Sunday, July 27, 2014

Day 147: Making It Right

July 26, 2014

Last week I was in Portland, taking in all things organic and delightful and all things Maud (my friend from high school). It was the kind of trip where I could feel happy cells regenerating. I was having more "I can do this" moments than "please make this stop" moments. Happy hugs, good belly laughs, ridiculously good food, jogs in the park, a soak in a hot spring tub, and then...

[insert record needle being dragged across a record and then silence]

What happened? What happened on the day after a beautiful outing to Cannon Beach, where Maud says "Gareth surprised you with a bouquet of dogs!" as an explanation to the ridiculous and multiple dog encounters we had while there. (Gareth delighted in my love of dogs and often did things to light that excitement, i.e. a text in the middle of the day which simply read "DOGS! DOGS! DOGS!")

What happened on the following morning where I found myself plunged deep into the sadness, the missing of him, the improbability that I could in fact "do this." I remembered Gareth telling me on several occasions that I was a "spiritual warrior" and here I was months after he was gone sobbing to an empty room "I'm not a spiritual warrior, Gareth! You were wrong! You were so wrong! I can't do this. I can't do this anymore." I was flattened. And this threw me a bit.

I also remembered the words of Megan Devine, who assures those in grief that "there's no way to do this wrong." And I heard her. So this sudden plunging, this feeling like it was too much, was...ok. It was a wave. A really, really big one. But that's all it was. And I know how to ride the waves.

I showered and left the house, hopped on a streetcar headed for downtown, and decided to let the wind take me wherever it felt. I passed an interesting young couple leaning against a brick wall near an adult shop window display and snapped their photo. I stopped and traded a few words with them and felt the repair of the smallest part of me. As an introvert, I've always been a bit fascinated with my love of engaging interesting people like this in conversation. The stranger the story, or the more out of normal society the person may be, the better, really. I've always been this way. Long is the list of homeless or schizophrenic people I've sat with for hours at a time, taking in their stories.

This young couple was neither homeless nor schizophrenic, but they were doing their best to thumb their noses as cultural establishment and as such, I found them charming in some way.

As soon as I left them, the heaviness returned and I let myself continue walking with both hands full- one with this great sadness and one with a familiar curious wonder of the world around me. I can hold both of these at the same time.

A few blocks later I passed a man crouched below a doorway. He was holding a small notebook and pen and as I passed I noticed him laughing, seemingly to himself. He appeared ridiculously happy and I wondered why. I decided to stop and ask him.

I was only a few words into my question when his pointer finger went up as though to pause me and he pointed at his headphones with his other hand. I realized he was actually on a phone call, which must have accounted for his sudden laughter. He was in the middle of a funny conversation. I nodded and left him there.

Then it occurred to me that everyone I was passing on the street had felt moments of happiness at some point in their day, their week, their life. What did it for them? What brought them happiness? How amazing that all I need to do was ask. So I did.

There was the guy with the rotted teeth and other signs of a rough life who softened like a little kitten when we got to talking. I gave him $2 for vodka after he asked for it.

What makes you happy?
"Pot. Cigarettes. Sex. Painting. Playing music on stage for everyone. Whatever I have- my pot, my alcohol- I give to people. If you feed Karma, she'll freak the shit outta you real well."

There was the older man who I thought looked like a sweet grandpa until he surprised me with his answer. He also didn't want me to take his photo, but I may have accidentally hit the button anyway.

What makes you happy?
"I happy all the time. And I have a knife. Somebody they tell me 'fuck you,' I tell them 'fuck you' right back."
There was the man who spoke softly and with joy about music and food.

What makes you happy?
"Music. Disco. Soul when I'm down. That and cooking."


There was the woman who started off very cautious and reserved and then cracked the window open. We talked for quite a bit about what she said.

What makes you happy?
"What would've made me happy is having my life stay whole."
I found this man washing his hair in a nearby drinking fountain and this girl reading a book in a public square. The man was homeless and really engaging and the girl was so appreciative of the opportunity to connect.


What makes you happy?
"Weed. Weed makes me happy."
What makes you happy?
"Sensory things. Like smelling good things or eating good food or touching soft things. And I know it sounds cliche, but breathing. Breathing makes me happy."

And there was this woman, who is struggling with being miles and miles away from her kids during a custody dispute.

What makes you happy?
"Lately I like to draw what I'm feeling at the moment."
And this man, who spent time in Vietnam and saw a young man fall from his apartment window a few years ago. He sipped freely from a bottle of vodka the whole time we spent talking to one another.
What makes you happy?
"Enjoying life."
How do you do that?
"Anyway I can. You ever been to hell?"
No.
"You're livin' in it."
 I met these two, who told reminded me that loss is a part of life.

What makes you happy?
"This is what makes me happy. This is my sister."
And this couple. The girl's ex-husband won't let her see her children and she's waiting for them to get old enough to come looking for her, as she's convinced they will.

What makes you happy?
Her: "My kids. Companionship. And this one."
Him: "Self-indulgence."


And this couple. The man seemed a bit put off at first. "Want to know the truth?" I asked. "The truth is I woke up this morning and felt pretty low. I mean really low. Like I don't want to be here low. And I'm not going to do anything stupid or anything. It's just that my boyfriend died and I miss him so much. And I don't know what to do with that. And I figured if I just ask other people what makes them happy, maybe I can get a little of what they have today." And then he answered my original question. And then he hugged me. A really long human hug. 

What makes you happy?
Her: "This. Eating and drinking. And beautiful weather."
Him: "Hugs make me happy."
While talking to one woman on the street, these two guys crossed right by me. The one was beaming from ear to hear and I left the woman and ran to catch up with them. I had to know- what can make a guy so incredibly happy? What was doing it for him in that very moment.

What makes you happy?
Guy 1: "Summer skin. Legs. And cleavage. Summer cleavage."
Guy 2: "Same thing."
By the end of the day I was chirping with giddiness. I was cloaked in the happiness of others. The compassion of others. The stories of shared suffering. These are people I would have walked right past and not known about estranged children or dead spouses or crushed hopes. They were just as open to sharing stories of suffering as stories of what brought them happiness.

I am not alone in this. In my grief. In my joy.  "We're all just here to walk each other home," writes Ram Daas. I was letting others walk me home. And I was walking them home, too.

By the end of the day and on my walk from the streetcar stop back to the house, I had that same light feeling that one would have at the end of a wonderful date. I was singing. I was smiling. I may have even skipped a bit. I spoke with Gareth as though he were walking back with me, because I really feel like he was. He was there, having delighted in watching how my spirit in this body connects with other spirits in their bodies. I brushed my spirit up against others' and made them spark. The day was full of sparks.

When I got back to St. Louis, I spent a brief part of an afternoon with my niece doing the same thing- collecting stories of happiness and taking in the best parts of people. This feeds me. Gareth noticed and loved this part of me. And I realized that I love this part of myself.


What makes you happy?
Girl: "This kid."
Guy: "Tacos. Korean tacos."
What makes you happy?
Middle: "Blunts."
Left: "I think I can pretty much speak for all of us when I say sneakers."
Right: "My baby. 7 months old."
What makes you happy?
"Beautiful women. I can't see too well, so I gotta get up close."
What makes you happy?
"Drawing [comics]. It's a weird thing. I get upset if I don't work for a couple days. I might have a problem."
What makes you happy?
"People like you."
What makes you happy.
"Him. My nephew."
This. This makes me happy. Stopping for a moment to connect with someone I'd otherwise pass unnoticed on the sidewalk. Hello, spirit. Hello, there. I see you in there. Let's spark.

--------------------

As a final note, I woke up a bit weepy this morning. I got up and went for a run, and at the end of the run I heard Gareth's voice in my head. Here's what it said:

"Babe...do you see? This is what you love about being here. You love these different people- talking to them. Taking them in. This is the form their spirits take here. On this earth. You have to BE HERE to experience what you love, babe. This is where you get to do it. While you're here. Focus on that. You've gotta do this, babe. You CAN do this."

And he's right. "Ok," I said. "I'll do it. You're right. I do really like my people. These are my people."

"Who's my babe?" he said.

"I am," I smiled.

"Who is?"

"It's me," I said.

"Still you?"

"Yep."

"How about now?"

"Still me," I laughed.

"And...now?"

"Yep. That would be...me."

"Are you my babe?"

"Yep. Sure am."

"What about now?"

"That would be 'affirmative.'"

"So, right before...a minute ago...you were my babe. And how about now? What are you thinkin'?"

"Um...that I'm still your babe?"

"And now?"

And this went on for a good block or so, with me laughing the whole way. Because it's exactly the kind of asinine conversation we would have had and let run on for the longest time imaginable. We were each other's best audience.

I finished the run and walked back to my parent's house. Once inside I told my mom about hearing Gareth. "I don't know if it's him, my subconscious, God, my own voice, a combination of some of these things, or none of them, but it made me feel better. And it made me laugh."

"Well, let me tell you about the conversation I had with Gareth while you were gone..."

It turns out my mom, having seen me crying in the morning, had some choice words for Gareth while I was gone on my run. If I remember correctly, it was something like, "Now listen here, Gareth! You made some poor choices and as a result my daughter is miserable. You are going to have to make this right, dammit. I MEAN IT! You are going to have to help her out, now. You do what you have to do. As a guardian angel, you only have one person to look after right now, and that's my daughter. Make this right!" She was mad. And I get that. And, some would say so did Gareth. Because at the time she was giving him what-for, I was having a real pick-me-up chat with him on my run.

There's no need for me to figure any of it out. I can only tell it as I experience it. But, there it is.

And if Gareth does have the ability to "make this right"- to help ease my sadness and usher me along in this process, he'd do it with creativity, humor, and compassion. That was the spirit of the man I saw and the man I loved deeply. And it's the spirit that I believe is still with me.

Let's make this right, Gareth! I'll do my part and you do yours. xoxo

Monday, July 21, 2014

Day 142: He said (then), She says (now)




He said (then), She says (now)
A poem for 2 voices

Is this really happening?
                         Is this really happening?
Are you really here with me?
                        Are you really not here with me?
I feel so lucky to be seen with you.  
                         I want to see you.
Sometimes I can't believe you're really with me.
                         Each morning I wake up and can't believe you're really gone.
I bought this for you because I knew you'd like it!
                         So many things I see remind me of you. 
I made it back to Gyeongju. I already miss you.
                         Sometimes I'm crushed by the weight of missing you.
I'm coming this weekend! I'll see you in 4 sleeps!
                         I've seen you twice in my dreams.
You've got this, babe! You're a spiritual warrior!
                         You were wrong about me. I'm no warrior. 
I wrote another poem for you. Let's meet at the coffee shop.
                         Remember how I'd touch your words on the page?
I love how feminine you are while still being a bad-ass.
                         I sat next to a man today with hands like yours.
I love the sound of your voice.
                         I can't bear the sound of a steady beeping anymore.
You really get me.
                        You really got me.
I tried to be better for you.
                        I'm trying to get through this. I really am.
I love your style. You have the best style.
                        I wore your brown leather bracelet today.
I'm sorry I'm late, babe.
                        I mailed a gift off to your nephew today.
I love to watch your joy grow.
                        I feel joy still. It's just a slightly deadened version of before.
I will see you this KISS-MAS EVE! See what I did there?
                       I can't think about next Christmas.
You are the you of my words.
                        I was the you of your words.
You're so good with people.
                        I wish you could have met Maud.
Oh, you're cold, babe! Wear my hat. Here. Put this scarf on.
                        I sat on your scarf on the foggy beach yesterday.
I'm keeping my eye out for a perfume for you. I know you like citrus.
                         Nothing I have of yours smells like you anymore.
I wore these shoes for you. I know you like them.
                         This weekend I wore the skirt you gave me. 
Let's cuddle. Come here. Let's cuddle.
                          Falling asleep takes a long time. I always hold something.
Would you like a cup of tea? Tea is medicinal!
                          Earl Grey. Darjeeling. English Breakfast. I can't look at the boxes.
I love collaborating with you.
                           Grief is a solo process. No one can do this for me.
Let's go to the tea house. I'll bring some Billy Collins to read.
                           I'm reading another Mary Roach book.
I hate how disorganized I am.
                           I'm having a hard time remembering things.
I got a part! I nailed that audition!
                           I don't think I can do this.
Guess what? Just got the survey results. They don't hate me after all!
                           I don't think I can do this.
I can't believe we ran the whole course! I did it! You're a great coach, babe.
                            I don' think I can do this.
It's not just me, is it? There's something amazing happening here. With us.
                            Strike that. I can do it. I am doing it. I just don't want to.
 











 




                     

 

                         


Saturday, July 19, 2014

Day 140: Being Touched Again

I had a massage today. Probably doesn't seem like a big deal, but it was.

A few weeks after Gareth died, some friends in Korea pooled some money and went in on a gift certificate including a manicure, pedicure, and massage for me. It was so thoughtful- this idea that I may enjoy what is typically considered the top-tier self-indulgence for many people.

I was to call the massage lady and set up a time. "Have you called her yet?" my friend asked me.
"Oh, no...I'm sorry. It's slipped my mind."

A week or two later my friend inquired again. "Have you called her yet? I'm not trying to bug you, but I told her you'd be giving her a call to set things up."
"Oh, geez! I totally forgot. I'm so sorry. I'll call her today." The evening would come and again, no call made. What was going on?

"Maybe you're not ready," a friend suggested. "Maybe the idea of someone else touching you is too much right now. You don't have to go until you're ready." And the wave of tears confirmed her theory. I collapsed. I could feel it. The ache. I couldn't imagine anyone else's hands on my back, my arms, my neck. These were sacred spaces and sacred touch reserved for Gareth.

Here I am a few months later, vacationing in Portland, Oregon, and I get a message (from a friend back in Korea, actually.) "...if you need a mind blowing massage, a friend of mine lives [in Portland] and is very skilled, you should find her and let her melt some stress!"

Maybe I was ready. Why not? I'm on vacation. I made the appointment.

I'd already gotten some nice Gareth reminders: yet another 111 (the number Gareth's heart rate went to when I spoke to him in the hospital- I've been having this number pop up frequently and in the strangest of places), a nice sign in a small shop that read "A true love story never ends," and the Tracy Chapman song ("Promise" from 1995) that I selected to play at his memorial in Korea playing in the coffee shop I walked into this morning. Did Gareth do all of this? Depends on what you believe. What I can say is that I'm comforted each time by the reminders of him and felt like that reminder- that presence- would be with me today if I chose to follow through with the massage appointment.

Came across another 111 as I walked through the city streets in Portland.

Some comfort came from seeing this sign in a small shop. 


I showed up for my 11:30 appointment at Muscle and Bone PDX, a cute little place tucked away on historic Mississippi Avenue in NE Portland. I opened the door to a 1-room well-lit and nicely decorated space to find Isadora (Izzy), the therapist I'd booked time with. I liked him immediately- (no confusion here- Izzy is in the process of transitioning F to M and is keeping his birth name.) We talked a bit about what was going on and worked out a plan to help me feel at ease.

This morning before leaving the house, Maud and I talked about the idea of me getting a massage and again came the tears. The sadness specifically seemed to be around being touched on my back. I have a fairly large floral design tattoo down the left side of my back and Gareth not only was completely taken by it (it inspired a truly lovely poem), but he is the only person to have seen it, touched it, in an intimate way. It is my back. It is my tattoo. But in some way it feels like it belongs to him, too. It was there for both of us to enjoy. It was something we shared. It was a symbol of something deeply personal that I chose to expose to him. I didn't (and don't) want someone else running their hands along that design. Along my back.

I miss Gareth.

Izzy asked what areas may be comfortable for me. My feet. My hands. My arms. My head. Extremities. Stay away from my core. My cage of ribs. My heart. My chest. The places where I could feel the weight of him. Stay away. Let me get used to the weightlessness. Let me wait for the return of his weight until I accept it's never coming. Don't interrupt my waiting.

He suggested I lay on my back, facing the ceiling. In this way, my back, our tattoo, was protected. Hidden. Safe. This helped.

It also helped that Izzy was incredibly easy to talk to. He has a keen sense of humor and was open to my questions about his transition. (How long have you been taking testosterone? Why aren't you changing your name? Being raised as a girl and taking in all those messages about what a girl's body should be, is it hard to let yourself gain weight? How will you go about changing your gender on your license? Do you eat more now?) I'm curious by nature and am thrilled to know someone else who has the freedom and support to become who they really are. We chatted about my friend's son, Shane, who has openly gone through this same process. We chatted about how Isadora really wants an impressive beard, like the friend who referred me to him, Tony. We chatted and chatted and meanwhile Izzy was working the stress out of my neck and head.

Izzy. I'd recommend him to anyone visiting Portland.
We chatted and laughed. Izzy was able to handle my death thoughts (which are frequent throughout the day and don't scare me a bit anymore now that I realize they are just my subconscious's way of constantly looking for an escape route from the pain as opposed to an actual suicide plan.) "So, let me just say, if you happen to dislodge an air bubble while massaging me and it floats up and explodes in my brain and I die on your massage table, I just want you to know that is totally ok with me."

"That's good to know."

"Probably won't happen," I add, "but you know, if it does, know that I was thinking 'Finally!'"

"Yeah, but I have a few more clients today, so..."

"Well, just, you know, call the ambulance and put me in there and then get back to work."

"Yeah, but there's the whole paperwork thing. I'd have to fill out paperwork."

"Oh, right. Sorry about that." I give it some thought. "Oh! Wait! You have my credit card number! How about you just charge me for, like, three clients, and we can call it even?"

"Deal. Verbal agreement. You got it."

I felt happy not only thinking about a bubble traveling up my arm to my brain but also that I was in the presence of someone who GOT IT. He was no more concerned or put off by my talk than if I was asking him to talk about movie preferences. Somehow, he got it. I felt totally understood without having to explain it.

"Or," I said, "what if, like, you have some kind of massive testosterone surge, and you simultaneously grow a massive beard and accidentally rip my head from my torso at the same time in some kind of super-human man strength?"

"Oh! That could work!"

"You'd be like, 'Dang! Look at this awesome beard!" and then you'd see my head with the bloody stump part and you'd be like, "oops!"

"Yeah, but I'd have an awesome beard!"

"See? Everybody gets what they want!"

"I'm seeing this as a movie. Where this massage is happening but your death fantasies are being animated. We should ask Tony to animate it."

"Great idea. And it can be called 'Everybody Gets What They Want."

"I'm in."

"Me, too."
Post-massage. I do actually kind of look not with this world anymore. Sorry about that. Not my intent.

And when the tears came, and they did at the feeling of my hand being held and massaged by another person's hands, it was ok. I had warned Izzy that I may cry. I had likened myself to a pregnant lady who may have some mild contractions while there. I can't help it. I really can't. The tears still come about 2-3 times a day.

Two days ago my friend and I were in a little market picking up flowers to accompany us to a dinner invite and someone's house. Our checker was a young dark-haired girl. "I can get somebody to wrap these up for you!" she chirped and she picked up the phone to call for assistance. "Oh really? She went home? Ok. Well...I can do it." She brought our flowers over to the abandoned floral department, asked us what color ribbon and tissue we'd like, and then got to wrapping. Standing by the case of red roses was enough to bring on a wave- Gareth so loved bringing roses to me. And they had to be simple. Wrapped in twine. Brown twine. None of the sparkly stuff that Korea tends to do with flower arrangements.

Standing next to those roses, the tears came quietly at first and then exploded into the kind of wave that comes with throat noises and the inability to breathe normally. I'm used to these now, these waves. They don't last nearly as long as they did and I recover from them quickly, whereas months ago, even weeks ago, a large wave could require a long nap afterwards.

Maud gave me a nice hug (a special skill of hers) and our bright-eyed checker turned flower-wrapper noticed me crying. "Are those happy tears or sad tears?"

"Sad ones," I managed to get out.

"Oh...why is that?"

"My boyfriend died."

"Really? Mine, too," she said. Her face got it. Her expression got it. She got it. "When?" she asked.

"March 4th."

"March 8th for me."

And this is how it works, these connections.

I asked about her boyfriend- something that people can be weary of doing but something that almost always makes those grieving feel better. It feels like our loved one is being invited back here. Tell me about him. What was his name? What did you call him? Where did you meet? We traded stories and smiled about these men we loved. Her love dead at 24 and mine at 34. "I hate that you get it," I said, "but I'm happy to know you. My sister. My grief sister." We hugged.

The day before that I met a woman whose son died in an alcohol-related death three years ago. And I met a man whose son died this past April. Alcohol-related.

Why couldn't they have stopped drinking? Why couldn't they have a horrendous story that's now part of what became a "wake-up call"?  I want Gareth to have a wake-up call story. I want him to still be here. I'm sure these parents want their boys here, too.

This morning Maud and I were getting ready to leave the house. "Oh! Look at your skirt! It's so...YOU! It's so perfectly you!" She touched the fabric that somehow seems to be a perfect expression of who I am in skirt form. I can't argue with that- nor can I really explain how this is. I just agree with her.

"Gareth got it for me," I told her. "He'd do that all of the time. He'd see something that's so me and he'd say, 'I knew you had to have this."

"Wow. Seriously. This skirt is...BRIDGET! He really got you," Maud said. "He really, really got you."

"Yep. He did."
With Gareth and the skirt that I "had to have" according to him.
Wearing the skirt today in Portland- here, outside of the public library.






Sunday, July 6, 2014

Day 127: Riding the Waves at Home

July 5, 2014
A familiar site- the St. Louis Arch. Seeing this while driving across the Mississippi from Illinois into Missouri always meant "almost home."


Home. A strange word after living somewhere else for a few years. Having been back for a week now, I find it's not the familiar routes or stores or foods or sights that are bringing me the most comfort. It's the people. I am home to connect.

When I got off the plane I was greeted by a small group of friends whom I had asked to be there. My family was there, of course, but I also invited a few others to be additional smiling faces and open arms as I came out of the security area.

Grief tip: Identify what you need and ask for it.

I asked for people to show up and they did. One friend had even made a welcome sign from my old Mini Cooper license plate (BMARET) attached to a tall pole and adorned with bright blue tinsel. Another was holding a rose. Others were just ready to hug me, just like I'd asked. It was an amazing way to transition back to St. Louis.

Grief tip: After you identify what you need and ask for it, accept it when it comes. 

I had an odd wave of slightly heart-racing, panicking crying that came up as I walked from the gate to where my friends and family were, but it was when my mom and I finally saw each other and hugged that the sadness and relief washed over me. I needed my mom and here she was. And here we were, both somehow acknowledging the immense pain the other had been in over the past few months. A daughter, grief-stricken and across the globe without her family and a mother, heart-broken for her daughter and unable to be with her. 



An embrace which was a long time coming.
Me with Mom, Dad, my niece Rose, and my sister Amy. And my special license plate sign.
I got my bags and drove home with my family. I'd be staying with Mom and Dad.

Last year, I was only home for perhaps 10 days. (This year it's 7 weeks.) During that short visit, I was busy clearing out my home of all its contents in order to return to Korea permanently. My free time was limited and a visit with friends or family often looked like the two of us sitting on my living room floor while I went through photographs or wrapped things in bubble wrap or put price tags on things for an upcoming garage sale.

In the evenings or early in the morning I'd skype with Gareth and we'd catch each other up on the previous 24 hours. It's hard for me not to believe that he's still back in Korea right now, doing his thing while I do mine, and that if I click on his skype contact I'll hear that familiar ring and those white dots moving....connecting...connecting...connecting. And then he'll be there, in my computer screen, ridiculously delighted to see me.

Grief tip: Remember the words of Megan Devine when she says we'll find ourselves continually going back and forth across that bridge of what was and what is now. 

I can't quite wrap my mind around the fact that he's gone. It's harder to do so from over here, so far away from Korea. I've found that each morning I wake up and go through the shock of it again. Could I have made this up? Did it really happen? Certainly I can just send him a quick message on facebook. I'm looking forward to when my mind is a bit better at coming to terms with what happened and I can ease into my day without that jolt of confusion and the following heaviness of reality.

Here's the good, though- and there is quite a bit of it. I can feel the empty parts in me being filled back up and recharged with every interaction I'm having with people over here. A long talk with my sister while on a walk. More talking with my mom while she sits in a chair in her bedroom and I sit on the carpeted floor, my back to her white wicker dresser. Hours chatting with a friend outside of a closed cupcake place, having decided their patio table and chairs a great spot for us to sit and drink our coffee in the surprisingly mild summer air. A visit with my friend and her daughter, who lost  their husband and dad (respectively) and my buddy Adam 3 years ago. Countless laughs with recovery friends, old Pier One coworkers, students that I taught 6 years ago, people I haven't seen in years or people I saw just last summer.

Each visit, each conversation, is filling me up. I can feel it happening. It's like my happy cells are regenerating. There aren't nearly as many as there used to be, but they're in there. And they're multiplying.

And the Universe, God, and Gareth are conspiring to make happy possible for me.

A friend is out of town and is lending me her car until Sunday. Another friend has parents out of town for 3 months and they're lending me their car for the remainder of my visit. A house in a beautiful neighborhood is available to me while a good friend is visiting from D.C. A visit with a friend who works in an I.C.U. cleared up a lot of questions I had about what I saw and experienced the few days Gareth was in the hospital. A run-in with someone I hadn't seen in 15 years reminded me that I am not alone, as her sister (whom she was with- and I was with my sister) lost her spouse 2 days before Gareth died. Uncharacteristically cool weather is gracing my usually stifling city. I was able to meet in person the grief counselor I've been skyping with each Tuesday for the past 3 months, as she's located just a 40-minute drive from where I'm staying. On and on come the gifts during my stay here.

And when the waves come, which they seem to do about 2-3 times a day, they are much shorter and less intense than before. I can ride them out easier, and I am not flattened when they pass as I used to be. I was promised this would happen.

Grief tip: You don't have to believe it will pass for it to actually pass. 

I've got a lot scheduled for the next 6 weeks: a trip to Portland to see a dear friend, a float trip with my dad, a special overnight with my niece, a visit (or 2 or 20) with my old dog, Gizmo, plenty of time with my family and friends, multiple stops to my favorite places for prayer and meditation. My time here is full but not busy. I am finding myself well-rested and well-fed, both literally and figuratively.

I'll let the following photos summarize my time home so far. Thank you, again, to those of you who read these words and give me a place to express this journey.

FAMILIAR FACES:

With Luke, Ida, and Ben- former students of mine, now on their way to university.

With Jonathan and Beth. Soul-feeding people right here.
With my beautiful niece Rose.
Yes! I found my favorite waitress from my teenage years! It's JUDY!
At a baby shower for my cousin- with lots of cousins, aunts, my mom, sister, niece, and my grandma.
A reunion of people I worked with at Pier One Imports in the mid-1990s until 2001. So much laughing took place on this night!
My cousin Ryan w/wife Nadine (visiting from Chicago), brother-in-law Lief and sister Amy, and cousin Brendan w/wife Tara (visiting from Nashville).
Amy and I had an afternoon in the Loop.
With Raven Wolf! (He frequently performs music outside of Vintage Vinyl.)

No caption needed.
Another favorite musician in the loop, Ray Douglas.
I love Ray Douglas and I told him I'd make him famous in Korea.
My parents' cat, Pretty Kitty, and the legs of a bunny he just ate.
Another unexpected run-in. This one with Kristen, someone I worked with at Pier One Imports. I hadn't seen her since 2001. We both left the company. Guess where our run-in was? Pier One.

FAMILIAR PLACES:
I head here for a good prayer/meditation in the middle of a run, as it's about 2.5 miles from my parents' house.
It's been a favorite place of prayer for me.
A visit to the Farmer's Market in Kirkwood made my eyes happy with fruit and vegetable visions.
July 4th- a visit to the Missouri Botanical Gardens with my friend, Jennifer. Perfect weather.





So, even as the 4th of July marked 4 months since Gareth died (still so strange to type that), I'm trying to take in the gratitude that is a result of the good that I'm surrounded by. The love. The support. And, I won't lie- the food.