drink on the opening night of the island restaurant (and walking home since the fog had rolled back in!); drinking coffee on the rock beach in the brilliant morning sunshine while listening to the gulls croon and the waves dance over these tumbled rocks.

This weekend I began to feel a strength seeping into my being. I became aware how my body, as it's own island, is getting more comfortable with her own ebbs and flows and understanding that, though I'm alone, I am blessed by a rich life filled with adventures, laughter and some amazing friends.

Thank you Chris, Marion and Adam for that wonderful weekend on your island and the gift of your friendship.

Loving you all back,

Mary

PS - And still I struggle with the lay out of my blog and the pictures! Top photo from left to right is: MaryMargaret, me, Chris, Alice, Tim, Marion. We are in Marion's island pottery shop. It's on the ferry dock if you get out to this island. Stop in, gorgeous stuff! The second picture is Lupines ... this field made us all gasp when we first saw it. Photo credit: MaryMargaret.

The Hoya

I've had a hard time coming here to write lately. Not sure why. Not inspired and worry I'm getting a bit boring with this process. I bore myself with it sometimes. I've been told it's "normal" to want to just be done with this whole grieving shit and to just move on. However, like so many other things it seems to have it's own time line, one that I don't have much control over.

I'm slowly rebuilding this life of mine. Rearranged some stuff in the living room and cleaned an area that I had not gotten to for over two years. It was a pretty big project of cutting back my Hoya plant, which is a tropical plant that is a climbing vine and had gotten quite overgrown the last few years. The cutting my dad gave me long ago comes from a plant that originally belonged to my great grandmother - thus this Hoya is a family heirloom. It has gorgeous, big white flower bundles that have an intoxicating smell. One flower head will perfume my entire house, but only at night! A sweet, sticky nectar will drip from the tip of each segment of the flowers bundle (see picture). I believe it's probably evolved to be pollinated by bats. As fascinating as this is it can be one messy plant over time as the syrup drips onto the walls and furniture and then dust and crud will stick to that and ... ugh. So, cutting this plant back exposed the wall it's been climbing up for so long, which exposed the blackened old sticky spots. Cleaning the wall didn't work, I had to repaint the entire wall! It looks so much brighter and feels so much cleaner in this space now.

I laugh at myself because this half days project of cutting back the climbing vine of the Hoya, rearranging the furniture, cleaning, vacuuming and repainting this corner started out as my heading to my desk to try to organize and file stuff away ... which is in another room entirely.

The desk project still hasn't been attempted.

And this is how I function these days! A bit ADD really, heading for one project and getting so engrossed in something entirely different. There are still many, many projects that need to be tackled in this house and I still find myself running out of steam too easily. Still find myself hitting a road block composed of stuff. Some of this stuff, being Jim's, will hit me in the solar plexus and I have to walk away. Another day perhaps .... but WHEN will that day come? Seriously? When will I find the energy, the focus, the old me that could tackle big projects and complete them?

I know my Hoya will grow back the vines I cut down, that it will burst into blooms again at some point. All the new growth won't change the plant, but it will be different all the same. It's growth has it's own time line and not in my control.

I guess I see similarities in my Hoya and myself. I too got a haircut. I too weep - but only at night. The "old me" has also been cut down. The changes I am going through, so painful at times, is my new growth that also has it's own time line that I need just unfold into and not control.

I must trust that I too will bloom again.

Loving you all back,

Mary

Another Response to "widow"

My sister, Jayne, sent this to me via email. I got her permission to post it. It's so damn beautiful as is her writing. I share it as I seem to have too many friends right now who have also lost a spouse. This goes out to all of us.

Mary,

Regarding your blog --I don't think of you as a "widow". It doesn't fit. To think of you as a 'widow', even though it may be your official status, aligns you, immediately, with death..... and that doesn't fit you, Jim, your marriage, your life ........ it isn't a true representation of who you are. Your marriage was vibrant, the memory is .... the photographs.... the long shadow and empty chair... the strength of the struggle to save every last step and breath..... the connection that you two shared in health as well as through sickness .... the shared, sad smile of resignation at the hospice..... the tears that have been shed for love and loss..... the beautiful, light, mystical promise of the bells that the nurse heard when Jim died.

None of it leaves you a 'widow' in my mind. You, and Jim, are much more the power of life lived than life lost. The friends that supported that long walk to the precipice ..... it was all about the precious journey, wherever it leads. I don't think any of it led to you becoming a 'widow' --- I don't think that word defines, at all, who you are.
That's what I think..... lonely, lost, wishful, alone, off-balance ..... yup.....

A friend of mine would never fill in the 'race' status on applications except with 'human being' -- somehow the options you're being forced to choose don't work either -- we need a new catagory..... maybe survivor, soloist, egregious, hopeful, wanderer.......I don't know.... widow is one dimensional and you're not.

Thank you Jayne!

Loving you all back,

Mary

Labels

Today on my facebook page I changed my status from "married" to "widowed". We all know what it means but how does this label translate?

In an earlier blog I wrote how a young man asked if I was married and I said "no, I'm a widow" and he crumpled and apologized. OK, that's one reaction. What are other reactions to it? And at what point does one become no longer a "widow" but "single"? Is a widow single or is he/she just not married? Since the not being married wasn't by choice they aren't really single?

It took me a year to change this status on my facebook page, though I don't know why. A hard thing to accept? Well, yes of course. Maybe I just don't like labels. Never have. It took me a long time to refer to Jim as my husband after we were legally married. We had lived together for five years before asking my dad to marry us and putting on the rings to make the visual statement. During those five years he was not my husband so there was no label for him. I don't remember if Jim struggled with calling me his wife or not. I always preferred being called Mary anyway.

So I am very curious what is the first reaction to "widow", what is the visceral response when someone says "I'm widowed"? Is it to always apologize? It's hard for me to get objective on it these days since I'm a bit close to the label. So I'm actually putting this question out there.

Loving you all back,

Mary

Love - 'tis all

I went to a Cinco de Mayo party that a friend just down the road had invited me to. She assured me that it would be fine if I stayed for only a little while or if I just left without saying goodbye as it was only days before Jim's first year anniversary and I wasn't sure how I'd do in a party situation. I did fine, and I had fun.

At one point in the evening I was talking to my friends husband who said "Mary, you look fantastic tonight!" I gasped and said "really?". "Yes, really, you look really good". And then I started to tear up and had to fight back actually crying. We both got laughing as I know he didn't mean to upset me and I was so surprised that it had upset me!

Later, when I got home I realized what had happened. Jim was my biggest fan and, simply, adored me. He was always telling me I looked really nice ... and if I didn't he would tell me that too so I could change! But that simple, intimate conversation that partners have before going out for an evening is something I really miss.

And then she asks me,

Do I look alright?

and I say yes, you look wonderful tonight

Eric Clapton

And so this is what happened that night. It was so bittersweet to hear these words, spoken honestly, from a friend and I realized it has been a very long time since someone has simply said "Mary, you look wonderful tonight".

See? It's small things that I miss at times.

Oh, I miss the big things too ..... but those are for another blog. Tonight, on this cold, raw, wet May evening I'm remembering how much I miss sitting close with someone on the couch, in front of the t.v., and how I miss being simply and fully loved by someone. But I feel lucky to know that I was ... completely and fully loved .... by a pretty wonderful person.

For those of you who have it, hang on to it and consider yourselves the lucky ones.

Loving you all back,

Mary

Behind me

May 7, 2011 - the first year anniversary of losing the love of my life is now behind me. I had no clue what the day might bring but, as I've said in another blog, the 2-3 week lead up was hell.

Saturday morning of the 7th I woke at 3:15 a.m. - which was exactly the time that the Hospice nurse was gently shaking me to tell me Jim had passed. Even though we had all sat in that Hospice room for 5 days knowing and waiting for this moment the sudden reality of it took my breath away. It's so final.

On this first year anniversary I spent the day up in the mountains trail running up the access roads of the local ski slope, Sunday River. My girlfriend, my dog and I found ourselves almost to the top with black storm clouds moving in but the sun was still shining where we were. This sunlight with the clouds as the back drop is always so incredibly stunning, all the colors get so enhanced; the pink tips of the deciduous trees as their buds are just popping, the dark green of the conifers, the gray-black clouds. She and I just stopped, taking a moment to soak up this amazing spectacle with the mountains stretching out before us. And then there was a rumble of thunder so we headed back down a bit faster.

Jim loved light. He taught me about light. His photography was brilliant due to his understanding of light. Thus, the amazing light on this hike had me knowing that Jim was there too ... in some way he knew I would stop and notice the light.

It was a moody day weather wise and seemed to help clear out the darkness that had been hanging over me for almost a month. I felt a little lighter and brighter on the actual anniversary day. Not what I was expecting at all, but then I'm learning not to expect anything anymore ... just take it as it comes.

So, all the "firsts" are now behind me; the first Christmas, New Year, birthday, death day. I've been told it gets easier and I trust this and almost believe it. But I'm not sure I will ever stop looking behind me to see if he's there.

Thank you all for remembering, for holding me either in spirit or physically, for being there in so many different ways; I have been kept afloat in this turbulent sea because of all of you.

Loving you all back,

Mary

Struggling

Spring in Maine is so beautiful and so well deserved for those of us who stick it out here all winter. Several species of trees are about to bust out into leaves that are fluorescent green as they first emerge. Cardinals are paired off and flashing their brightest red-coats. One is sitting amongst that bright green as I type this; startling in the color contrast. It's an overload of sensory detail out there at times.

But the flashbacks are still coming and most nights I seem to have cried myself to sleep. All the memories of these hard two weeks leading up to Jim's death are bubbling to the surface and freezing in single frames. It was two weeks of terror and resignation, deep sadness and grace, amazing love and ultimately letting go.

We were in the hospital for five days before the decision to go to Hospice was made. During this hospital stay my family brought in old Linda Ronstadt cd's that Jim delighted in singing along to (Jim's tumors inhibited his speech but oddly he could sing anything perfectly). He would reach out his good arm to me from his bed so I would grasp his hand and begin to dance with him; he would make the motion to twirl so I would dip under his arm and allow him to twirl me in and out and he and I would dance in this way.

Jim was having absence seizures at this point - where he would just stop and stare into space with vacant eyes for several moments. When those happened I would drop everything in order to be at his side when he came out of them, looking into his eyes I would whisper, "welcome back" and he would smile and mouth the words, "I love you". During one of these seizures I was across the room talking with friends but my sister, Karmo, and my niece, Jennywren, were sitting on the bed with Jim. We all looked up as we heard them singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" to Jim as he came out of his seizure. The hospital room was filled with people but you could have heard a pin drop as Jim picked up the chorus and sang along with them. I can never hear that song without crying anymore.

So for me this first anniversary isn't really about one day; there's a full two-weeks leading up to that final hour when he passed with the sound of "tinkling of bells" according to the night nurse at Hospice. But the day certainly is an important and difficult bench-mark. I have no idea what I may do. My best friend has already set the day aside in order to be with me. I am so blessed with such good friends.

And thank you all who have been sending me private messages and reaching out to me as "the day" draws near. That incredible love continues to flow from all of you to me ... and from Jim too.

Loving you all back,

Mary