tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68767069988221239272024-03-13T06:13:06.724-07:00Remarks from SparksMeganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.comBlogger768125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-84982169103998282622022-03-27T22:33:00.000-07:002022-03-27T22:33:11.816-07:00 GOOD LUCK IN BAD LUCK. AGAIN. <p>While I’m not going to get into the why and the how, I will tell you that I’m solo again. <b>Once more, it’s just me. I am single. </b></p><p>It didn’t happen yesterday; I’ve been working with this for months now, so I’m not morose or scared. I’m just one, plodding forward. It’s not my first rodeo in a space like this. This time is different though, as I’ve known from the start that I’m strong. <b>I didn’t have to live though this experience to discover that I’m made of tough stuff. </b></p><p>Jason and I were together for about four and a half years. We lived together for two of them. At the end there was heartbreak. Heartbreak didn’t end me before; it won’t kill me now. That’s a thing that experience has taught me. (That makes me sound old, which, well, I am.)</p><p>So let’s take stock on the learning front—</p><p><b>I’ve said for years that going through my divorce taught me that I am awesome and going through losing Jim taught me that other people are awesome.</b> What did this recent significant breakup teach me? Or rather, what am I choosing to learn here? </p><p>Well, I don’t have anything on that. I don’t yet know what my takeaways are. </p><p>However, here’s what I’m up to otherwise:</p><p></p><blockquote>• I got a puppy. She’s nine months old now. She’s a scruffy Cairn terrier. (Not pronounced “Karen.” Instead, it’s pronounced how it’s spelled.) <b>Her name is Birdie, and she’s sturdy and spicy</b>. She is me. </blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuUmMeRsaQSKqZqym3VLfintImdi100VdRbNPl6QPCBYDKBsG5Lr5-cQ8SCX3Tza6FClGWZosV9zx1iEvEi3kBxXoS7pmL3gcjSvbfobzZqm-BpYvimIGcYInWF1lvR3Wxj8PftVDVcsRipIu_in_pWunxtE5gUgSw_lKW3purFLyYUlD1mylzE5CF/s4032/IMG_8575.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuUmMeRsaQSKqZqym3VLfintImdi100VdRbNPl6QPCBYDKBsG5Lr5-cQ8SCX3Tza6FClGWZosV9zx1iEvEi3kBxXoS7pmL3gcjSvbfobzZqm-BpYvimIGcYInWF1lvR3Wxj8PftVDVcsRipIu_in_pWunxtE5gUgSw_lKW3purFLyYUlD1mylzE5CF/w300-h400/IMG_8575.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><blockquote><p>• I teach a lot of yoga. Duh. Public classes and private sessions. All of it at Yoga Pod. I love it. I love Yoga Pod. I adore my students. I love teaching. <b>It’s pretty pedestrian to so love your job as a yoga teacher, but I so love my job as a yoga teacher. </b>All of the public classes are heated except for one each week that is a myofacscial release class. In that class we accomplish self massage by rolling around on balls. We make lots of jokes about rolling around on balls and releasing one’s self. </p><p>• I am in training to be a benefit auctioneer. You read that right.</p><p>• I’m doing French lessons again. It could be going better than it is. Like, if I did my homework, I’d be verging on crushing it. </p><p>• I’m baking lots. I am eating what I bake. I am subsequently hating myself for eating what I baked. Status quo there. </p><p>• Also: I hike. I do pilates. I am suddenly into whole body cryotherapy. I indoor rock climb. I walk Birdie less often than I ought to.</p></blockquote><p></p><p>Aha! So here’s the lesson, the what-I’ve-learned from this recent breakup: <b>no matter who I’m with or not with, I am still me. </b>I learn things. I love things. I keep doing what I love. I learn about new new stuff to love. I add to me. Me is consistent. And thing of all things: I really like me. I think of my many flaws as “areas of opportunity.” I think of my brain as a tool to use, my body as an instrument for pleasure and presence, and I make my life about gathering—gathering experiences and the best people, which I do very successfully. </p><p>So you could say that after another bout of misfortune I relearned what I already knew: <b>guys, I’m lucky. </b></p>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-81017487694622355082020-10-18T19:55:00.004-07:002020-10-18T22:40:05.509-07:00AN OVERDUE OBITUARY FOR A TINY DOG<p>In her adult years, my little dog weighed as much as eight pounds and as little as four and a half pounds. You could tell though that she was really feeling herself when her number hit about five and a half.</p><p></p><blockquote><i>Sophelia Clarice was a highly inbred Yorkshire terrier from Fallon, Nevada, and she passed away on March 10, 2020. Lil' Girl was nearly 14 years old. </i></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IqHPqxviFPM/X4z-irB7vAI/AAAAAAAAGHQ/0K4TxOa7H30GNvxVG57eT3phJ_VZjeaEwCLcBGAsYHQ/s729/IMG_3866%2B2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="729" data-original-width="495" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IqHPqxviFPM/X4z-irB7vAI/AAAAAAAAGHQ/0K4TxOa7H30GNvxVG57eT3phJ_VZjeaEwCLcBGAsYHQ/w271-h400/IMG_3866%2B2.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><p>I think it was Planet Earth’s inhabitants' collective misfortune over the last months that got in my way of writing an obituary for my dog. I haven’t been too busy. I haven’t been debilitatingly sad. It’s just seemed like the death of an animal wasn’t nearly as significant as everything else going on. <b>Yet it’s been bugging me that I haven’t made any kind of a big deal out of the death of someone who was so important to me for such a large portion of my life. </b></p><p></p><blockquote><p><i>Her favorite things were stuffed squeak toys, baby carrots, popcorn, and gorging from any garbage can she could get a larger dog to tip over for her. </i></p><p><i>She saw Megan through some tough times—most traumatically, the divorce from the unfaithful first husband and the sudden death of her second husband. “Saw her through” in that Sophie was around, expecting to be fed and given attention. She wasn’t one of those selfless dogs you’ve heard about, the ones who lay by your side when you’re sick, or would die on the grave of their master. Sophie was selfish and independent. In that, she was Megan’s ideal canine counterpart. </i></p><p><i>When Megan gained weight, Sophie gained weight. When Megan lost weight, Sophie lost weight. She had attitude, preferences, and ideas, and was about as irritating as any living creature could be. </i></p><p><i>It was Soph’s notions and individuality that prompted Megan to give up meat back in 2007. “If dogs can have little thoughts and proclivities, why wouldn’t a cow?” Megan said, “I can’t eat things that I think think.” A tiny dog’s desire to lay in a specific pile of laundry saved the lives of cows and chickens, fish and pigs, and turned Megan into a right hassle to feed. </i></p></blockquote><p></p><blockquote><i>Sophie's spirit and attitude made her enjoyable and infuriating. Without Soph around, the world is down one rad little dog. </i></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yjzK4XB2NTM/X4z-cq1bOII/AAAAAAAAGHM/eMTh78F-ypss5axnTYI8o2O7czXMc6Z5gCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_3298.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yjzK4XB2NTM/X4z-cq1bOII/AAAAAAAAGHM/eMTh78F-ypss5axnTYI8o2O7czXMc6Z5gCLcBGAsYHQ/w300-h400/IMG_3298.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><p>In the end, I kind of hated her. She developed an annoying reverse sneeze that no vet could figure out, despite the buckets of money I threw at the problem. That spontaneous and then never-ending sneezing stole my sleep. It stole Jason’s sleep. Jason never knew cool, fun Sophelia. He only knew her as a monumental pain in the ass. I mourn that loss specifically—I wish my boyfriend had known my dog when she didn't suck. And though I was relieved on both hers and my behalves when it was time for her to go, <b>each and every day I miss my teeny beast. </b></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GTz03pOyHwM/X4z-m-VP7hI/AAAAAAAAGHU/xB7cossEP-oHZFDM_DQtVs28JiFSDFhGACLcBGAsYHQ/s750/IMG_3302.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="734" data-original-width="750" height="391" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GTz03pOyHwM/X4z-m-VP7hI/AAAAAAAAGHU/xB7cossEP-oHZFDM_DQtVs28JiFSDFhGACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h391/IMG_3302.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-74113012680136778742020-05-30T11:54:00.000-07:002020-05-30T11:55:34.445-07:00LOVE IN THE TIME OF COVIDQuarantine by numbers—Since March 17th I have baked roughly 250 cookies, a couple dozen cupcakes, five bundt cakes, and six loaves of bread. I’ve consumed over 3,000 ounces of Diet Dr. Pepper, turned 38, washed my hair all of eight times, and demonstrated about 65 yoga classes.<br />
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<b>It’s rad working at a yoga studio where our owners have their shit together. </b>Of late, I feel like the primary beneficiary of their energy and efforts. The virtual yoga set up Mike and Angie figured out for Yoga Pod Reno has made the last ten or eleven weeks—we’ve all lost count, right?—honestly great, not just a suitable consolation or a little something that could tide me over ’til things are “normal,” but a routine that’s left me a certain amount of bummed out that our exclusively virtual yoga schedule is over. After months of quarantine closure, the Pod reopened at half capacity today, and come tomorrow, Sunday, at 4:30PM, I’ll be back to teaching some hot, in-person group yoga. I’m brimming with equal parts excitement and, surprisingly, sorrow. <br />
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I didn’t know I could so deeply miss a group of adults so much as I’ve missed seeing my students, but <b>I also never considered that I would find such pleasure in sitting on a little cushion, hunched behind a microphone, staring at a gallery view of my Zoom yogis,</b> telling them how to maneuver their bodies. I didn’t expect to not mind being the demo student on screen for other teachers’ virtual classes. <br />
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Already, I miss what felt like private yoga sessions with some of the best yoga instructors Reno has to offer–<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>During this era of demonstrating for Zoom classes, I took my first Heather Deriso class. I’ve already signed up for her in-person Flow 1 this upcoming Wednesday, because I know I’ll miss her thoughtful and playful teaching. </li>
<li>In instructing Mitch, taking from Mitch, and demonstrating six feet away from Mitch, I saw more Mitchell Fink over the last two months than in the last two years. Already, I miss Mitch. I miss most giving Mitch a hard time. </li>
<li><b>How many of Angie’s hundreds of students would eagerly surrender a finger or toe to attend as many “private” classes from her as I’ve had the privilege to take during quarantine time? All of them. They all would. </b></li>
<li>I didn’t have to take a break from my beloved Saturday morning [Hot] Vin Fusion classes with Shanell since I got to be one of her demo bodies every week. </li>
<li>I’ve been missing Karen Perisho’s Flow 2 since she gave up Thursday nights months ago, but during Yoga Pod’s virtual period, I got to have her kick my ass every Saturday at noon. My butt will miss her terribly. </li>
<li>Whenever we could, Jason and I used to take Sabrina’s Friday night Happy Hour class. I didn’t have to give that up. I got to dance solo in Sabrina’s flowly flows. <b>Her perky playlists cushioned the blow of falling out of balance postures on screen for all to witness.</b></li>
</ul>
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My life has been rife with times when I’ve felt sheepish about the surplus of my good fortune. Here’s another. Lots of people have been struggling and sacrificing during the last few months, but because I work with competent people at a shiny, pro yoga studio, and our members have continued to support The Pod, I didn’t only get to stick with a great deal of my normal life, I experienced enhancement. <br />
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I sound like an earnest drag, but <b>this profusion of gratitude sapped my wit and customary snark.</b> So I’m just thankful. <br />
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It was on March 17th that Yoga Pod closed. <b>Jason and I finally—finally!—closed on our new house on March 30th. </b>He’s worked from home. We’ve packed, moved, unpacked, and organized. Jason got his old house ready for listing. And because I chose the right man as partner, we’re not only still speaking after all that, we’re, like, still in love. Phew.<br />
<br />
I miss things—mostly privileged things. I miss dinners out. I miss the option of visiting family. We missed a trip to New York. I miss gathering my friends. I miss facials. I missed hairapy with my Hannah; I had a spell there where my roots were longer than I can stick out my tongue. I miss being able to watch people’s mouths move while they talk instead of just seeing a mask. Yes, I’ve missed normal, but <b>I’d be an asshole ingrate not to see my good fortune during a time where I didn’t anticipate productivity or expect growth anywhere but my hips and thighs. </b>Lucky me, I not only have wider hips and thicker thighs as expected but also a stronger yoga practice, an even healthier relationship with my guy, and the opportunity to sweat with my team again come Sunday. I find myself too lucky not to at least throw some effort at summoning patience as I wait for what we miss. Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-64221120410747716242019-09-25T17:00:00.001-07:002019-09-27T15:35:40.933-07:00UNDER THE SKINI didn’t do a great job cutting his left hamstrings from the bone. Once I reflected back tissue deep enough and could tell which nerve was his sciatic, I did okay separating it from the surrounding musculature. While I think I totally screwed up reflecting back his quadriceps muscles, I did decent work on his IT band.<br />
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I think when I told my people that I was going to a cadaver dissection as part of my yoga teacher continuing education, <b>they didn’t realize I would be doing the cutting myself,</b> not just watching someone else expose our parts or viewing an already-dissected body. Instead, three hours into arriving at the dissection lab in Boulder, Colorado, I was one of 30 lab gear-clad yoga teachers handed a scalpel and hemostat and told to begin reflecting back the skin.<br />
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Eight of us stood around a metal table, tools raised, looking at each other across our assigned cadaver, a man we decided to call Bruce, whispering, <b>“So, we just, like, start? . . . Anywhere? . . . We just, uh, <i>cut</i> now? How?” </b><br />
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Familiar with the hesitation, the lab director reiterated to his room of stalled yogis, “Cut only as deep as the sharpened edge of your scalpel and reflect back to the hypodermis.”<br />
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<i>Right. Okay. Hypodermis. Which is what, again? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Team Bruce. Last day, after our last dissection. </td></tr>
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<b>I made my first cut down the outside of Bruce’s right shoulder. </b><br />
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Back in 2017, when I first heard other <a href="https://yogamedicine.com/">Yoga Medicine</a> teachers talking about their cadaver lab experience, I had to physically extricate myself from the conversation. One gal told us that her cadaver “still had nail polish on.” It was too personal. <b>I was only a year past Jim’s death and the idea of seeing a dead body when I hadn’t been able to see his before burial was too much to consider. </b>Two years after that conversation I still wasn’t sure I was ready, but my desire to know firsthand what’s inside us eclipsed the nerves I had about the possibility of an embarrassing public demonstration of grief.<br />
<br />
<b>I did cry. </b>But it was quiet. I don’t even know if it was related to Jim. I mean, yeah, probably it was, but I can’t pinpoint what was I thinking specifically as we went around the lab and met each of the five anonymous cadavers for the first time. Suddenly it got hard for me to swallow. Tears blurred my vision and slid under my protective eyewear, dripping onto the collar of my lab coat.<br />
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It was three days before I cried again. “Come see her brain,” one of my tablemates said, “They took out Elsie’s brain.” I released my scalpel and hemostat next to Bruce’s ankle joint I was scraping at and made for for the next table. Split up the middle and set out flat like a butterfly lay what was Elsie’s everything: ideas, memories, fears, decisions. Seeing the substance of who this woman had been overwhelmed me. <b>There she was, an organ dissolving on stainless steel.</b><br />
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When not fixed in preserving chemicals, the brain liquifies quickly upon its release from the skull. <b>The bodies we worked on were unfixed, un-treated, chemical-free. </b>We took them out of the freezers in the morning and, a little lighter from the stuff we’d removed during the day, wrapped them in plastic and returned them to their personal freezers before leaving for the evening.<br />
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Yes, they still had faces and we left them uncovered. <b>We didn’t have their real names, medical histories or personal details,</b> but Vivian’s nails had been painted recently. Elsie had scoliosis. Bruce had false teeth and only remnants of a thyroid. Grace had mysterious sutures up her stomach and three pins in her left hip. None of the woman still had their uteruses.<br />
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When they donated their bodies, these people gave us consent to slide under their first layer, cut past their muscles, remove their organs, expose their joints, and see that <b>though we all have the same things under our skin, we are unique.</b> It’s not just our thoughts or diets or upbringings that make us distinct; it’s the shape our of pelvis and how that affects the movement of our legs. It’s the adhesions between our lungs and ribs, the thickness of our psoas muscles, and the ratio of our tibias to femurs.<br />
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As a yoga teacher, that reinforces what I know about the uniqueness of my students, and it informs the way I teach to try to help students individualize their physical yoga practices. <b>As a human being it reminds me that we are all made of layers, firmly stuck layers of self, set in a shell we didn’t choose. </b>We are meat. We all hurt. We all heal. We never return to being the exact same thing we once were; constantly, we’re new. And while it’s work—often exhausting work—scraping back someone’s layers to find what’s next in your discovery of who they are, as it turns out, I know that it's work worth the effort.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-45668352769074756742019-09-20T18:28:00.000-07:002019-09-20T21:59:14.197-07:00EMPATHY IN THE EXTREMEThe other day a fellow yoga teacher looking for coverage during her maternity leave asked if I was interested in picking up more classes. Though grateful for her offer, I turned it down. I recently realized that <b>I’m right at the perfect number of classes to avoid reaching empathy fatigue. </b><br />
<br />
I want to be there for my yoga students. When a student tells me she has stage IV cancer, I want to <i>be there</i> for it. When another asks me why his wrists are bothering him in the poses where they really shouldn’t be bothering him, I want to <i>be there</i> for it. I want to <i>be there</i> when a student asks how he can stop hating Warrior 3. I want my best insides to be available when a student starts crying about his recently passed mom or another one tears up about her divorce. <b>I’ve learned that yoga students expect their teachers to hear them and respond. And I want to. </b>Many times—many, <i>many</i>—I have been on the receiving end of that kind of yoga student/teacher relationship. It left an enduring impact. Physically, time-wise, and mentally, I could teach more classes, but if I took on more right now my ability to give a damn about my students in the way I want to would suffer. <br />
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A couple weeks ago one of my regular students brought her husband to hot class. I’m always a smidge fretful when I get a new student in those hot, hot, sweaty, hot, humid, hot classes. They’re hard; “extreme” might even be a proper descriptor. It can happen that the heat and mirror-fog scares neophytes off their sweaty mats. So a couple days later, I asked my student if her husband and I were still friends, if I’d see him back at class. She assured me I would, <b>“He said he could tell that you really cared.” </b><br />
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I do! I really do care! I care about my students’ experience in my class. I care about how their other yoga classes go. I care about the actives they do. Because <b>I believe so strongly that what goes down on our mats can serve to upgrade our many other hours,</b> I care about the things that happen to them outside the studio walls that end up influencing their time on their mats.<br />
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However, if I teach too many classes, I don’t have the energy for the empathy I need in order to be the yoga teacher I try so hard to be.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hold my Diet Dr. Pepper. </i></td></tr>
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Is it, like, the fall air or a post-summer slowness that leads to verging-on-irritatingly-self-indulgent introspection? Or do I just have a little more time on my hands of late?<br />
<br />
I moved in with Jason while we wait for our house to be complete. (When will that be, Megan? Don’t ask—makes me tetchy.) That gifted me two hours less of drive time every day. It’s fewer audiobooks—which: bummer—but it’s more time for doing and thinking things. That’s nice, but <b>it’s nicest being with Jason more.</b> The more of him I get, the more I want. <br />
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But this here’s huntin’ season, Dead Reader. That means something to me now. For obvious reasons I eschew the term “hunting widow,” but dude, fauna starts rutting or whatever the hell it’s called, and these animal murderers are straight gonzo. <b>I was never going to end up with some casual, shoot-from-the-truck rifle hunter. No, no—evidently lazy doesn’t turn me on. </b>Instead the man I love disappears into the Canadian bush for two weeks to emerge with nearly-gone toenails, distended ankles, alarmingly bruised thighs, and a massive dead mountain goat. Mercifully, my pride on his behalf serves to significantly offset the nuisance of missing his handsome face and pleasing bod. <br />
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For his next feat Jason heads to some Inuit territory with his trusty bow and broadheads to end the life of an unsuspecting <a href="https://www.nationalgeographic.com/animals/mammals/m/musk-ox/">musk ox</a>. This go ‘round however, I’ll be gone too. While he carves up a prehistoric cow, I’m going to go carve up human beings in effort to get a better handle on what’s inside my students. That’s not a cryptic figure of speech. <b>I’m making for Yoga Medicine’s cadaver dissection lab. </b>It’s the latest step in my efforts to get the best grip on human anatomy so I can be better at teaching yoga. It sounds extreme, right? It feels extreme. Somehow though, that exactly fits.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-86817954274663359792019-04-16T23:31:00.001-07:002019-04-16T23:37:05.951-07:00A WALK IN THE PARKS<a href="https://www.instagram.com/kieragyogi/">Kiera</a> kindly subbed my Sunday and Monday classes a few weeks ago. When I got back, more than one student asked me, “Really? Disneyland? Kiera said <b>you were at Disneyland, and that doesn’t seem like your thing.</b>” It so is not. <br />
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It’s important to me that I live clearly. <b>I <i>try</i> to be the same person all the time.</b> I don’t want my words and actions to be misleading. I strive for transparency with my emotions and preferences. Success! Evidently. People who only know me as their yoga teacher were incredulous that I would take time off work to go to Disneyland. It made sense though when I said <b>I was there for my mom’s 60th.</b> People who only know me as their yoga teacher know that I adore my family, and that I’d do all the things for them. <br />
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For my birthday last year, Hilary asked my people to say nice things about me, typed up those bits, and put it all in a jar that sits on my desk. Feeling low? Read a love note. One of the many snips from my mom said that she loves that she knows that <b>I would happily kill someone if they harmed or offended my family. </b>20 years ago, I would happily have killed my family. Now, if you merely look sideways at one of my nephews, I’ll slash your tires, smear your name, and eat your pets. I appreciate that my family permitted me to grow. They didn’t paint me into a box after my parent-and-sibling-scarring adolescence. Despite years of hurt, something soft in my mom and dad left me room to evolve, and—intentionally—I did. I suspect the rest of them followed that example. Or they were too young to remember the more hurtful details of my growing up.<br />
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That is how I ended up in Disneyland earlier this month. <b>Mama Sue was turning 60 and her great dream was to go to The Happiest Place on Earth with her six adult daughters. </b>My five little sisters and I agree that we’ve really never seen Sue happier. She mentioned more than once on the trip that when we were growing up she never let herself imagine something like this could happen. Raising her SixChix was rocky AF. <br />
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We were in the parks during the whole<i> </i>of America’s Spring Break, and, with great sympathy, many of our friends have asked if the ride lines were atrocious. We didn’t care. I’m not sure we really knew. We didn’t have any children with us. As a non-Disney person, I wasn’t excited to spend time there, but, Dear Reader, going anywhere at all with my family is so entertaining. <b>I’d spend the weekend in an STD-splattered truck stop bathroom if it was with my sissies. </b><br />
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At one of the very few serious moments on the trip, Sue said that she was grateful to watch us with each other. <b>“I’m not always going to be here,” she said, “and I know that when I’m gone, you’ll take care of each other.”</b> We will. Whitney will have special relationships with each of the nieces and nephews. She’ll steal them from school to go for salad. She’ll keep them for the weekend. Caitlyn will be the unrelenting comic relief. She will lighten the mood with perpetual silliness that we will never not find hilarious. Haley will have all the asides, rushing to smooth out disagreements so relationships don’t deteriorate over stupid shit. Mally will be a locked-down, judgment-free zone to share secrets and fears. Lola will be auntie-on-the-spot. She will always make it to family events and give the best hugs when it’s time to leave. My five little sisters will do those things and more for us all. I’ll be there too, making myself useful from time to time but mostly just trying not to be underfoot.<br />
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<b>Did we wear matching shirts? On Susie’s birthday, we sure did.</b> (I think I was the only one kicking and screaming over that one; my sisters are better sports than I am.) Did we go to Star Wars land? Well, no, we did not, as we missed the opening by a couple months. Going on Star Tours over and over wasn’t a sufficient salve for that particular sting, so with a catch in my throat and a sink in my gut I say here: <b>I guess we’ll have to go back.</b><br />
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-60861847097597468802018-08-30T00:19:00.000-07:002018-09-02T20:36:38.626-07:00GOOD GRIEFIf it’s true that you can judge someone by the people that populate their life, <b>I’m the most terrific person in human history.</b> I told Jason that before I took him to meet my family he needed to be certain that he was in love with me because once he met them he’d never want to let me go. My friends and family are the good thing about me. <br />
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<b>Today, I will have been a widow for two years,</b> and while it was the worst happening of my life, that event served as kickoff for two years of overwhelming kindnesses. <br />
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I called my parents from <a href="http://www.remarksfromsparks.com/2016/09/the-timeline.html">the RV park where Jim’s plane went down</a>, and they were in the car within minutes, driving the nine hours from Elk Ridge, Utah, to my house. Supportive is their norm, so at 3:30AM on August 31, they found me tear-drenched in a bed I no longer shared, and at 5:30AM, my dad accompanied me and Dustin to Victory Woodworks to meet with Jim’s employees. In my family, being available to each other is a top-down thing. I don’t know who all took their offspring, but my sissies dropped everything and rushed here too, even Mal from Denmark.<br />
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My mom says our family is kind of like the mob. <b>When you’re in, you’re made, but if just one sister decides you’re out, a couple of us will watch everyone's kids so the others can team up to maim and off you.</b> My first husband is an example. When I brought him into the family, everyone accepted and loved him. They supported our marriage right up until the second I informed them we were done with that cheating idiot stick. Immediate pariah. The virulence they felt and spewed at him was inevitable once they were given direction. <br />
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The fam came to town again this last weekend. <b>To ease the weight of anticipating today, I threw a big party Saturday to celebrate Jim,</b> and my team came in full-force. At the end of the night, one of the catering staff told me, “Next year we need more vegetables. We’ve got some chicken left, but we ran out of veggies.” I laughed and told her that every other person at the party was either a yoga teacher or yoga student, and those people tend to do vegetables in a big way.<br />
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So many of the best things in my life have come by way of yoga. Yes, perspective, physical health, <a href="http://www.remarksfromsparks.com/2014/03/the-sweaty-proposal.html">a marriage proposal</a>, and a job I love, but <b>it’s the yoga people that bowl me over.</b> My bosses, my students, my fellow teachers—they’re my best friends. <br />
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I got Cameron from yoga. We started as students together. Now we teach together. <br />
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Three days after Jim died—and you guys, I still can’t consider this particular anecdote without crying—Cameron came over, and in part of some conversation, he mentioned that he hadn’t slept or eaten for three days. Stupid as shit and concerned for him, I asked why. He looked at me like, “Hey dummy, it’s all this.” <b>He wasn’t messed up because he lost Jim. He was messed up because I did. </b>Over these last two years, he’s listened when I need to talk, usually while at the gym lifting heavy things, and he’s lightened the mood in a way absolutely no one else can.<br />
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I got Jason from yoga. He was my student. Now he’s my boyfriend.<br />
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He might not appreciate my discussing this, but I want that man to get more credit than he does. Being with me is <i>really damn hard</i>. Yes, because of <i>who</i> I am, but also because of Jim.<b> Jason makes it look easier than I know it is, and he makes it look easy for my sake.</b> He has never pushed me to leave Jim behind, and it’s not because it’s painless or he doesn’t care. He cares a lot, and I suspect it hurts. Yet I believe that he cares more about my progress being genuine than he cares about his own comfort regarding my late husband. I think he believes in us enough to do hard things, and I think it means that for Jason our relationship can feel like a steep but pretty hike with a sharp rock in your boot. In his situation, I wouldn’t be selfless, patient, or resolute enough to deal like he does. <br />
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No one in my life forgets about Jim or our relationship. That’s important to me, but<b> it’s becoming even more meaningful that my people encourage headway.</b> It’s easy to pigeonhole a widow. <i>You are a sad thing. I tell you that I want you to be happy, but glimpsing you doing well actually makes me uncomfortable, so stay sad, mmmkay? </i>Fortunately, that hasn’t been my own experience. <b>My people are the best ones</b>, so they coddle me when I need it, they welcome not just Jason the person, but the concept of him as my someone, they listen to my same stories about a dead guy, and they hold Jim’s memory close, even when the memory isn’t their own. Hell, Hilary never met Jim, but on his birthday she made lemon cake, his favorite. <br />
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Who just does that type of thing? My people. I can take today, the two-year anniversary, as something to be sad about, or <b>I can take this day to be more of what I already am: grateful.</b> Grateful for the memories. Grateful for where I am now. Grateful for my people. Jim was cream of the crop, and from him on, I made that the only kind I keep. Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-43472017877629930972018-05-22T12:44:00.002-07:002018-05-22T14:56:38.418-07:00FOR A PSYCHOPATH LIKE ME, YOU’RE PERFECTI want to paint you a picture of a man. <b>As I’ve written him on this space, Jason hasn’t been able to be much more than the guy that bravely dates a widow. It’s wrong. </b>That isn’t the way we live. To him, I’m not widow first, girlfriend second, and to me, I’m not Jim’s wife first, Jason’s girlfriend second. That is the chronology but not the right way to think about a relationship. Sure, our past relationships shade the one we have now, but we are us by ourselves—Jason and Megan. We’ve been together for about a year, and it occurs to me that you haven’t really met my boyfriend.<br />
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<b>Jason is exactly what you see. </b>He doesn’t fake or posture and is as real as one can get. His filter is faulty but that leaves him honest and plain.<span id="goog_1624289563"></span><span id="goog_1624289564"></span> <br />
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I teach some hot yoga, and my classes are hard, often harder than they need to be. (Sorry. Sort of.) I’ve had lots of students suffer through my classes with pretty specific ire pointed at right their teacher. It resolves afterward, but while they’re sweating and struggling through another Warrior 3, they hate my guts. I’ve been that student a lot; I know how it feels, and we all suffer quietly.<b> </b>Not Jason though.<b> He is the first student I’ve ever had flip me off in class. </b>He’s the only student who, after I asked how his first hot class went, replied,<i> Screw you.</i> (But more, say, colorfully than that.) At that point, we’d only met a couple times. Evidently something in those frank and impolite exchanges worked for me, because four months later we started dating.<br />
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While he rebelled in a way that you’d think he hated hot class, that stuff’s right up Jason’s alley. <b>He goes looking for opportunities to push his physical limits. </b>He doesn’t hunt from a truck or go running when the sun is low. He hunts on foot in the snow and goes for a run during the hottest part of the day. He’s rugged and wants everything tougher. <br />
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That includes our relationship.<b> I think he likes the challenge of being with me.</b> Not the widow stuff specifically—he really just sees that as part of the Megan package—but the challenge of dealing with my quick extremes, rash decisions, and too-impassioned approach to basically all the things. I’ve asked him, “Why me? Why are you with me?” His response with the most resonance: <b>“For a psychopath like me, you’re perfect.” </b>I’m not easy—<i>ahem</i>—but in our time together, we find ease. <br />
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I may be the yoga teacher, but he schools me in stillness and how to settle down. He moves more deliberately than I do, and <b>he is patient</b>. I do not enjoy watching sports. I enjoy watching sports with Jason. He lets me ask as many questions as I want, and, even better, knows the answers. I mean, <i>all</i> the answers. It’s caused me to inquire if his day job is not, in fact, doing lawyer things, but instead immersing in obscure sports trivia. <br />
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Jason doesn’t talk as much as I want him to. Getting to know him has been a dogged excise in crafting questions that will get me his answers. <b>I’m getting good at knowing him better but not as good as he is at knowing me.</b> In his talking less, he listens more, and Jason’s memory is flawless. Along with that, he consistently hears more than I’m saying, treating his relationship with me a lot like scouting for big game. When looking for deer, Jason will sit and watch for hours, patiently accumulating information that often ends with an arrow through someone’s heart. He’s like that with me, too. He listens, observes, adds up, and despite what he’s learned, lets me live and still wants to be with me. <br />
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<b>He only hunts with a bow, and that means we can work as a couple. </b>I don’t so much respect rifle hunting. I know hunting with any weapon is hard and takes skill, but the bearing and specific skills required to kill big things with an arrow—and the shit he’s offed is huge—compels me. It requires persistence, a special patience, creativity, humility, optimism, and physical fortitude.<br />
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The truest way to describe how I feel about Jason’s physical strength is to call it hot. <b>It’s hot.</b> It contributes to his indisputable masculinity that I find irresistibly attractive. I like that from the breadth of his shoulders, to his growly voice, to the gray whiskers, and the way he stands,<b> Jason perfectly fills the physical portrait of a <i>Man</i>. </b>He tempers that could-be-stereotypical masculinity with an enthusiasm for apparel, a consistent yoga practice, and a tenderness for his kids that he often tries to hide and with no success at all.<br />
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Jason is a dad of just daughters. My dad has only girls. Those men are different from the ones that also have sons. They’re a bit mushier inside. I like that Jason enjoys his daughters’ individuality, and in the way he listens to me, he listens to them. Without saying so aloud, he delights in knowing his two girls as people not just charges. <br />
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His heart is good. His skin is thick. He’s handsome. He’s sarcastic and too irreverent. He’s canny and sharp.<b> He wants to make me happy. He ought to know he does. </b><br />
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There. You’ve met my Jason.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-9181862943133361042018-05-15T10:05:00.000-07:002018-05-15T10:05:15.237-07:00ADDED WEIGHT<b>I am 15 pounds heavier than I was four years ago today. </b>I acquired five pounds of happy, five pounds of sad, and five pounds of muscles.<br />
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<b>The five pounds of happy came from being in love with Jim. </b>You know, too much fun and you find yourself wondering why these jeans feel a little bit different. Then you’re honest with yourself and come to terms with the truth that all the carefree dessert eating that came from being in love with being in love translated to five more on the scale and thighs that are even more resistant to your efforts to slide them into bottoms that don’t have at least 3% elastane.<br />
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<b>The five pounds of sad came after Jim died.</b> It was all ice cream. It started with ice cream—when Jim’s mom called and told me there was a plane crash to go investigate, I’d just finished my second Drumstick in. a. row.—and it continued with ice cream: me nestled in the corner of the couch, crying, watching <i>The Great British Bake Show</i> over and over and over, routinely wandering over to the ice cream drawer for another Haagen-Dazs something while my supportive mom looked on.<br />
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<b>The five pounds of muscle is Cameron’s fault.</b> He let me come to the gym with him to help me be less pathetic and lump-like. And now we do it all the time. We whimper on the floor while doing weighted bridges to build muscle I don’t want that make jeans almost out of the question.<br />
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Why would I know exactly what I weighed exactly four years ago? <b>Four years ago today I married Jim.</b> I had a goal wedding weight, and I hit it exactly. So I remember that. And when it comes to considering May 15th, I think I might be focusing on that weight information in order to not so much focus on the fact that it is my wedding anniversary with a man I loved who has been dead coming up on two years in August.<br />
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Two years.<br />
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You’re so weirded out by that, huh? “I can’t believe it’s been almost two years, Megan!” is what you just thought. I feel you. It’s weird as hell.<br />
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So what’s it like nearly two years in?<br />
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Normal. It’s like this, <b>not a single day goes by that I don’t think of Jim many times throughout the day</b>. It happens when I see his photos in the house, and, yes, when I see his clothes <i>still</i> in the closet, with coordinating socks that I clipped to his shirts so that he wouldn’t have to put in effort to match stuff and wouldn’t come downstairs in the morning in pink argyle socks with a maroon plaid shirt. That happened, and I love it <i>so much.</i> I love so much that when he sat down at the counter and I saw how his ensemble “matched,” and said, “Oh, nope. Gotta go change,” he was humble enough to go do it. He knew clothes weren’t his thing, but he didn’t want to look like an idiot. <b>He trusted me.</b> Even though taking off his shoes and putting them back on was one of his most hated things—the primary reason he got pre-check at the airport was so that he wouldn’t have to untie and retie his Ugg chukka boots—he went back upstairs to change his socks. I still can’t figure out why he didn’t just change the shirt.<br />
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I think of memories like that. I remember his preferences. I try to trust like he did. I try to only care about the stuff that matters. And I do sad things like listen to a sweet message from my sister and think, “I gotta save that for when she dies soon so I have it to remember her at her best.” <b>I’m ruined. </b>But maybe in a goodish way.<br />
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A close-to-you death kind of screws you up like that. I make mental notes about people that go something like, “Oh I have to write that down so that I have that memory when they die soon.” And when I leave my house, I make sure it's put together in such a way that it won't be too bad for my family to clean out my closet if I die while I'm gone. I make sure the impression I leave is an accurate one: I'm tidy but weird. <b>I think about death often, and I’m not at all scared of it anymore. </b><br />
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Constantly, and I really mean constantly, I think of how my widowhood must affect my boyfriend. Hopefully it’s less over time, and I think it is, but I know he knows that my last marriage isn’t like the first one where I felt relief with termination. My last marriage ended on a helluva high note. <b>I know Jason knows that I’m solidly in love with him, and not just for now</b>, but I also know that he knows I was in love with Jim. How do I, how do we, navigate that? Me: probably inelegantly. Jason: ever like a champ.<br />
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Jim and I weren’t together long enough for our wedding anniversary to sting too hard. This would have been our fourth. <b>I imagine that May 15 will eventually fizzle to a pang of loss rather than a punch in the chest.</b> It’s the actual anniversary of his death that I see as The Big Date that I can’t turn away from.<br />
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For now though, at this anniversary, I’m grumpy, not really a pleasure to deal with, fatigued, and just ready for tomorrow.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-72144721411470662702018-02-22T21:03:00.000-08:002018-02-22T21:03:05.864-08:00LEANING IN<a href="https://www.yogapod.com/reno/">Yoga Pod</a>, one of the studios where I teach, has been using February do an 18-classes-in-28-days challenge. When I told Jason that <b>in the 19 days it took him to take 18 classes, I took only <i>three</i></b>, he responded, “But how many did you teach?”<br />
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“Well, 30.” <br />
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Thirty. I wasn’t kidding. I even counted afterward to make sure. I’m grateful that I spent a decade taking a bunch of yoga before I decided to learn to teach, because right now I ain’t got time to take shit. I need more yoga. Teaching doesn’t count. I’m working through it.<br />
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This story serves two purposes. <b>I’m bragging on behalf of Jason ‘cause there’s no way he’ll do it himself, and I’m explaining why I haven’t blogged in more than four months.</b> I’ve been busy. And, well, also, I’ve been unsure of how to write about where I’m at or even figure that out for myself. <br />
<br />
When I think of using metaphors, I think of ‘em being helpful in explaining things to someone else so that they can better understand what I’m feeling or trying to say. Lately, however,<b> I’ve been using metaphors to try to explain my own feelings to myself. </b><br />
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Here’s one: After a person goes through significant weight loss, it sometimes happens that they don’t get new clothes right away. Their old clothes clearly don’t fit, but instead of getting new stuff to wear, they punch another hole in an old belt and cinch it tighter. It seems they’re accustomed to their old clothes and unaccustomed to a body that doesn’t fill those clothes. So they linger in an awkward stage of in-between, not wanting to be big enough to fill the old clothes and unsure of how to shed the extra material to embrace a different body. <br />
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Emotionally, I’ve been feeling like that. <b>Grief was weight, as physical a weight as I’ve ever felt dropping onto my little soul, but it weighs less now; its mass is more manageable.</b> Grief is even a companion that educates me and often morphs into gratitude. I’m trying to find the guts to let myself have a new wardrobe that fits rather than remaining in the garb of a different set of feelings. <br />
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That transition involves guilt. It involves fear. I don’t know if I’ll ever lose the guilt associated with forward movement after losing Jim. I do know that getting mired in guilt is counterproductive. Immobility doesn’t feel good. It doesn’t serve me or anyone I love. And I think my fear in embracing a life less grief-laden has to do with the unknown. I know what sad feels like, and while it may not be pleasant, I still know it, and that’s not scary. <br />
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Here’s the thing though: <b>sad doesn’t fit anymore.</b> Perhaps by way of all that yoga junk, I’m getting better at living where I’m at. Where I am right now, is—quite honestly—happy. I blame Jason.<br />
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<b>I love having a someone to care for. </b>I didn’t always. The evolution of my love life—cheated on in a mediocre marriage, divorced, in love, married again, happy, widowed, dating again, in love, happy—has happened so fast (all in under 5 years) that it’s easy to remember my feelings during each phase and compare them to other sections. I blew my first marriage. I wasn’t good at it because I didn’t care. That apathy contributed to a union that was weak enough to fracture. And thank heaven. It led me to Jim. Since I’d so recently reaped the fruits of dispassion in a marriage, and I hate failing, I decided that with Jim I was going to crush wifehood. I did. It made me crazy happy. Jim felt loved. I felt loved. We were in love. It was work, but it was work that we liked doing.<br />
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Then that work came to an abrupt end. I lost my one someone to serve. Well, damn. So that was just another phase? <br />
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But then . . . But then . . . Jason. Handsome, intelligent, observant, understanding, coarse Jason.<b> Falling in love with him was unavoidable. We match.</b> Thank heaven again. I get to have a someone to love and do for and care for, which, as I’ve already discovered, can’t help but bring me joy. <br />
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<b>Each taste of joy is unique. </b>The happiness I experience now does have a bit of a frantic undercurrent. There are moments where I feel like Jason and I have to do all the things and have all the experiences <i>right now</i> because he might die. It’s morbid, but it’s the baggage I bring. When I don’t hear from him for a while I start fretting. I know statistics say that my boyfriend isn’t going to die so soon after I’ve lost my husband, but statistics were supposedly on my side when Jim’s best friend died four months before him; that should have ensured that Jim was around for a long time. Best friends don’t die from such different causes so close together. Oh, but yes they do. Thus my unreasonable freak outs when Jason doesn’t text me back immediately because I assume he’s dead actually verge on reasonable. So that part sucks.<br />
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<b>I’ve been concerned that I’m wrapping myself up in another person and so the happiness I feel can’t be authentic.</b> I’ve worried about that a lot. Could it be that my infatuation with Jim left me sadder at his death than I’d have been if I’d loved him less? Maybe. But I’ll take the weight of the pain I’ve experienced for what I enjoyed with Jim. Is it bad though? Is finding so much contentment and happiness in a relationship with another human dangerous or wrong? Again, maybe. But unfortunately, that’s living. <br />
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Living well can be messy and doesn’t come without risk.<b> I’m knee-deep in risk here and wading in deeper, because I love being in love with Jason</b>, and he is worth every bit of care and attention I can give him. So much more, even.<br />
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Okay, but am I making myself into someone whose only satisfaction derives from obsession with someone else? Those people are irritating. No, I’m not that. I know that I can experience joy in giving my all to love and intimacy, so I am, and I’m still me.<b> I like me.</b> I irritate me. I get disappointed with me. I also know me. I’m tough, multifaceted, oriented toward improvement, and bright. My efforts to craft a killer relationship with Jason amplify those traits I’m proud of, making me a better me and giving Jason the best Megan I can muster. So I chuck myself headlong into the experience, knowing as well as anyone that there is risk for pain and the size of the pain could be amplified by the size of the love. Oh well. <b>Worth it. </b>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-63849523943803948232017-10-04T09:34:00.000-07:002017-10-04T09:35:57.354-07:00THE SOMEONE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
His name is Jason. My mom asked me what I like about him. “He is handsome. He likes me. He teaches me things. He is handsome. He laughs loud. He’s smarter than me. But perhaps most of all,<b> I like how he handles my struggle.</b> He respects Jim. He helps me.” <b>That says so much about who Jason is. A badass, really. </b>Again, tell me what kind of a person does it take to be able date a mourning widow and to endure the spontaneous tears and fond reminiscence of another man and not only power through that but be a comfort? </div>
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It takes nothing short of remarkable.<br />
<br />
I never intended to date. I’ve said that a lot. I meant it every time. But had I set out to do so I wouldn’t have thought out the necessity of the man being someone who couldn’t merely handle hearing about Jim, but would ask questions about him and our family, take care of me when I go low, and tell me that <b>he knows that the mourning isn’t going to stop, that it’s part of who I am, and he wants to be with me anyhow.</b> Perhaps even because of it all. Because all of this further toughened me, and I guess that’s kind of appealing. (To a total lunatic.)<br />
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Who in the world would want to sign on for this? I’ve said I’m great—I even kind of mostly meant it—but could I possibly be <i>that</i> great? Even though he’s not shy about telling me why I’m a catch, I’m still baffled about why Jason wants anything to do with me. This. Isn’t. Easy. And it's weird.<br />
<br />
A bit ago, I told a mutual friend that I’m seeing Jason. She knew Jim and me as a couple as well. At the time I was really struggling with being okay with dating. Was I dishonoring Jim’s memory? My friend’s response was comforting, <b>“If Jim could have hand-picked anyone for you, it would have been Jason.”</b><br />
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He is a yoga student. Obviously that’s how we met. (Like I was going to meet someone any other way.) Jason is also a bowhunter. My boyfriend kills big shit and does it well. I’m a vegetarian. He likes whiskey. I’m a teetotaler. When it comes to the outside stuff, the stuff that doesn’t matter (say, meat vs. no meat, alcohol vs. none, and elective interaction with the outdoors vs. an outright aversion to Outside), we have no business working as a couple. When it comes to the inside stuff, the stuff that matters (values, respect, fun, support, and attraction), he’s given me a companionship that results in stuff I didn’t know I could have again: <b>respite, contentment, and even something like—<i>gasp!</i>—Happy. </b><br />
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I never asked what I did to deserve Jim dying. I don’t think that way. I have thought plenty about people I wish would have died instead of him, but I don’t remember asking, “Why me?” It just never seemed productive. I have asked what in the world could I have done to deserve having Jim at all. How could I have been so lucky to be his wife and enjoy the amazing life we had together?<b> And now here, despite the horror of incredible love lost, I again find myself in good fortune. </b><br />
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Truthfully, I’ve been in good fortune this whole time. I’ve known it too. I’ve said so. The amount of support my friends and family give me is more than I’ve known what to do with. They love me. They love the kids. They loved Jim. Of course, love him still. <b>But for there to be someone new in my life giving me support purely on the merit of who I am now, not for who I was before Jim died or out of love for my late husband, is the kind of good fortune I don’t really know how to react to. </b><br />
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So I’m not going to try to understand it. I don’t have the brain power for that. More significantly, it could be that I don’t need to understand; I just maybe need to enjoy and be enjoyed. I’m unendingly appreciative of—and astonished about, really—Jason’s fortitude regarding the shit I’m in. He eases the heaviness. I get to be comfortable about letting myself keep grieving, and I get to enjoy the privilege of a singular someone to go out with, to stay in with, to try new things with, and to just sit. I might think Jason’s crazy. I might even routinely try to talk him out of being with me. But mights aside, I know I’m again—I’m still—lucky.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-22826207379075906392017-08-26T07:34:00.000-07:002017-08-26T07:34:02.639-07:00NEW SHOESImagine dating a woman who often cries about missing another man. What type of a person does it take to be able to endure that, let alone console when it happens? I have to say that kind of respect, resilience, and patience is really compelling. But <b>I hate the idea of putting someone that extraordinary through the struggle of being with me.</b><br />
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However, <b>I’ve realized that Jim taught me how to be a great partner.</b> I wasn’t interested in developing that skill in my first marriage. I didn’t care enough to do the work, and I didn’t love my first husband in a way that compelled me to learn to love deeper through service. But I loved Jim. I love him. I wanted to make him feel as loved as he deserved. I wanted to be the kind of partner to him that he was to me. And I did it. I’m proud of how well I loved him. I learned how to be one hell of a wife. <br />
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So I have to ask myself, did I learn how to be a partner that’s worth someone putting up with the massive trial of dating a mourning widow? <br />
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You can’t just wait that out forever, you know. When will I not be mourning? Oh, that’s easy—Never. I won’t ever not miss Jim. I won’t ever fall out of love. Our halt happened at a high point, and really that has a disturbing beauty to it. There weren’t dirty secrets or regrets or loose ends. There was just life lived all the way and more happiness than I thought a single soul could bear. <b>So it leaves me in love forever. </b><br />
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Which, though incredible, isn’t enough. <br />
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Dustin got married last month and I traveled to the wedding solo. As I walked through the Reno airport I thought over and over, <b>“Alone . . . I’m alone . . . This is bullshit.”</b> Alone just isn’t fair. How could I—how could anyone—expect me to be stuck all by myself? Like I’ve said before, I <i>can</i> do that. I’m good at alone. But for it to be a forced solitude? Therein lies the bullshit. I’m independent by upbringing and preference. I’m alone by way of horrid circumstance. I fret and fret that Jim’s friends and family will hate me and cut me off if there is another man in my life. I feel like they might think that I don’t miss Jim or honor his memory. That would be wrong. He is always there. He will always be there. <b>It doesn’t matter who I see or who I’m with, Jim is part of me. </b>I love his kids completely, and they’ve become part of me too.<br />
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<b>My late husband improved me in way that would be unfair to keep to myself. </b>Jim hated wasted potential and skill. Would he want me to waste me? I’ve come to a place where I’m certain he wouldn’t. Is it dishonorable to take the skills I got from loving Jim and apply them to a new relationship? I’ve struggled with that a lot. But I know the answer’s no. <br />
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“Jim would want you to be happy.” Yes. I believe it. He would want that for all his people in the way that suits us each best. But I also don’t know if full-tilt happy is even in me anymore. I can laugh loud. I can be useful. But it all ends up colored with despair or concern. I’m either dealing with the drench of sorrow, or I’m worried that if I don’t look the right amount of sad the other people who love Jim will think I’ve moved on. <br />
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That’s not a thing though. <b>I can’t move on. </b>That means leaving him behind, which I will never do. Yet <b>I can move <i>forward</i> </b>and take steps where he comes with me. Those steps forward involve a lot of walking into the dark without a light. So I think as I take those tottery steps I’d like to be allowed a strong hand to hold. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You're looking at my left-side ribs. Tattoo's real and the only one I have. It wasn't even a week after Jim died that I knew I wanted it and getting the thing was how I celebrated our anniversary in May. </td></tr>
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Being with me isn’t an easy task that’s for sure. It wasn’t easy for Jim—think <a href="http://www.remarksfromsparks.com/2016/12/smart-beautiful-difficult.html">“smart, beautiful, and difficult”</a>— and it’s worse since he’s gone, but <b>I’d like to think I’m worthy of a shot and worth all that effort.</b> Okay, I actually have it on good authority that I am. Giving another guy a try in my current state is weird. I certainly didn’t set out to do it, but I stumbled onto a terrific something—a someone—and experiencing care and laughter and a sense of light in this kind of relationship is an astounding relief. <b>I’ve tried on a new pair of shoes</b>, and while I’m gonna be wobbly as hell maybe forever, it feels so nice not to have to be barefoot.s<br />
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-42448197949908200832017-08-10T23:33:00.001-07:002017-08-10T23:44:00.501-07:00STUCK A.F.<b>Sometimes I can’t tell whether a particular struggle is widow-related or just regular old life.</b> Then I realize that my regular old life includes the element of widowhood, and I can’t separate that out. And my life is so First World that all my problems are a direct result of Jim’s death. Really, all of them.<br />
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Before saying more I must make clear that <b>I’m not struggling.</b> Not regularly. There are the terrible days and the bummer days, but I’m plodding along decently. I’ve just got potholes to navigate.<br />
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When you lose a loved one people give you whatever they can as comfort; usually it’s the thing they’ve found most helpful for themselves. For lots that’s religion. So these caring folk offer you Jesus. Though that’s not my thing, I’ve taken whatever people gave—graciously, except that one time when I lashed out—because <b>I appreciate the gift of care. </b><br />
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People like the idea of seeing their lost person in heaven or thinking that the loved one’s waiting with family. There could be something terribly wrong with me, but I really don’t think about that stuff. <b>I guess my yoga garbage has gotten in deep enough where I take seriously the living-for-now B.S</b>. I ignore Later, since Now is what I actually have to work with. Now isn’t theory or hopes. It’s concrete, and I deal better with concrete.<br />
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That said, <b>I’m having a tough time finding a point.</b> For all of this. Not, like, a life purpose or understanding of God’s Plan, but just a point. What’s the point of cultivating relationships? Of following through? Of making the bed? I do all those things without whining and usually without wondering, but there are times where I pause in curiosity over what I’m doing.<br />
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With Jim I decided that what I wanted the point to be was to be happy. Love him hard. Serve him. Let it make me happy. It was the only point I needed. <b>But then he was gone and there wasn’t any point anymore. </b><br />
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I’m kinda stuck. This isn’t like a divorce where you buck up and go back to being yourself but a better version of yourself because—<i>screw you!</i>—I got this! For me that situation was about picking up pieces, reassembling, and being even more awesome. I succeeded. I think I don’t have the same pieces anymore though, and I certainly don’t have clear assembly instructions, <b>so with this disaster I sit with my pieces pretty confused. </b><br />
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When I was working on the design for Jim’s headstone I put our births and death date on there. <i>Our</i> death date. Really just as a place-filler for spacing purposes I made his death date my own. The gal at the masonry place told me they’re superstitious so maybe take it off the design. I told her <b>8.30.16 is when my soul died,</b> so for now it stays.<br />
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Honestly though something in me did die. I’ve had nearly a year to come to that conclusion. I’m back to pretty damn functional. I have gained relationships that are vital. From the outside I think I come off as pretty healthy. And I am. Except the part that’s dead. I’m not at all certain what part of me that is.<br />
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It might be zest, verve, umph. That seems to be what’s missing from Me. I feel more solemn. I feel less fun. Sometimes I even feel mean and it comes out as acerbic. <b>There’s a necrotic something inside me, and I can’t cut it out, because I don’t know where or what it is.</b> I only know it’s there.<br />
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This can’t make much sense to you, which is perfect, because it doesn’t make sense to me either. I know what depression feels like. This is different. I struggle to engage with people. I have a hard time caring. I think I’m more reserved. I don’t enjoy it.<br />
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So where I land is that <b>the thing that died is Jim.</b> He became part of me. He made me starkly happy such that it showed on my face. Being with him planted Jim-branded joy square in my soul, and without it I became listless and nonsensical.<br />
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This makes me feel like I'm cheating the new people in my life. You don't know who I was, so you don't know the best me. But with fracture nothing heals exactly the same. It could look the same, but the structural integrity is compromised.<b> I do know I don’t get to get back to normal.</b> I’m to redefine. Trouble is that that new normal person I’m putting together seems like a lame replacement for what I felt I was before.<br />
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Do I be okay with that crummy new self? <b>Or do I locate some gusto that isn’t there and craft a being worth being?</b> I have no idea. That’s the stuck part. But here’s where I’m smart: I know that being stuck is part of it. It’s part of loss. It’s part of healing. It’s where I’m at. I don’t have to enjoy it but I do have to slog through. So slog I shall.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-58043822406081517142017-05-15T07:16:00.000-07:002017-05-15T07:16:01.194-07:00ON OUR ANNIVERSARYI’ve been dreading this day. It’s our third wedding anniversary. <b>The dread is not knowing how I would feel. </b>Would I wake into the sadness of my loss or would I be able to do what anniversaries are for, relive the euphoria I felt in becoming that man’s wife? <br />
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Coming up on the day, it turns out—and probably predictably so—I’m all the things. I’m sad. I’m happy. I’m weighted yet light. I’m pitiable but almost unbearably lucky. I had him, and we were the kind of happy that defies realism. I was left broken. <b>I was left bettered.</b><br />
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Choosing to learn to love that man in his language was me closest to perfect. Dealing with my ex-husband’s infidelity and doing what I could to try to salvage that marriage showed me I’m made of grit to spare. But being Jim’s wife softened my edges and taught me <b>there is power in making love a priority. </b><br />
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One of the many specific things I’ve cried over since Jim died is not having him to serve anymore. Doing for that man delighted me. I can still do for others, yes, and I do, but they're not, you know, <i>my</i> other. There’s something to having a someone, your own person, that human with whom you’ve got a pocket of solace and that intimate relationship where you get the most practice in cultivating a best self. <br />
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Well, great. I had that. Had. Now what the hell am I supposed to do? Just end? <i>Megan, you peaked. All downhill from here. For the next, like, 45 years. </i><br />
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<b>I like remembering me as Jim’s wife. </b>He went too long in his life being the one making everyone else happy without being catered to himself. I felt like a superstar giving him so much of what he merited such that my love overwhelmed him. <br />
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What if the memory of feeling that way isn’t enough to sustain me as long as I want it to?<br />
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Since my memories are more precious now I feel that much more fortunate to have them. Since he’s gone and I don’t get to make more, I feel that much more lonely. I’ve always been resourceful though.<i> I can fix that. </i><b>But when I think of solving the kind of loneliness losing a spouse leaves I feel sick. </b>The only solution to that one is to date, right? Oh gosh, ew.<br />
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I can’t. I couldn’t. I simply never would.<br />
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But shit, I’ve had eight months to learn that all the yoga and writing and shopping and travel and friends and family that I can handle can’t fill the void of having my own someone.<br />
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<b>You don’t top Jim.</b> It isn’t done. Jim was the top. A person perfect for me. The funniest (just ask him), friendliest, most generous, most memorable. The cutest. So the solution has to be that you don’t try, right? You don’t try to top him and what we had. So then what's left is to have nothing or to open yourself to the possibility of something altogether different. <br />
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Good grief, what does that even mean? And when would it not make me want to vomit? <br />
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In muddling through this unsavory quandary I came across an analogy that works. Shoes. Partners as shoes. In my first marriage I wore a pair of shoes that constantly gave me blisters. They were scuffed and when I tried to shine them it was half-hearted. I covered my feet with bandaids. The blisters didn’t heal. So I got rid of those shoes and was relieved to walk barefoot. <b>Then I bumbled into Jim, the best pair of shoes I was never interested in looking for.</b> Comfortable, supportive, good for all occasions. Irreplaceable. And then lost. So I’m barefoot again, and it sucks. I can walk without shoes forever, sure, but now knowing how it feels to love a pair of perfect shoes, barefoot forever's sounding bleak. <br />
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Jim made my heart tick quicker and, if I’m being honest and nauseating, with more meaning. Maybe there is another someone in my future that can make my heart beat something more than sad and much too steady for how nice I think it would be to just die already. I’m young enough and lonely enough to start to consider the possibility. <b>I’m recently widowed enough to want to throw up thinking about it and hate myself for the disloyalty of having the thought.</b><br />
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But dammit he died. Jim died. My heart-holder, love, and favorite thing died and left me alone. I'm 35 years old.<br />
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I didn’t know what to expect on our wedding anniversary, and I certainly didn’t expect this, to feel the kind of loneliness that looks to be motivating me to consider the option of new shoes. <br />
<br />
My mom reminded me the other day that one of the things Jim would go on about regarding his wife was how capable I am, how I’m good at whatever I do. Usually the things I do are a choice, but grief was thrown at me, and I’m kind of crushing that too. He would be proud of how I’m working through this.<b> I still want to make him proud.</b> I felt like he was something to live up to. His memory is still that. I’m Jim’s wife. It amplified my awesome, and I have that to take with me. Considering that my happiness was his first priority, I can’t imagine he’d want me to be holed up and lonely forever. <br />
<br />
Happy Anniversary, sweetheart. You taught me to make happiness a valid life pursuit. A happy person is more useful, they make life around them easier. It’s what you did. <b>There isn’t anything I wouldn’t surrender to have you back.</b> But since that’s not a thing, I’ll make more relevant what you taught me and how you made me feel.<br />
<br />
Happy isn’t selfish. <b>Happy is correct. </b>Happy was my Jim. Like usual I wonder, “What would Jim do?” He would live huge, have fun, and by way of serving his people he would acquire joy. And then my boy would share it like gangbusters.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-10524637758914382842017-04-27T00:10:00.001-07:002017-04-27T00:24:52.993-07:00CONSIDERING HAPPY“How are you doing?”<br />
<br />
I feel strange and pretty guilty when I reply, <b>“Well, good . . . I’m doing good.” </b><br />
<br />
It looks as if I’m no longer the weepy, fatalistic heap that I became at 6:06 PM on August 30th. Seems kind of right. But mostly wrong. <br />
<br />
I wrote in <a href="http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/rgj/obituary.aspx?pid=181275145">my husband’s obituary</a> that <b>“the best way we can honor Jim's memory is in living happy and taking care of each other.”</b> It’s taken me nearly eight months to even consider adopting what I wrote. I can do the “taking care of each other” part easy. I’m pretty good at caring for my people. But even though I wrote that it would be honoring Jim to live happy, actually following through on that has seemed more like dishonor.<br />
<br />
If I laugh am I not giving Jim the mourning he deserves?<br />
<br />
<b>If I have fun does it look like I don’t miss my sweetheart?</b><br />
<br />
If I go a week without crying, maybe even a month someday, am I forgetting him? Am I—<i>gasp</i>—moving on? <br />
<br />
I’m a stickler for using the right words to say what I mean. So I am careful to specify that I’m working on moving forward. <i>Never</i> that I’m moving on. <br />
<br />
Moving on sounds like I forget or brush him under a rug. <b>Instead, moving forward means pocketing all my pieces of Jim so that they’re close and taking a step or two toward what’s next. </b>Whatever the hell that is. I talk about him. I sigh at his photos. But I also think about permitting new stuff to enter my life. That has been hard. I still avoid watching new shows that I hadn’t before he died. TV series. Movies. Guys, I haven’t seen <i>Rogue One</i>. Me. There is a <i>Star Wars </i>movie I haven’t seen. I own it—thanks, Kay Kay—but I haven’t watched it. There are some strange stumbling blocks along my way “forward.” Evidently that is one. <br />
<br />
I am proud of how I’ve grieved. I do it.<b> I don’t pushed aside my sadness or avoid talking about the loss, even if my voice catches or my makeup runs.</b> I can’t imagine not talking about Jim whenever I want. I wrote about him and talked about him constantly while he was alive (to the annoyance of pretty much all the people everywhere actually) and I don’t see a reason to stop even though he’s gone.<br />
<br />
With that I think I’m left healthier than if I didn’t have a talent for emotional expression and a willingness to do it publicly. <b>I feel that maybe I am even progressing toward acceptance faster than I’m comfortable with.</b> Just eight months after my husband died should I really be ready to <i>even consider</i> the idea of someday seeking happiness? The only way I can stomach that consideration is by giving myself credit for immediately embracing grief and the recognition that I’m luckier than most in the constant support I have from family, friends, and people I didn't even know before Jim died.<br />
<br />
I have always been bright, clever, funny, and useful. But <b>Jim made me vibrant. </b>I’ve felt like that vibrance died with him. However, you don’t live with Jim, gain so much, and at his passing just lose it all. His knowledge base was so different from my own. It awoke dormant curiosity. He loved to go, to do. It made me braver and even eager to try new things. He gave me more family—the kids, his sisters and parents, Victory Woodworks. It beefed up my team and left me more people to serve. <b>I’d like to think what our love and marriage gave me is mine to keep.</b> I just have to find the tools and gumption to dig it back up. <br />
<br />
With Jim I was happier than anyone had ever seen me be before. He was his happiest too. That’s got to be one of the things that my family has had the hardest time with, that so many people have really. <i>She was so happy! He was so happy! They were </i>so happy<i> together.</i> <br />
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Is Happy still in me? If the qualities I gained or amplified in being Jim’s girl—curiosity, bravery, and a desire to live bigger and offer up my strength and spark to more people—still belong to me, <b>shouldn’t at least the concept of absurd happiness also remain mine?</b> I don’t know where I can find it or even if I will, but gradually I’m coming to a place where I can bear the idea of keeping an eye out for joy, of “living happy” and letting Jim’s memory be the thing that takes care of me.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-24922273782192697242017-04-02T22:09:00.002-07:002017-04-03T17:22:18.620-07:00WIDOWINGA few weeks ago there was an 18” bruise up the side of my right leg and pain in my back. A mean windstorm flipped our stupidly giant hammock over the top of my upper deck rail, I fought to stop the thing from totally wrecking a rain gutter, and I lost. There is a 3” dent in the drywall in my office because I have no business wielding a hammer of any sort.<br />
<br />
Where I’m lucky is that at least 20 people read those things and thought, <b>BUT I TOLD HER TO CALL ME IF SHE NEEDED ANY HELP AROUND THE HOUSE!</b> I’m grateful that’s the case, but, honestly, like I’m going to do that. Why should my friends be inconvenienced when I want to hang things? Also, I’m not patient. If something needs doing, I’m not good at waiting for help. I’m going to plow ahead, do a horrible job, probably break something, and then take a humble pie in the kisser by way of paying a guy to fix the result of my impatience, ignorance, and arrogance. <br />
<br />
I’ve always talked to myself when things are hard. <i>You can do this. You can do this.</i> Problem is, I’m generally wrong. But that’s what I whispered heading out to the garage this evening on the hunt for a stud finder. (Couldn’t find one. We have every other tool imaginable, but <b>evidently Jim didn’t need to find studs; they found him.</b>) When the tool chests came up dry I scanned the garage for more possibilites. I’d already been teary, searching through Jim’s stuff, but I didn’t actually lose it until my eyes landed on his nail bags. It wasn’t often that Jim donned bags to get my silly home decor tasks done, but when he did it was about the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. He loved me for how capable I am, and man I loved that about him too.<b> There wasn’t anything he couldn’t do.</b> My husband liked that about himself. When hanging shelves or mirrors or doing whatever strange thing I dreamed up for him—<i>Can you please suspend this painting from our slanted ceiling using eye hooks and rope?</i>—he’d be about halfway through and say, “I’m really talented at this stuff.”<br />
<br />
Heart eyes. Eyes spewing a shit-ton of hearts.<br />
<br />
<b>It’s just about every day that I’m grateful I cupped Jim’s face to kiss him. </b>It’s not only my lips that remember his face but my hands can too. Sometimes I bring my hands up and reach out like I can hold his face in front me. My fingers don’t find anything, but I have to make sure my arms remember the height difference between us and my hands don’t forget the width of his face and feel of his whiskers.<br />
<br />
We hit seven months last week. Another dumb marker. And one that makes conversation kind of harder. “My husband died.” Sad eyes and sympathy accompany, “How long ago?” “Seven months now.” And then faces lift a touch—<i>I don’t have to be too, too sorry for her now; phew</i>—and sad eyes shift into a look that reads something like, <i>Oh, so you’re pretty much fine now, right? </i>No. Not how it works. <b>And even though I appreciate that you try, you can’t understand. </b>I’m happy for you; being able to understand what this feels like means you’ve been through it, and that’s awful. There are very few people on whom I wish Awful. <br />
<br />
I look pretty normal. I act pretty normal. I pat myself on the back—I’m a yogi; I can actually do that, pat myself on the back—when I consider that my new students can't guess that my insides are wrecked. I’m just the really, really encouraging teacher who gives her all to trying to curse less in class and manages to laugh off moments where she biffs it out of an arm balance in front of 20 attentive adults. <b>I am pulling this off like a champ. </b><br />
<br />
I recently saw my dentist for the first time since losing Jim. She gave me the inevitable sad eyes and said, <b>“You were so happy.” </b>I’ve gotten good at accepting sad eyes without crying in response, but her words did me in. <br />
<br />
“We were,” I replied, “So, so happy.” She and I talked about how great things had been and how I have piles of amazing memories that make me smile and get me through the days. In remembering Jim, nine times out of 10 I laugh instead of cry.<br />
<br />
“But, really how are you doing?” <br />
<br />
After a pause I said, “Well, I’m good at this. I know it sounds weird, but I’m pretty good at alone and I don’t deny myself grief. I can’t. I love him too much. <b>So while I’m not doing <i>good</i> per se, I am doing good <i>at this</i>.</b>”<br />
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It’s weird though. While I’ve pretty well ditched shame regarding public crying, I am having a hard time figuring out how to talk about Jim without making people too uncomfortable.<br />
<br />
I was talking with a gum-loving student after class the other night and told him about the time that Jim was chewing gum in one of Tanya’s yoga classes and she walked over, put out her hand, and he spat his gum into it. “One of my favorite memories,” I said. And then I looked away and quickly pushed the conversation another direction. Because when you say “memories” it implies that something is done. But why? Why’s it done? Not because you got a divorce; you don’t usually talk about favorite memories when you’ve gotten divorced, right? And if not a divorce, well, what is it? Yeah, a death. So then you have to go <i>there</i>. <b>And while I love talking about my husband, I’m more socially adept than that.</b> People don’t know what to do and I just end up apologizing for telling them about my situation. <br />
<br />
I was at a doctor’s office a couple weeks ago and a nurse asked about the double strand necklace I wear. “What’s engraved on that second pendant?” she asked, “The thing that starts with N?”<br />
<br />
“You’re so bummed you just asked about that,” I said. <br />
<br />
“Oh, I’m sorry. If you don’t want to talk about it—”<br />
<br />
“No, I do,” I told her, “It’s why I wear it, but you’ll be sad you asked. The top pendant has my husband’s initials, JSE, and <b>that number—N985CA—on the bottom pendant, it’s the tail number from the plane that crashed and killed my husband</b>.”<br />
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And then shit gets all awkward. Killed. My. Husband.<br />
<br />
“Oh I’m so sorry.” “I know. Thanks . . . ” And so on. <br />
<br />
My friend Liz who also lost her husband gave me an analogy that stuck. <b>This widowing thing is like learning to live with a limp.</b> Initially, it's everything. The pain that causes you to limp is your world. And then you learn to live with your new escorts, Discomfort and Difficulty. It might look unwieldy, but that's just your new way to walk. I limp now. Depending on the moment my limp is more or less pronounced. It might not make me stall at crosswalks anymore, but it's there, and <b>figuring out how to maneuver around the change and craft a new normal is the task at hand. </b>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-79398468945078920792017-02-26T05:04:00.000-08:002017-02-26T07:26:14.178-08:00THAI COLLAPSEThe Thailand entry stamp in my passport says February 25. The Thailand departure stamp in my passport says February 26. <b>The 24 hours I’ve been in Thailand are about 22 too many.</b><br />
<br />
February 25th: <br />
<br />
4:00PM—Land Koh Samui Airport in southern Thailand<br />
5:00PM—Check in Samahita Retreat for Yoga Medicine week-long spine training<br />
6:00PM—Mandatory dinner. Meet other trainees. Silently begin to lose shit. <br />
7:30PM—Training orientation. Shit-losing increases. <br />
7:45PM—Admit defeat. Book it back to private room to frantically schedule flight to get the hell out of Thailand.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.800000190734863px;">Koh Samui airport. About as much Thailand as I actually saw.</td></tr>
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This trip was me being the brave widow. And it was a big fat fail. I’ve traveled a fair amount since Jim died. Disneyland, three or four trips to Utah, Los Angeles for a baby blessing, Denmark to spend Thanksgiving with the Johnsons. All the trips are sad because I’m without my love, but I’ve plodded along, going through the motions. Thailand was supposed to be part of that. <br />
<br />
I erred. <b>It didn’t occur to me that all the other post-Jim travel I’ve done was with or to visit friends and family.</b> This wasn’t that. Instead it was Megan jetting to the other side of the planet entirely alone. Genius.<br />
<br />
Yoga teaching certification-wise, I have my RYT-200. A next step is getting the 500. Maybe six months before that stupid plane crash I picked a school—Yoga Medicine—and kept an eye out for a training module that would work. Jim and I talked about going to the spine training in Thailand at the end of February. Maybe I could do that and he could come and we could explore after? Yes. <br />
<br />
Then he died. <br />
<br />
And I got extra stubborn. <i>I’m going on the damn trip. I’m gonna do the damn training.</i> Did I want to? Not even a little bit. <i>But it’s the right thing—go learn, get better at teaching, do something. Be tough.</i><br />
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I’m not a quitter. I don’t fail. <b>Except I just quit and failed. </b><br />
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I’m glad that I didn’t chicken out before I got here. If you heard from me that I was going to Thailand you were probably kinda confused; I seemed way bummed out. “But Thailand, Megan! It’s beautiful!” “Don’t care. Don’t want to go but have to do this.” Even though it’s lame that I traveled for 30 hours to get here just to turn around and travel 30 hours to get home, it’s better than not having tried at all. Which I myself don’t even understand. Why is good to try and fail? To learn your breaking point? I don’t know. I only know that I’m glad I didn’t back out in Reno. <br />
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<b>Rather I got to travel really far to learn for certain that I’m newly emotionally ill-equipped for life outside my home bubble.</b><br />
<br />
On my flights to Asia everyone was coupled. On the ride to the yoga center I was desperate to to hear what Jim would think about all the old power lines strung through the streets. At dinner other trainees did what people do—talked about their kids and their significant others and their teaching jobs and other trainings they’ve done. <b>I sat quiet, attributing my reticence to fatigue when really I was just mired in spite, resenting anything that might smell of happiness. </b>That's not like me.<b> </b>I overheard girls talking about how some Instagram yoga people get big followings they don’t merit, and I wanted to smack ‘em for their intense interest in the inconsequential. <i>It. Doesn’t. Matter. </i><br />
<br />
Whimpering stray dogs made me sadder than they should have. Strays are a problem in Thailand. Hotels ask guests not to feed or touch them. It was too much. At home I keep an extra leash in my car and will miss appointments and classes to catch a pet and help it home.<br />
<br />
Even though admitting defeat isn’t my proudest moment, I’m supposed to be pleased that I had the self-awareness to concede that the little things were adding up to a too-big thing, and I couldn’t hack it.<b> I’ve got limits; I misjudged them to start, but I am fixing it.</b> I can’t be alone for hours and hours and see couples happily traveling together while I’m so close to Jim’s death. I can't pull off common social graces and to pretend Instagram is important or fein interest in strangers’ kids. I don’t have to cope with the sadness of walking past whimpering homeless puppies.<br />
<br />
So I’m withdrawing back to Sparks where my mom is waiting to feed me healthy food and hover to wait for a bit more rebuild. In weaker moments ditching out on the training feels like regression. I’ve been holding it together like a champ for months by way of making the right choices. I cry when I need to. I push forward when I can stand it. I bail when things are too much and usually don’t beat myself up about it. In this case the size of the bail makes the success of yielding to my limits feel like a fail, though I suppose I know better. <b>I need to be where I can stay held together</b>—with people who know what I’m dealing with and dogs that have homes. While I don’t hesitate to acknowledge that I’m mending from being broken, I guess it took coming to Thailand to realize that I have to be more cautious when the glue’s not dry.Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-19860311205049365482017-02-24T15:38:00.002-08:002017-02-24T15:44:54.178-08:00ONE DOZEN LOVE LETTERSIn filling out that book <i>642 Things About You That I Love</i> for Jim I came across this prompt: <br />
<br />
<i>This is what I believe about you—</i><br />
<br />
My answer came easy. <i>I really believed that you could save yourself. I’m still shocked that it’s not true. I believed you were more powerful than death.</i><br />
<br />
A lot of what I’ve felt since Jim died is shock. There are still the bewildering realizations that he’s never coming home but also this <b>sense of disbelief that my sweet man was actually <i>able</i> to be killed. </b>Something in me was convinced he had the power to prevent that. <br />
<br />
While rolling trash cans to the curb this week—a task that wasn’t all mine until 6 months ago—it occurred to me that actually I was right. With a soul the size of his, Jim was too powerful to die. I see myself as Jim's legacy-keeper—<b>the job that came with the privilege of getting to have him at all is keeping him alive once he’s gone. </b>It's not hard. There is so much good to hang on to.<br />
<br />
I don’t focus my attention on life after death. <i>Now</i> is what matters to me, but no matter what I might believe about the soul and life after we die, <b>I can treat Jim’s death as absence not disappearance.</b> Like I mention perhaps too often, you don’t live as large as he did and just vanish once you’re not breathing. By way of my unabating memorialization, that man’s not going anywhere. <br />
<br />
I have scads of little love notes from Jim. When my mom asked for copies of a few [of the chaste ones] I was delighted to oblige. They’re too good for me not to share. Enjoy. And maybe do this: pick up the nearest scrap of paper and write your person a love note. It doesn’t need to be fancy or poignant or a work of literary art. <b>Just take a sec to be you loving your someone </b>while you’ve got the opportunity to do it.<br />
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-70437830393223713692016-12-30T12:55:00.000-08:002016-12-30T13:11:25.836-08:00THE HIERARCHY OF SADNESSI’m back in memorial-service mode. <b>Jim’s mom died three days ago. </b>It seems the world at large is whining about 2016 being a bitch, but I’m not in a position to indulge in the frivolity of giving a damn about this year’s celebrity deaths. So if I wasn’t opposed comparing miseries, I’d go ahead and call the win on behalf of my clan in regard to the suckiest 2016. Jim’s best friend Brandon died. Four months later my Jim died. Four months after that Jim’s mom died. And there were two family dog deaths sprinkled in there someplace. So we win at loss. <b>However, that yields to the Hierarchy of Sadness, which shouldn’t be a thing.</b><br />
<br />
When people find out about my loss, they invariably end up waiving claim to sorrow of their own, surrendering to what I’ve come to call the Hierarchy of Sadness. Everyone has misfortune and when friends tell me about what’s hard for them they qualify it by saying something like, “I mean, it’s nothing like what you’re dealing with . . . ” They don’t want me to think they compare their grandma’s death or rear-ending a car to losing my person and our future. <br />
<br />
It’s unavoidable though. <br />
<br />
We do our best to relate, dusting off our saddest thing and using it to find our way to comprehension of some kind. It’s good. It’s kindness. But also people feel like they can’t tell me their woes because I might assume they find their stuff equal to what I’m dealing with. Here’s the deal: <b>you don’t know how I feel. I don’t know how you feel either. </b>It’s why we talk—or write—about stuff, to reach something like understanding. I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent. I don’t know what it’s like for my parents to get divorced. To lose a sibling. To lose a child. I know what having a cheating spouse felt like. I know what my own divorce felt like. <b>I know what it feels like to become a widow.</b><br />
<br />
My horrible thing that I think about all the time and weighs me down and makes me pitiful doesn’t make your problems any smaller. <b>I don’t want people to feel like they’re not entitled to their emotions because my misfortune seems bigger. </b>And okay, maybe it is <i>bigger</i>, but really it’s just different. I’m in a different place of sadness than someone separating a family or struggling with a disabled child. My sadness might debilitate or visibly alter me more, but it doesn’t nullify how your sadness affects you. <br />
<br />
<b>I spent the last few years breathtakingly happy.</b> I had an incredible man, I told people about him, and I know that my story made some people wish their lives were different, maybe even more like mine. I feel like people forget—no, that they <i>don't know</i>—that<b> the mass and style of how happy I got to be shouldn’t have rendered anyone else’s joy insignificant.</b> While it’s natural for us to compare happenings and feelings, letting our judgement of the comparison invalidate how our own life experiences affect us bums me out.<br />
<br />
That was me being nice for a minute. And I do feel like that. But generally I need to avoid looking at other people’s lives because when I slip into the inevitable comparing <b>I usually end up invalidating people’s experiences for them. </b><i>Oh, but is your partner still alive? Oh he is? How nice for you. Shut your mouth. </i><br />
<br />
Random old people get under my skin. Because they’re alive. They get to be 80 and my Jim got 30 years less. I hate that I’ll probably be one of those old people some day, healthy and stuck staying alive. Come 80 I’ll have been widowed for 46 years. <br />
<br />
It’s not uncommon for people to suggest that I’ll get married again someday. You’re kidding, right? He died. <b>We didn’t get divorced. I’m married. </b>The difference between my marriage and others is that I wear both our wedding rings. I didn’t marry Jim because I wasn’t good at or fine with being alone. I married Jim because he was Jim.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cMXcgx0dzLA/WGbGC8ordBI/AAAAAAAAFv0/DiaOSP1nDbUvFUt8oVp4lSrrDdyGsWwFwCLcB/s1600/20140515-IMG_9617.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-cMXcgx0dzLA/WGbGC8ordBI/AAAAAAAAFv0/DiaOSP1nDbUvFUt8oVp4lSrrDdyGsWwFwCLcB/s400/20140515-IMG_9617.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our wedding ceremony. Gay, Jim's mom, giving me his dad's ring. Though blacked from the fire, that ring survived Jim's plane crash. Now it's fixed and shiny and part of a bracelet on my wrist.</td></tr>
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Yes, post-loss I had to amp up my alarm system because I don’t have a person to make me feel safe without beefier electronic security. Yes, I do fret about what if I start to choke and I’m too short to use the back of a chair to successfully Heimlich myself. But those concerns aren’t enough to make me want to hop on eHarmony. I’m putting my name on Jim’s headstone. Our headstone. <b>The hole in my life isn’t just man-shaped; it’s Jim-shaped. </b><br />
<br />
With the right components in place, suffering can morph into healing. Admittedly I don’t want that, to heal, so whatever improvement occurs is pretty much against my will. Yet whether I want to be or not (not) <b>I am one of those right components. </b><br />
<br />
When I got divorced I was crushed with the feeling of failure. So I became an expert in redefining the win and spun losing the marriage into a victory because I lost a loser. After Jim’s death though I decided that redefining the win was stupid and quit that shit. There was no spin there that was going to make my husband getting killed a good thing. We were already each other’s great success. Alas, as I’ve said too many times to count after this tragedy, I am not stupid. And while the small boosts I can identify don’t fill the pit in my soul even a little bit, I can’t help but see them and they give me pause enough to acknowledge that <b>everything doesn’t absolutely suck.</b><br />
<br />
That acknowledging isn’t something I do enough publicly. Mostly I just bump around downcast and come off as hating everything everywhere, which, yeah, might be my most-of-the-time take, but I keep coming back to the concept that I’m not dumb. I would be dumb not to see what’s great, and there is a boatload. You’ve read that here more often than I say it aloud because I write it for the reminder to myself and because I want to holler that I’m not the most depressing, negative, unfortunate person ever. I’m just a girl who was so happy and then suddenly so not. But it has to be separate from the good things, because <b>the not-Jim good things didn't go away.</b> In fact, they enhanced.<br />
<br />
The relationships that were already in place strengthened. I've been able to enjoy the Victory crew personally. It’s been a gift getting to know my sisters-in-law more. The relationship I have with the kids couldn’t be better; we are a team. I already loved Traci and her kids, but now she’s my sixth sister. <b>We all had the saddest, most sentimental Christmas, but we did it together. </b>And we have a wedding coming up. Dustin and his doll got engaged. <br />
<br />
As a grief exercise I bought a fill-in-the-blanks book called <i>642 Things About You (That I Love)</i>. While Jim will never receive it, at least I’ve got stuff written down and I have direction for that time I hover in memory space. One of the early questions is <b>“If our relationship had a mascot, what would it be?” </b>Not each answer comes immediately, but that one did and came with a groan. A damned phoenix. My sweetheart and I came together from the ashes of destroyed marriages, the both of us, and now I’m left to rise again, this time from for-real plane-crash ashes. A phoenix. Shit. Of late the rising looks more like hovering and then diving into ash again and again, but<b> I’m Jim’s wife</b>—against my will there’s moments of rise. I pretty much hate being so freaking awesome. Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-52804476642759382222016-11-26T23:35:00.001-08:002016-11-27T00:06:42.944-08:00WAITING IN STAGESWell, I’d do it. I’m certain that given the real option, I’d spend the price of my soul to avoid sitting through another double date without him. Why can’t that be a thing? If not access my soul, can I at least surrender an arm? An ear? Both ears? My sight? My talents? All of it? Tonight I was alone on my side of a restaurant booth. “Put your coats and purse over here,” I told Nick and Mallory. <b>I'd give whatever asked to make it so Jim and I together mean that we all have to find hooks for our things.</b><br />
<br />
I’ve spent the holiday week in Copenhagen at my sister, Mal’s, house. “You don’t have to try to smile,” she tells me, “It looks like it’s hard today, and you don’t have to do that with me.” She watches my gaze slide to the floor when a room’s silent and I think she sees I’m scrolling through the memories that got me here. He bought our tickets. I cancelled his.<b> I came alone. </b><br />
<br />
There's a difference between being a tourist and traveling to visit family. It means we go to the grocery store. We pick up my little nephew from school. I eat lots I shouldn’t. I ask about my brother-in-law’s job, and he listens to me talk about Jim. We watch movies and drink tea. The time here isn’t the go-see or find-trinkets kind, and while I can’t help but laugh with any of my sisters, I often find that laughter can’t get to my eyes. But they are my family and they’re patient with me. <b>They wish he was here too.</b> Last year Jim and I met Nick and Mal in Milan so the guys could go ski the Matterhorn. While I’m glad they got to do that before he died, it isn’t comforting.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-avzHKVeEgNw/WDqK6k1K3nI/AAAAAAAAFus/doEiMPBFfN4aTyxg9OsXd9TR80efyEFFQCLcB/s1600/Venice.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-avzHKVeEgNw/WDqK6k1K3nI/AAAAAAAAFus/doEiMPBFfN4aTyxg9OsXd9TR80efyEFFQCLcB/s400/Venice.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Venice last year after Nick and Jim crushed the Alps.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>I don’t try to find comfort. </b>I don’t even try to find forward motion. Comfort isn’t there. Forward motion doesn’t interest me. I wait for each part of this bullshit to find me on its own.<br />
<br />
My version of the denial piece of grieving seems to look a lot like incredulity. <i>Wait. It’s real? . . . What about now? Is it still real now? And now? Seriously? Still?</i> I smell Jim’s cologne on his t-shirt that I keep tucked in my bed, and at the inhale I remember smelling it on him after a shower and saying, “You smell like my husband,” and I with that I recall what his back felt like under my hands while he fell asleep. I linger in a remembering space longer than a wife of the living would. <i>Yes, Megan, it’s real. You can’t make a new memory. No more slipping into the laundry room to make out when company’s over or thanking him for vacuuming cobwebs on the porch. What you have is all there is.</i><br />
<br />
My version of the anger stage isn’t anger with Jim for getting on the plane or for the pilot for crashing it. It’s at the exhausting business of death and the insensitivity surrounding the stuff that has to happen after your someone croaks. So what he made you feel pretty and took comfort that you drive the safest car? <b>His death is just a death. </b>Sign these papers and go cancel his gym memberships. <br />
<br />
And Depression isn’t a stage of grieving. It’s the norm. The shifts come by way of how the depression shows up. Today it feels like sandbags on my shoulders. Today it feels like boards over the doors. And today it feels like why-can’t-I-just-take-another-Ambien-and-pass-the-hell-out-to-just-skip-this-day. After he died a few friends asked if I was going to see about upping my antidepressant dose. No. While I am on board with knocking myself out at night so I don’t spend eight hours stretching my arm into his side of the bed to feel that it’s still tight and cold, <b>you can’t medicate away sadness</b>. And Jim’s memory warrants feeling it all. I <i>want</i> to feel the tonnage of disconsolation because to do otherwise makes less of what he was. <br />
<br />
But it makes me tiresome. I dwell. I make death-related jokes that turn conversation awkward. I fixate on memories. The number of Jim-stories I’ve got is finite, so I tell the same ones a lot. The reverence surrounding a death and the tiptoeing around a new widow means that no one tells me to stop. “We’ve heard this story before. Ten times.” “Stop saying that he ‘does’ things. Present tense doesn’t belong to you anymore.” No one can tell me to shut up without immediately becoming a colossal jackass. I’m a 34-year-old widow. <b>The dead guy’s deified, but I’m the one they fear. </b><br />
<br />
When I make comments about wishing to die, my people get uneasy. “You’re not going to, like, hurt yourself,” some say, some ask. No. I’m not that girl. But, man, I wish I was dead. It’s not that I want to bail on those here or cause myself more pain. I just want to be with my person. As that’s not an option, I’d prefer not to be here at all. The death-wish is hollow though; instead of taking action I'll just wish and waste.<br />
<br />
Because of this: <b>I’m still Jim’s wife.</b> While wasting and pretty damn worthless, I still have somewhere a spark of what my husband loved. Jim was likable on sight, good at everything, and generous with all. It made him something special, and <b>I was worthy of him.</b> I’ve been dynamic and determined. I’ve dug out from ashes. I’ve accomplished hard things. His death is the hardest to get through, and I know that the me on the other side will be changed. My grief is about waiting. I wait for the tears and wait for them to stop. I wait to accept the void of my new normal. And <b>I wait for pieces of the old me to find their way forward.</b> I’ve got a feeling that the parts that made me Jim's are the parts that will pull me to my feet when I’ve waited long enough. Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-86151566433114873772016-11-14T17:02:00.000-08:002016-11-14T17:07:40.540-08:00WHAT'S GOOD? WHAT'S GOING RIGHT?When Jim encountered rough stuff—say, work turning in the wrong direction or frustration from his ex-wife’s unwillingness to coparent—I’d listen, usually feed the fire, then stop and ask,<b> “Okay, what’s good? What’s going right?” </b><br />
<br />
His answers were consistent. “I have a great relationship with all my kids. I love my wife. I get lots of sex.” Even though big things might be rotten, bigger things were good. <br />
<br />
I’m struggling. A lot is wrong. The business of death is a hassle and draining. I don’t have motivation to get myself out of the house for anyone but family and the Allens. I wish I could help the kids feel better, but I know nothing will to work. <b>Most of all I ache like hell for my husband. </b><br />
<br />
It’s a more difficult exercise now, but—Okay, what’s good? What’s going right? <br />
<br />
<b>I have a good relationship with all the kids. </b>They’re my people. I get to hang out with Katelynn. I went flying this weekend with Dustin and Tjaden. I hear from Jo a lot. Ben sends me jokes. We don’t get to see each other nearly as much as we’d like, but when we were last all together Ben said, “This is like Disneyland.” <br />
<br />
I’m mad as hell about it, but <b>Jim left us ready.</b> We were ready to be family without him. A year ago, we all wouldn’t have been able to brace up and enjoy each other without him around, but we’ve spent enough time together under Jim’s influence to have built trust and love enough to fashion our own support structure.<br />
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<br />
What’s good? What’s going right?<br />
<br />
<b>I have words. </b>I have the ability to write about all this awful stuff. It blunts some of the despair. Writing and posting about losing Jim is like opening a carbonated drink, some pressure leaves, but all the liquid is still there. <br />
<br />
By way of both my blood-family and my in-laws, <b>I have a big bunch of family that I love</b> and love me. My mom moved in with me for the month after Jim died. She went where I told her, waited when I couldn’t move, made me food, and even now if I told her that I can’t do this alone and I need her back, she’d be on the road in minutes. <br />
<br />
I was in Utah this weekend to see my niece in a play. Before the show started her 11-year-old brother leaned across my mom to ask, <b>“Hey Aunt Megan, how’s life?”</b> “Shitty.” I replied, feeling only a little bit guilty that I cursed to a kid. Accuracy over prudence. “I’ll bet,” he said. Top to bottom, my family gives a damn.<br />
<br />
I <i>used</i> to be superstitious. If I say something’s going to happen, it won’t. I lost that conviction in seconds. I am not dramatizing when I say that I wrote the last bit of my <a href="http://www.remarksfromsparks.com/2016/08/terminal.html">Terminal</a> blog post as a specific mechanism to prevent loss. I first wrote the last paragraph as only disbelief at my good fortune. But then, afraid that my unrestrained happiness would spur some terrible event, I added as safeguard, <b>“I know as well as anyone that things can—they will—change, fast, and life may not always look like this.”</b> Despite my concerted effort, it was less than a week before life didn’t look like that. <br />
<br />
Along that same hollow line of thought, I was counting on odds to give me more time with Jim. With a 16-year spread between us, I always expected to outlive Jim, but by how much? Brandon’s death gave me what I thought must be at least 20 years; best friends do not die close together. <b>The remote chance of losing Jim soon after losing Brandon was enough for me to settle into relief that I didn’t need to worry about losing my person for a while.</b><br />
<br />
Never tell me the odds. I need that on a shirt or tattooed on my body. Though the odds looked to be in my favor, they never were. <br />
<br />
Two dead dads. When the Allen kids lost their dad, Brandon, the next best thing was Jim. He couldn’t be their dad, but <b>he could love Traci and her kids like family.</b> He could keep the memory of their dad fresh. He was consolation prize far from what they wanted but enough to be some kind of solace. <br />
<br />
Nope. He only got to carry Traci’s post-vacation suitcases up the stairs one time. The only thing he got to fix at her house was the door to the playhouse. He only got to drop Brandon’s jeep off at the mechanic, never pick it up. The Allens only got to feel Jim’s runner-up support for four months.<br />
<br />
<b>What’s good? What’s going right?</b><br />
<br />
I have Traci. Along with friendship, I have close and complete understanding from the other widow. After Brandon’s death Jim took comfort that he left behind a capable wife; Traci would do a hell of a job figuring things out after losing her love. I have that example to draw from. <br />
<br />
I have my dogs. Since there are heartbeats waiting for me, when I come home it’s not to Entirely Alone.<br />
<br />
I have long-suffering friends who let me have time and distance. They offer help of whatever kind I can accept whenever, if ever, I can.<br />
<br />
I have yoga, the teaching and the taking. Yoga is somewhere to go that’s familiar. I told Cameron a few weeks ago that I appreciate that I’ve been doing yoga long enough that new studios don’t scare me. I’ve always gone to class when I travel—my husband loved that about me—and <b>wherever I go yoga studios are places where I know what to do. </b>With the teaching I have that slice of time when I really can ditch my sorrow and focus on someone else. I get ringside seats to students’ progress and change. It’s a reward I get paid to receive.<br />
<br />
I have the team at Victory Woodworks, a group of talented, big-hearted A-players. A couple weeks ago I was having one of the extra rotten days, and if I hadn’t already said I would go by Victory to drop stuff off, I’d have stayed home all day. But I followed through and went to the office, and <b>their kindness and hugs and success lifted me such that I left feeling a little bit better. </b><br />
<br />
A while into my relationship with Jim I apologized to one of my sisters for being so off the grid. “I used to be a good sister,” I told her, “I used to be attentive and thoughtful. Sorry for being absent.” She said my absence was good, it meant I didn’t need them, that <b>Jim was filling my needs.</b> She was happy for me instead of resentful. There were so few of my needs that Jim couldn’t fill.<br />
<br />
Because the biggest thing is rotten, I have a hard time seeing through the grief to identify what’s right. People. I read through what I’ve written above, and I see that what’s good, what’s going right, is lots about people. When I have the ability to pause and look what’s right, <b>it’s there by way of the living.</b>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-73536634729278678022016-11-08T22:36:00.002-08:002016-11-08T22:36:30.628-08:00OPTING OUT<b>Most of the time I am doing one hell of a job faking it.</b> I can’t tell if it’s a good thing or not. I go out in the world and I smile at my people and I make jokes—usually really morbid, sad ones, but they’re levity of some kind. I pull off what looks like a good mood, and if not upbeat, at least I come off as something not utterly heartbreaking. <b>Hey, so it’s all a big fat lie.</b> I don’t know though if it’s better to put on a smile and fool people or to do what’s more honest and tell everyone that I couldn’t possibly care less about what they’re saying and I’m even a little irritated that they aren’t as depressed as I am.<br />
<br />
I wasn’t all that social before Jim died. I’m so much less so now so as to be antisocial. <b>I don’t know how to talk about anything not-Jim.</b> That’s not true. Cameron and I can talk about yoga postures for hours. But other than that, nope. Even then though we talk about Jim in between yoga stuff. I’m grateful when I learn that I’m not the only one who misses my husband. <br />
<br />
It’s simultaneously shocking and deadeningly heavy that he is for-real gone. Like, really. Like the I’m-serious-and-still-can’t-believe-what-I’m-saying type of gone. How did I, at 34, lose the best thing that will ever happen to me? <b>You can try to tell me that it’s not all downhill from here, but I’m uninterested in bullshit.</b> Jim was the pinnacle. He was my trump card. When comparing myself to others, as I can’t help but do because I’m a girl, the inevitable inadequacy couldn’t beat me because I had Jim. <i>You might be beautiful, but I get to go home to Jim. You might be smart, but I get to go home to Jim.</i> <b>Even if I couldn’t be the things I wished I wished I was, I could be to Jim the things he saw me to be. </b>It was plenty. Being loved like I was loved was more than enough. <br />
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When you’re polite, and I like to think I was polite once, you talk to people about them and the things they care about. I can do that barely halfheartedly. 80% of the time as I’m saying the words that sound right I’m thinking, “ . . . I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care . . . ” It means I barely know what’s coming out of my mouth and don’t remember the conversation later. <b>But I feel like I have to go through the motions of being a decent human or I will make myself permanently irrelevant. </b><br />
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It’s different when I’m teaching yoga though. Then I’m doing that being-present thing quite adeptly. I can focus on my students, and really, <b>I adore them.</b> It’s an hour and fifteen minutes where I can give a damn. I think I use up all my caring about others during that time and don’t have any left for casual conversation or optional social interactions. So I elect not to engage. <br />
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I suppose the fact that I can teach at all indicates some kind of progress in my process. But progress toward what? It’s all empty future without him. Okay sure, I’ll find some kind of happy someday, but <b>I want the happy I had</b>. It was fulfilling and unreal. And not just retrospectively. It was unreal when we were in it, ending in confirmation of the concept that if it seems to good to be true it probably is.<br />
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People used to tell me that our relationship gave them hope. Hope that they could find some kind of beauty for themselves, that when things seem all loneliness and dark there is potential for a turnaround. What I want to say after August 30th is this—<b>sorry, but no; it’s all awful. </b>Best I can give you is to say that you need to love your people full-on and ferociously because your version of Good can literally go up in smoke—flames and black smoke falling into an RV park and DOA—and all you’ll be left with is whatever memories you’ve created. So save the love notes, spend money on experiences, take photos of the mundane, blow off what only seems critical to be with your loved ones, and <b>focus less on surface achievements and goals so that you can indulge in the luxury of having someone to love.</b><br />
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That’s the most positive stuff I can say. Everything else I have to offer is drenched in despair and outright intended to make people feel bad. <br />
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I do remind myself that other people are dealing with shit or have things they want to talk about that are interesting to them, but my response to my own reminder goes like this, “Oh, I don’t care.”<b> So rather than go out and be an asshole, I avoid social stuff as much as I can.</b> It’s poor manners to be with people and spend all your time sulking in a corner mumbling, “None of this matters, you know.” I run into real problems though considering that I have people in my life I love and appreciate who want to be there for me, who want to help me and the kids, and they don’t know how. I don’t know how to tell them how, and I don’t have the social fortitude to make up the difference between their love and my selfish sadness. <br />
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I often wonder why i keep the house tidy, why I don’t eat myself totally fat, why I go to class or teach class, why I voluntarily interact with anyone at all. <b>It feels pointless when Jim isn’t my reward. </b>The Whys I come up with are habit and fear. Fear that I’ll just make it all worse. That did not, however, stop me from sitting at my kitchen table tonight roasting marshmallow after marshmallow with the blow torch and squashing them between Oreo after Oreo. It’s what I had to work with since the preferable option of sitting on the couch tickling Jim’s head while he fell asleep on my lap was pretty well out of the question. Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-78486239673727093032016-10-29T23:18:00.000-07:002016-10-30T07:05:50.473-07:00NOT EVEN A LITTLE BIT UPLIFTINGI’m half Everything Sucks and half<i> </i>I’m The Luckiest Girl. No, I’m 70/30. And my Luckiest Girl moments irritate me. <b>I’m sick of being grateful</b>—grateful for the people that love me and care for me and think of me, grateful that I had Jim in the first place, grateful for the kids. <b>The gratitude is exhausting,</b> and I’m already physically debilitated by way of emotional trauma. <i>Gosh Jim, where you at? I’ve turned into a total catch. You thought I was hot stuff before. You should see me now.</i> When not sulking in public, I’m hiding in the house on the couch watching <i>Star Trek </i>special features on repeat.<br />
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I am in Monterey, California, for Jim’s hot cousin, Captain Amy’s, wedding. (Yes, I cried a lot and had to go take breather breaks in the bathroom, but my beautiful in-laws held my hand and supported me. We Ellikers, a sad, sad but steady group.) I came solo because my date died. He and I were looking forward to this trip. We looked forward to any trip together. “Want to go to—“<b> “Will you be there?”</b> “Yes.” “Then I’m in. Duh.” We loved to just get in the car without a timeline and go explore. <i>Ever taken that exit before? See that lake over there? Let’s find out how we can get there.</i> But this I drove alone. I don’t mind driving alone. <b>I mind going places alone where we were going to go together.</b> On my drive I listened to the recording of Jim's talk at Brandon’s funeral four months before he himself bit it.<br />
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I’m not afraid to fly. You want freedom and experiences living when we do, you fly. I’ll fly to Denmark next month, Bahamas the following, and Thailand two months after that. I can’t let the manner of my husband’s death stop me from doing things he’d want me to. Hell, things we planned together. But man it’s effed up. He died in a plane crash<b>. I hear the word plane in any context and think, “Plane? Oh that thing that spiraled down in flames to kill my husband? That kind of plane?” </b>I watched some yoga teaching video and the example teacher told students to stretch their arms out and lean forward and down like a toppling airplane. Double take. Hope I heard wrong. <i>Option for Toppling Airplane. </i>Probably try to avoid saying that in class, teachers. It’s kinda tacky.<br />
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But here’s the thing. <b>People don’t know my husband died. </b>Or that he died in a plane crash. They don’t know that offhandedly saying things like, “Go slowly. You don’t know how much time you have,” and “toppling airplane” are going to set me off. They’re just words. Too bad they have meaning and I give them brutal context.<br />
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On my drive over yesterday I passed a private airport packed with planes. I couldn't tell if any were Beechcraft Bonanzas, the plane that crashed and offed my everything, but there were probably some. <b>Would I go up in one? Yeah, especially if Dustin was flying.</b> It’s getting back on the horse. Jim would want me on the horse.<br />
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There’s a lot of those assumptions flying around lately. <i>Jim would be so proud . . . Jim would want . . . Jim wishes . . . </i>I make the bulk of them. <b>Jim would want to be here.</b> Jim would want us to remember him by way of funny stories. And, if it brings us any measure of relief,<b> Jim would want us to use his death to make jokes that make people uncomfortable. </b>I’m quite confident on that last one.<br />
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I love how my boy said measure. <i>mayz-jhurr. </i>The bits of Nevada that fell out of his mouth from time to time helped complete a picture of this man I loved top-to-bottom. <i>Sumbitch. Horse shit. </i>I loved it all.<br />
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It’s a good thing I don’t drink, because<b> if ever there was time the world at large would forgive me for becoming a drunk, it’d be now.</b> I wouldn’t just drink a little. I don't have a stop button. I’d get head-over-the-toilet hammered in daylight.<br />
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Instead: Ambien for the nights. Ambien is like a sorta-friend that lives next door and you hang out because it’s convenient. She talks shit behind your back though—and you know it—but since she lives close, you get together anyhow. It’s not legitimate sleep you get with Ambien; it’s a chemical conk on the head that just lets you pass out for eight hours until you open your eyes, totally tired, and think, “It’s still real, isn’t it? I’m still a widow.” I may not know what day of the week it is, but I know that I’ll be spending it without my person. Oh my gosh, you guys, <b>life freaking sucks.</b> Still.<br />
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My husband was a man who one night sent my mother walking through the house in a human-sized hamster ball. Fellas like that are one of a kind.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UFHg0kp74pI/WBWNW4eRHjI/AAAAAAAAFtY/4-2JWSJAEVsC6STWRkK1npapQI1mX2FRQCLcB/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-10-29%2Bat%2B11.02.50%2BPM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UFHg0kp74pI/WBWNW4eRHjI/AAAAAAAAFtY/4-2JWSJAEVsC6STWRkK1npapQI1mX2FRQCLcB/s400/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-10-29%2Bat%2B11.02.50%2BPM.png" width="400" /></a></div>Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-29472949372150087802016-10-24T00:21:00.000-07:002016-10-24T09:15:06.354-07:00HOW I AMQuestion: “How are you?”<br />
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Answer A, the most common one: “Oh, you know.”<br />
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Answer B: “Shitty.”<br />
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Answer C: I pretend I didn’t hear the question. I really do that. Because I don’t want to have The Conversation, and even if people are only asking out of habit, I’m not interested in lying. <b>There are times that I let, “Fine.” fall out of my mouth when someone asks how I’m doing, and I regret it. </b>It’s not true. I'm functioning fine. I get the necessary stuff done. But <i>I'm</i> not fine.<br />
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Another workable answer might be, “I have no idea.” Am I going to cry in a minute? Am I going to get frustrated and throw something? Am I going to go back to bed? I don’t make plans because I don’t know if I can pull them off. I’m this lethargic, fragile thing on the verge of despondence or crying or screaming or slumping or I have no freaking idea.<br />
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I don’t want to write anything because I don’t want to propagate my depression. I’ve done a decent job highlighting what’s good, what there is to be grateful for, but I don’t feel a ton of that lately. I’m not bitter. I’m sure that will come soon.<b> I am just so sad.</b><br />
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Gosh, but at the same time I’m not stupid. Or stupid enough to ignore the good of what’s right in front of me. I was sitting on the couch crying a couple hours ago, and there was a knock at my door, one of those incredibly well-timed knocks. It wasn’t just the cookies in hand that made me grateful—hell, delicious though they are, they’re so secondary to the kindness of a friend showing up at just the right time—<b>it was the relief of being able to cry at a real person at that moment. </b><br />
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I get well-timed texts and emails from my people, known and unknown until now, telling me they’re thinking of me. It seems arrogant or assumptive, but <b>I suspect that is happening a lot and I don’t know it—people thinking of and praying for me.</b> Maybe I feel it? Or maybe I’ve just become so insufferably self-centered that I’ve deluded myself into thinking that my tragedy affected and continues to affect everyone else’s lives. <br />
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It means I’m touched though when people tell me how Jim’s death impacts them. It validates the pit of pain I’m still stuck in with no rise in sight, and also, I think it’s correct. Correct that people are changed. He was such a big personality. He had notable positive impact on really anyone who met him. <b>I would be irked if his death was just something people felt sad about for a minute. </b>It’s bigger than that and not just for me.<br />
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I am scared of forgetting. I am so scared I will forget what he felt like. Fretfully and with true trembling, I’m really damn scared. Over and over I listen to the couple recordings I have of his voice because I’m scared I’ll forget what he sounded like. Even with those recordings though I can’t find in my mind the exact sound of his voice when he answered my calls, “Hey baby!” I am scared of forgetting his habits. I sometimes have flashes of memory of something he did so often I can’t believe it wasn’t top of mind before. How can I forget his patterns? Time is going to pass and I <i>am</i> going to forget. I make notes. I try to capture what I can. <b>I am so scared of forgetting all the things I loved about him.</b><br />
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On the wall just as you come in from the garage there is an 11x14 of my favorite of our wedding photos. The glass has fingerprints on Jim's half. My fingerprints. I touch that one as I walk by. I stop, run my fingers along his face, and sometimes I talk to him. <b>Usually I just tell him, “I miss you so much.”</b> Simple, accurate, inadequate.<br />
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I don’t like how I look in photos really ever. I’m not photogenic, and I’ve come to terms with it. I’d rather appear better in person than in photos anyhow. Point is, even though I don’t like what<i> I </i>look like in photos, when we decorated I hung quite a few pictures of us together throughout the house, because <b>when I look at them I don’t see me. I see him. </b>I look at the photos, I adore him, and then I’m like, “Oh my gosh, I’m in that picture too. Weird.” But euphoria, I think, makes people prettier. Being so deliriously in love has to have made me look better or—and this might make more sense to me—I know how happy I am in those photos and that makes me care less about what I look like when I notice that I’m in the picture too.<br />
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Seems when I’m in a crying phase—read: right this second—I put on makeup just to cry it off. I often don’t wipe the mascara stains from my cheeks. I don’t see many people these days so I don’t need to look presentable, and the people I do see generally expect that I’m going to be a mess. Also, <b>I’m comforted by the honesty of looking as sad as I feel. </b><br />
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One of the kind gifts I received after Jim died was a <a href="https://www.thegivingkeys.com/">Giving Key</a>. It’s a key stamped with a word, and you keep or wear it until you find someone who needs the word on your key more than you do. Then if you’re ready you give it away. My key says Brave. <b>When I received it I couldn’t think why I would need Brave. </b>What does being brave have to do with losing your heart? I figured it out. It takes bravery to go out into the world when there is the risk you’re going to cry to strangers. It takes bravery to go back to things you did before. Walking out the door as a new widow requires a deep breath and mustered gumption because you’re an unfamiliar person, and you don’t know what it’s going to be like to interact with things and people from Before. Brave is appropriate. For now I need Brave. Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6876706998822123927.post-57705982440079357032016-10-21T00:37:00.000-07:002016-10-21T22:45:04.931-07:00THE CONSTANT REMEMBERING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I won my husband with a beach cruiser. Whenever I was nervous about something—teaching a new class, a presentation at work, and really all the things ever—Jim would say with total confidence, <b>“You can do anything. You built a bike.”</b> The bike’s what did it. I ordered a beach cruiser and put it together myself with things like ratchets and swearing, and that’s really all it took for Jim’s heart to belong to me. He thought capable was hot.</div>
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Wait, also my butt. That man <i>loved</i> my butt. <b>He fell for my competence and my butt. </b><br />
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He loved lemon anything. Lemon cake. Lemon bars. He loved acidic food. When we were wandering around the Lake Michigan area back in May we found a shop that sold tea and fancy vinegars. He tasted the Meyer lemon-infused white balsamic and put it on the counter while I was paying for tea. “Get that too,” he told me. <b>“It gave me lockjaw, so it’s good.”</b> I could get him to eat anything so long as I drenched it in vinegar. Anything but broccoli and arugula.<br />
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He liked those weird, giant <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Smarties-Pops-120-Piece-Jar/dp/B000CC1HTE/ref=pd_bxgy_325_img_3?_encoding=UTF8&psc=1&refRID=BJ54K1DTSEKBMRD47SRC">Smartie’s lollipops</a>. He would put one down on the kitchen island and then smash it with a saute pan so he could eat the shards.<br />
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Thinking of him smashing the Smartie’s lollipops reminds me of a time shortly after his divorce that Jim made chocolate chip cookies. The recipe called for softened butter and he hadn’t set any out ahead of time. So he got a cube of butter from the fridge and a meat tenderizing mallet, put them in front of seven-year-old Ben, and said, “Here, soften this.” <br />
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When I was doing the pharma thing meetings made me travel, and <b>he always, always had a surprise waiting in the hotel room when I got there or something delivered later.</b> Flowers. Pie. Snacks. Shoes. When I didn’t tell him ahead of time what hotel—often I didn't even check myself until landing at whatever airport they'd sent me to—he’d ask coworkers where we’d be. There was one trip where nothing came until the day before I left to go home, and I thought, “Okay, this is the time he forgot. That’s alright. He can’t be all-the-way perfect.” Actually he could. The hotel made a mistake and since I hadn’t thanked him for the flowers yet, he had to call the hotel and be like, “So you screwed up, right?” Yup. <b>Habits are helpful. </b>It was his habit to send me stuff when I traveled. It was my habit to thank him when I received it. Since I didn’t execute my habit, he knew something was off. <br />
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He liked that he was habitual and predictable. I pointed out that he always stood the same in the shower, and he got a kick out of that. <b>I love that he liked himself. </b><br />
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Whenever Jim was proud of himself he got the same facial expression. His “proud face” I called it. That expression would be indistinguishable from the everyday to people who didn’t study his face like a wife would, but small though it might have been, that tiny shift charmed me. <br />
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When we flew places he would lean forward on the tray table and fall asleep. But first he’d take off his glasses and tuck them into the seat pocket. <i>Then</i> he’d take down the tray table, put up his elbows and his forehead in his hands, and fall asleep. I used that as my cue to tickle his back and his head. And when I reached around and touched his earlobe <b>I loved looking to his face to watch the crinkles around his eyes deepen as he smiled.</b> It happened every time. <br />
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Since he died one of the things that people tell me they liked about Jim was that he didn’t have an ego. He was humble though he had plenty of reasons not to be. <b>I liked it though when he'd show the rare flash of ego.</b> It was cute. I’d point it out, and he’d like that about himself too.<br />
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I feel so bad for my dogs. I wasn’t the best dog owner before he died. Now I’m horrid. I haven’t walked Gus since we lost Jim. And when I’m home it’s not like I’m playing with them. I’m on the couch or in bed. I’m grateful they’re old, that they aren’t puppies and require a ton of attention. I couldn’t pull off a puppy right now.<br />
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The rooms in the house that don’t have pictures of Jim bug me. Or even freak me out. I get all frantic and have to go find a picture and tack it up. I don’t like sitting in the spots in the house where I can’t see him. <b>He should be all over the place.</b> I wish he’d haunt me. <br />
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Lately the bargaining part of this shitty process looks a lot like wishing that I could just tell him stuff and know for sure he heard it. That’s all I need.<b> I’ll stop being sad and mopey and start looking people in the face again if I can just tell him things I know he’d find interesting or would make him laugh.</b> I don’t even need to see or hear his reaction. I can imagine it perfectly. <br />
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<b>Being happy was fun.</b> I have the best memories of my husband. He loved me so much and I'm grateful that I know I made him happy. I smile when I think of him and our memories. I cry when his absence is too big. It’s always there, but sometimes it's just too huge for mere gloom. <br />
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Meganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17993427346019681523noreply@blogger.com0