I am on vacation, back in beloved New England. Mountains, green everywhere—both deciduous and coniferous. And the smell of balsam is everywhere. My sweet husband is here for the first time, and I love seeing the wonder I his eyes as he sees this landscape for the first time. I won’t ever grow complacent about it or his wonder. The glassy lakes, the mountains, old mountains, covered to the top in trees so that as high as one looks there is green:  A cradle of trees to embrace me as I head out each morning.

Yesterday we went down to the ocean, thank the gods. The sea, la mer, is a holy place. The beach is its altar, and I worship without reservation and with total abandon. Again, I am breathing in the perfumes of my childhood, and they are sweeter and more abundant than ever I remember. And K is here with me, perhaps not to worship, but to love---that in itself is a religion. Our religion. Coming back here—the last time I was here was the week after my father died—and many times and years before, always brought a sense of home; sights, scents, sounds. This year, here with K, now two years after my father has passed, nostalgia has threatened to overtake me with Unexpected Teary Moments, and even physical longings to speak to my father. Memories, of childhood, of my time with him that semester, the things he did for us as kids…silver queen corn from the farmer’s stand…impromptu trips for fresh soft ice cream after dinner…the smell of fresh warm fields mixed with the scent of freshly washed kid-hair. I have spoken of my father often during this trip. More than I have in a while. K’s been very patient, often chiming in with a memory or two of his own.

With each visit home, it is inevitable that I voice my desire to live here. And yet…I am simply not sure if I can live every day with so much nostalgia and so many memories conjured around each corner. It’s so beautiful here—the Plains of the Midwest are sad, brown, fallow fields by comparison, even in their fullest growth. Perhaps I am sad, brown and fallow on the Plains. This is more likely, since many people around me, including K, extol the virtues of said Plains.  But it’s not that soil in which my parents are buried. Not there where I grew up in every way. Not there where I feel watered and nurtured. 

I am there because my job is there. A job. It sounds so cheap. In my heart, it’s a crappy reason to be in a place; my head knows full well the fuel a job brings.  As I get older—and I have aged in body, mind, and spirit since my parents died—I feel a job is a lame excuse to stay where I do not flourish. This seems not a wise notion but a childish one. However, I do know the wisdom of children, and the simple, pure knowledge they possess. I want to follow my heart, but I don’t think it’s healed completely.  Pretty close though. I’m not entirely sure how much healing will happen---if there is any left to do. I think my heart will always be injured, and it matters how I work around it, succeed because of it, and care for it.  <3

Blogging on Vacation: Got more than I bargained..

I am on vacation, back in beloved New England. Mountains, green everywhere—both deciduous and coniferous. And the smell of balsam is everywhere. My sweet husband is here for the first time, and I love seeing the wonder I his eyes as he sees this landscape for the first time. I won’t ever grow complacent about it or his wonder. The glassy lakes, the mountains, old mountains, covered to the top in trees so that as high as one looks there is green:  A cradle of trees to embrace me as I head out each morning.

Yesterday we went down to the ocean, thank the gods. The sea, la mer, is a holy place. The beach is its altar, and I worship without reservation and with total abandon. Again, I am breathing in the perfumes of my childhood, and they are sweeter and more abundant than ever I remember. And K is here with me, perhaps not to worship, but to love---that in itself is a religion. Our religion. Coming back here—the last time I was here was the week after my father died—and many times and years before, always brought a sense of home; sights, scents, sounds. This year, here with K, now two years after my father has passed, nostalgia has threatened to overtake me with Unexpected Teary Moments, and even physical longings to speak to my father. Memories, of childhood, of my time with him that semester, the things he did for us as kids…silver queen corn from the farmer’s stand…impromptu trips for fresh soft ice cream after dinner…the smell of fresh warm fields mixed with the scent of freshly washed kid-hair. I have spoken of my father often during this trip. More than I have in a while. K’s been very patient, often chiming in with a memory or two of his own.

With each visit home, it is inevitable that I voice my desire to live here. And yet…I am simply not sure if I can live every day with so much nostalgia and so many memories conjured around each corner. It’s so beautiful here—the Plains of the Midwest are sad, brown, fallow fields by comparison, even in their fullest growth. Perhaps I am sad, brown and fallow on the Plains. This is more likely, since many people around me, including K, extol the virtues of said Plains.  But it’s not that soil in which my parents are buried. Not there where I grew up in every way. Not there where I feel watered and nurtured. 

I am there because my job is there. A job. It sounds so cheap. In my heart, it’s a crappy reason to be in a place; my head knows full well the fuel a job brings.  As I get older—and I have aged in body, mind, and spirit since my parents died—I feel a job is a lame excuse to stay where I do not flourish. This seems not a wise notion but a childish one. However, I do know the wisdom of children, and the simple, pure knowledge they possess. I want to follow my heart, but I don’t think it’s healed completely.  Pretty close though. I’m not entirely sure how much healing will happen---if there is any left to do. I think my heart will always be injured, and it matters how I work around it, succeed because of it, and care for it.  <3

Dreams Help in the Healing Process

I dreamed last night, after thinking so much about the past, and what I've lost. In my dream, I lost my leg (don't know how) and was in a rehab living facility. Working through the exercises, making friends with other people in transition: there was a jock, a younger woman, and me...that kind of thing. I was working hard to get used to the new me and opening up to others there in a similar situation.

Late one afternoon, my father shows up. Smiles and hugs, but all business--he was there to do a job. He helped set up a system of checklists that would document our improvements and progress each week while at the rehabilitation facility. He then went about interviewing each of us (there were three), asking us questions, making notes. My mother popped in to see if she could help, but the force of my father's focus on the task at hand kept her hovering at the perimeter...but she was there.

The goal was getting us through the correct number of improvements so the rehab facility would allow us go to a football game by ourselves---our first independent outing as amputees.

My dad wore his old blue windbreaker; he'd had that thing since I was a kid. He came out to the garage, where the facility had put together occupational therapy exercises, and watched me go through the series. I was sweating with exertion, and he was smiling with pride.

Then I woke up. And had a realization. My dad is still here to kick me in the ass when I feel sorry for myself.

DAMMIT, I am a person in transition, working through this world that is different than before, with new characters, new flaws, new strengths. Much stronger than I was before, but still with sore places that deserve some attention.

I am taking today off from writing that textbook, and enjoying the sunshine. xo

So it's been a while.

The holidays, winter, spring all swung by. I was aware of some things, mostly things with deadlines. It was, though, a season that will probably never replicate itself in the amount of work, focus, excitement, anxiety and thrill. And as always, humanity comes blundering along making a mess out of a carefully articulated, organized plan. To schluff off holidays and seasons is no mean feat; preparing a debut a New York's Carnegie Hall while teaching a full time schedule were my two focuses. There was no time to focus on how I was feeling in the Grief Process. And it felt right, to fully focus on what was upcoming, rather than suffer the past again and again, dulling the colors of life--the colors where I live in the winter and early spring are a) grey, the sky b) brown, the skeletons of trees c) black, the long nights.

In and out of the rehearsal process, my father would come to mind. Am I working hard enough? Am I giving enough time to my classes and my students? Don't twirl. That's a family saying for don't spin out of control.  Surprisingly enough, I was so busy, that I kept things going forward, dividing my time between practicing and teaching and grading. I was able to set aside my grief because I had not choice, but it was a good--no, it was a great feeling. Life was blossoming. I splurged on a bespoke gown and met a friend in designer Garo Sparo. Mind you, Trio Lorca usually performs in black... with all that's happened and ALLLLLLLLL the black I've been wearing, I wasn't going to wear black. Garo chose a hematite, a steel grey fabric, liquid in the way it falls. He wanted to know how I got the gig at Carnegie which ended up including my recovering the deaths of my parents so recently. We made a connection.

After a few quick trips to NY for fittings, all was well in that department. I became okay about the price of the gown and the symbolism behind it. The actual trip and concert itself was a breeze. It was a thrill, and I felt part of myself open up again, like a flower finally getting watered. I stepped into my old personality, the one before my job stomped it out of me. Floating on stage at Carnegie, singing my ass off, and then meeting our audience and friends at a club across the street. I had invited a lot of people to try and take the place of my parents. My father's closest friends were there and made me cry with gratitude; friends from high school, those who were inseparable from me during the dying and death of my father. My husband, a tower of love and strength then...was beaming in the audience and radiating afterward at the after party. My beloved aunt and uncle, along with cousins were also there.

Of all the people that travelled to celebrate and be with Trio Lorca, there were a number of people noticeably absent--absent in the entire process, from beginning concerts to supportive elements, to even a casual Facebook message to attending the Pre-Carnegie concert.  These were the people formally our tight circle of friends, our urban family.  Its spiral to nothingness began slowly but honestly. When I decided to stop drinking alcohol, these friends responded as if they hadn't heard, and kept on with their usual practices and hangouts, topics of discussion and by the end of the night, mind-numbing talk about nothing. I got the impression they thought my change didn't affect them, except "please don't use our nice wine glasses for the coke you brought." Karl and I continued for a while to gather with our friends, sit and listen to talk about all things wine and spirits, until the time came for me to let Karl know I wasn't gong to go anymore, but he certainly could. He went for a while. They seemed to accept his presence but never asked about me.  And then my father was dying. These people backed away so fast they knocked their chairs over. No messages of hope, thinking of you, how's your sobriety with so much stress? My childhood friends were there to help me stand up, to function, with words of support, funny cards, group breakfasts. Just what I needed when going through two major life changes at once. While Karl occasionally posted info to our former circle, no cards were sent, nor messages or even phone calls on the lonely nights I was in the hospital with my dying dad. What a devastating time. To fight staying sober, to lose a ten year old circle of friends, and to be with my father as he dies. When he died, no flowers or cards came to the service. No phone calls to Karl. I cut my ties to those people at that moment, when I had needed them the most they played dumb.  I lost my parents, I lost my friends. And there I was, trying to figure it all out. I give my childhood friends the credit for saving my life--they offered their homes for me to stay, let me be a quiet extra family member in some cases.

Now these former friends have celebrated the birth of two babies. And the weird thing is, I see pictures on social media. I recognized the homes, the smiles, the people... All so happy without me and Karl there. Not invited to baby showers, but seeing the pictures. I ran into one of these folks and with a big smile on her face, said, "We should really get together for dinner sometime!" A friend, a close friend I though, was at the most recent baby shower, and she never told me she was even in town. Do they ever wonder if they should invite us? What would that whole thing sound like?

Am I whining? I don't know. I'm trying to figure out why they were incredibly insensitive at these major turning points in my life. And why, when I tried to explain where I was coming from, inviting them over to dinner to talk about it....everyone declined my invitation. That was the moment for me when I had to let them go.  I thought I'd come to terms with this loss until this weekend when the new baby was born. Do I want to go and attempt some sort of reconciliation, to try to recapture an earlier time? I think not. I too have grown; away from boozy parties, now exclusive. Grovelling to be let us back into the group that excluded me ? mmmm. No.  I have found a newer set of friends, while a very different make up and a distinct lack of babies, i can be exactly who I am, and not be treated like a naughty child (don't use the nice glasses for your coke).  In addition to my childhood friends back east the friends here don't see me as a victim but as a strong woman who's overcome a lot of difficulty, and who's triumphed by making my debut at Carnegie Hall and am contracted to write a book.  Maybe I'll never know why, but I sure do need to let it go. Easier said than done.

A New Year Approaches

Friends, I have had a very quiet and peaceful holiday season. Now that Christmas is over, I've begun to have dreams of my parents again. They were silent leading up to the holiday.  I am sure they wanted me to have time to sort some more things out, figure out some ideas for future holidays. As I wrote a few days ago, my mind was blank and my heart was empty. I wished my parents had come to me as they often do, in dreams. I wouldn't mind their input! My mom was shy and my dad outgoing, so I'd get ideas from both personalities.

I realized that by cooking the Feast of the Seven Fishes, I was honoring not only my father, but my mother as well. She cooked as well as my Nonni and Ro-Ro. I grew up eating the most delicious food. In that way I was certainly spoiled by her. Funny, as an adult I love the magical realism in Mexican literature, "Like Water for Chocolate," a movie that espouses food contains the emotions of the one cooking it.  Relating that to my life, perhaps this was a way my mom showed us her love. Of course, I'd love to know THE answer, but I'd like to think I already know it.  As I unfold, I am seeing more and more of my mother in me. I am recognizing traits that I'd never seen in her or me. I feel like now that my mom's in her most pure form in the afterlife, I can see her true self more clearly. And it is much easier to see these things in myself, unobstructed by alcoholism, regret, jealousy, and diminished self-worth.  With the clouds clearing, I love many things about my mom; the things my father loved about her.  Her intelligence, her shyness, her desire to please people, her funny --though brief and far apart-- spurts of hilarity, her desire to look pretty, her desire to entertain and make people happy.  What sticks out the most to me is shyness: both hers and my own! It never occurred to me that she was a shy person. It has taken me many conversations with people who knew her and the artifacts from our house to divine her shyness. As far as my own goes, it's taken me my whole life to figure this out. And to accept it, to allow it to be my truth. All that partying I did was an attempt to compensate for something I felt was a weakness. Perhaps it was the same with my mother. I do not feel "less than" because I am shy. It is refreshing not to feel the weight of my costume!

I am a self-admitted fashion addict. I love to dress well and take pride in my appearance. I always thought it was to keep people from finding fault with me--I was not a fashionable kid, (but it was the late 60's early 70's!) I was very short (that hasn't changed) and had glasses (still do, but contact lenses, too). And lastly, I have my mother's blue eyes and love to play with make up.

It has taken me almost four years to sift through the wreckage of her late life and then her death, to find where she and I met; to see where I was like her. I love my mom's spirit, her heart; I was unable to see those things during the last years of her life. I craved her affection as a child and never got it. That was because she never learned how to give and receive affection by her family. Now I see it, I feel it. She felt trapped by getting pregnant; she had to leave college and then marry my father--I'll never know if she wanted to get married (although my father was crazy in love with her) and have kids.

I see who my dad fell in love with. This is a great gift. One of the greatest gifts I could receive.

As you can see, this time of year I begin to wax poetic, even more than usual. But through writing, I am finding myself, finally seeing my mother clearly, and loving my dad even more. And yet, they're not here.

And so, it is time to revive memories and savor them.  Think about what to include as 2012 approaches. Say goodbye and close the door on experiences and people that have served their purposes. Embrace old friends and welcome new ones.  Run toward the sunshine whenever possible.

My resolution: to laugh more. It's been too long!
Happy New Year, 2012.

It’s the second holiday season without my dad.  Last year, we ‘ignored’ Christmas by escaping to Key West. It was a good thing to do at the time. This year, it was time to face the holidays. My husband is a true gem, but even he wanted to celebrate, neither escape nor evade. 

Thanksgiving will always mark the beginning of the holiday season, but it also marks the beginning of my spiritual journey, my dad’s journey toward his death. This was the day he realized he could no longer live the way he wanted, and his ruse of “being fine” was officially over.  He could not lift the turkey from the bathtub (where it was defrosting in water, easier to access than the sink) to the roasting pan.  And then could not lower the roasting pan to the oven.  I say he “couldn’t,” but he did.  He called his sister and they brainstormed how he could do it with one arm. The other arm, the shoulder had a grapefruit-sized tumor on it, and was unable to bear any weight.  My sister and family came the next day, none the wiser, and they had a “really nice” Thanksgiving, my dad said. I’m sure it was.

There was no more pretending he was fine, as he asked us to do for the past two years—as he himself did to keep going, to keep positive.  The tone of my Sunday morning conversations with Dad changed. As always, I let him lead. Deeper things. His anger showed; he was not ready to leave, he did not want to leave. 

That was in 2009.

This year, 2011, I agreed to mark the holidays with Karl because he asked. I love him enough to let that kind of pain sting me.  And this pain is part of my grief, still tender. And I must keep walking toward it, to come out whole at the end.

I made a traditional meal, set a nice table, and I lit a candle to invite my dad to be with us. It was a very lonely, somber Thanksgiving. And even still I noted the many things for which I was grateful.

Before I knew it, it was the last week of classes.  Christmas began to shake its fist at me.  Karl asked if we could have decorations. It was fine with me—little did I know he expected ME to do it! Shithead. With each little tree I bought and decorated I became less engaged.  But I kept buying all different types of Christmas trees: ceramic, glass, beaded, tiny fake-looking, medium fake-looking, even a clear one whose internal lights reminded me of the aurora borealis.  Each is decorated differently in themes, harkening back to my mom’s beautiful themed trees. And there is a tree honoring my mother, father, and Karl’s father, all of who have died.  It’s not the most beautiful tree, but it is decorated with symbols: three angels, three birds, three snowflakes, and teardrop ornaments.  That’s it.  It makes sense to me that it's the most sparsely decorated, yet the most important. Every day I walk by that tree, all 14” of it, and smile.

It was suddenly final exam week, and while I was busy, I needed to be as busy as possible,  so I did all of my Christmas shopping in two days.  Packed it and mailed it in another two.  It was like I couldn’t get it done quickly enough, to get it out of my house fast enough.  In the stores, I lingered and wandered to find the cool gifts, which was the closest I felt to having fun, but there was a desperation to it that dimmed any happiness I felt.

I had done a pretty good job of looking like I was in the Christmas spirit; a decorated house, Christmas shopping done and mailed. Christmas cards done and mailed. But I felt blank inside.

Christmas Eve was busy, too. The Feast of the Seven Fishes, a great Italian Christmas Eve tradition.  I felt like a robot even while wearing silly reindeer antlers on my head.  Planned, cooked and served each course—just Karl and I—and the candle I lit at the table. I felt dead inside. Same is true on Christmas day. Made my calls to Ro- Ro and my sister. Ro and I talked about food, and both agreed to feeling “okay.” That was as far as either of us would go, simply because it was too painful to go any further, and would dig the hole deeper.   Called my sister, left a message, and haven’t heard back.

Unlike many other times, when the pain of my dad’s passing has been so deep I could barely breathe, this time, and now, I feel nothing. Not really sure what this is. Maybe this is the way it will be at Christmastime.  I feel completely disconnected from the spirit of it all.  Perhaps it’s not time yet for me to feel. Too much, still, to process. Maybe my soul is protecting my heart, or vice-versa.

The new year is approaching, and this brings me closer to the epicenter of pain; the anniversaries of both parents’ passing. January 4 and January 13. New Year’s Eve has been difficult since my mother was in the hospital. My dad had called us—we were at a friends’ house—and told us she was back in the hospital.  Happy Fucking New Year.  And then, just a blink of time later, I was sitting in my dad’s hospital room, staring out at the full moon, trying to take in the impending, deafening, shattering new year. A time that I am broken.

Today, there is anger welling up in me. I used to love the holidays, and now I don’t. This is the first time, writing this, that anger has consciously raised its flag since my parents’ deaths.  I’m angry that my parents were both so ill and then died right around the holidays.  It will be something I wrestle for the rest of my life.  My husband will have to live with my ambivalence.  I am bitter that I cannot feel joy during a time that embodies it.

As with all things, this too shall pass.  The anger that has recently surfaced will work its way up and out, I will birth it as I have the others, and see myself turned inside out once again.

I am curious about 2012 and the newest part of my journey. It is a year of karmic gifts, of shifting energies, and the year itself will be the result of internal searching, working, and renewing.  Another year of birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, and celebrations. My wish is that I feel them all, that my heart is open and willing.

Here’s to a new year. xoxo

It is Thanksgiving. GAH

I am grateful. Grateful. I gave in to Karl's need to celebrate holidays this year. It was very difficult for me to capitulate. In fact, that's all I did. Annnnnnd, I said I'd try. In that spirit, I shuffled around Target and TJ Maxx mostly, trying to find small things to whisper in the holidays. A nice, red felt snowflake with bells on the end is on my front door. No wreath, no outside lights. That is too much like it used to be.  For the first time in six years, I was looking for things to make our house "Christmas-y." We made a compromise--no big tree. So, instead I found lots of small trees, made of different fabrics, sequins, wire, glass, ceramic, and then a few fake-but-real-looking trees. I bought what looks like a broken down little shack and a tiny yard with snow. It lights up inside. Cute. To remind me of what my spirit needs, I put both my little Buddha and little Ganesh just outside the front door, to welcome me into this season. One of the trees is decorated with things in threes--my dad, my mom, and Karl's dad--three important people who have passed on. That we love. Three birds, three stars, three snowflakes. And teardrop ornaments. A propos. It's very simple and it's in a place I see it every day.

One of the little real-but-fake trees is decorated with nature things, mostly things near the sea. Birds, seashells, leaves, etc. A starfish is at the top. This is the only lighted tree, about 13 inches tall. What used to be my vacation tree, the one I decorated as we flew off to various family gatherings out east, is a fanciful thing; funny little angels, butterflies, handmade ornaments I've purchased here and there, starfish. My favorite ornament is a blue crescent moon with a small star at its southern tip, but the whole thing sits on my grandmother's buffet, new to my house this year. It has now become the largest tree in our house at about 24 inches high.

Candles. This year, all in jars, they are all white of various scents. Eclectic and comforting sitting on top of the bookcase, grouped together like a makeshift fireplace. Each scent mingles together in a harmony of freshness.

Pretty sure I"m done with the decorating. Let's talk turkey.

Karl and I can't even remember what we did or with whom we were last Thanksgiving. I am guessing I was partially comatose, hiding under my then constant companion the red down blanket. It's sitting next to me as a write. Earlier in the week I decided we'd have some kind of Thanksgiving here at the house.  A deux.

I spent most of the morning in the kitchen in my favorite flannel shirt and jeans, and made a glaze for the turkey breast we bought, made stuffing, mashed potatoes, salad, and also some italiano---tagliatelle pasta with artichokes and lemon. I am telling you that I cooked and I ate.  This is a Herculean effort towards a new normal.  I called my Ro-Ro, and of course we talked about my father; his last Thanksgiving, the last Christmas, the hospital. We both try to find the sweetness in it rather than the bone-searing pain we still experience. One thing she said will stick with me whenever I grieve: "Your father taught us how to live until he died."  You may know someone like that. He is the only one I know.  Working full time, spending weekends at my sister's to see his grandchildren, calling me at least once a day to say hello, talking with me on Sunday mornings (my favorite), and watching his favorite tv. And even near the end, he was going out to happy hour with his brothers. One time, they had to bring happy hour to him, which they did gladly. My father was embarrassed, but I know he was grateful. He never wanted anyone to see how sick he was. Ro Ro and I knew, but he knew more intimately than he even shared with us. His sister, his daughter.  My aunt says one of his gifts to us is that we were told not to focus or even really talk about his cancer with him. We all  honored that. Sometimes he called me to talk about it, and I was glad to listen. Of course, even though he never asked, he did really like the company when he went to chemo, or for a PET scan. But he wouldn't have asked us to come. He drove. I rode shotgun. And so for many months--almost two years--he created this bubble for everyone that it wasn't so bad; he was handling it (and he was), it was a fact, and we were all to go about our business, including his own. So for two years, none of us really talked about it--any of it.  When he gave in just after Christmas, and we all knew it was time, we had nothing to say. We'd finished watching a movie; he'd taken a shower (so he'd be his usual dignified, snappy self at the hospital). On the way to the hospital, what was there to say? The cost of his gift to us began to sting. I began to realize how costly it would be, not at that moment in the car, but after. I didn't know that I'd be paying for years after. None of us chose to let it in because he asked us not to; it helped him stay strong. I cannot tell you how damaging it has been, but we did it to honor his wishes, and his wishes were paramount. I don't regret it, even while it hurts.

My aunt talked about the cost of gifts, and I reminded her they are never free. "Well," she said, "This one was a whopper." Indeed.  So yes, we helped him stay strong during those two years, and fought for him in the hospital when he couldn't do it himself. And in a moment, the walls came down between my father and the world. And we talked openly. He talked openly with everyone of us there. It was freeing but terrifying. He told me, among other things that will live in my heart until my own death, that I will be fine. I'm strong. And smart. "You're a warrior, like me," he whispered as he grabbed my hand.  Gift.

Today, two years later, I am beginning to realize he was right. It's not that I didn't believe him. I could not feel an ounce of resilience left in me. First my mother, then my father. Imagine the very worst thing that could ever happen to you--the thing you'd never recover from.  The fear that coils in the deepest places.  And then it happens to you, not once, but twice. I lived through it, and I am beginning to be grateful. I mean, yes, I'm glad to be alive, (there were days I wasn't), but I say am I grateful to have been the person who received gifts beyond worth, paid for them with facing my greatest fear, and lived to tell you about it.  I am grateful and thankful. I have a different kind of strength than I had before. It's not resilience, I don't think. I don't know what it is. WILL, maybe. GRATITUDE, maybe.

I do a little more living these days, but my new normal is becoming clearer. I have different friends now than I did before.  I know things about myself I would never have learned. Resilience is not a renewable resource. There is a finite amount of it, and mine took a huge hit. I'm running on a small amount of resilience. Maybe what happens is that it's not renewable, but with experience we can live with the resilience we have left.  I cannot say I've bounced back; I have crawled back, and rested. And limped along, and rested. And conked out for two weeks and shut myself away. And today we had Thanksgiving.

So I carefully decorated. Not too much to overwhelm me--my father's furniture being here carries a lot of memory; to decorate like we used to would not be good for me. It's gentle decorating. After last year denying Christmas, this year, we'll celebrate gently. We'll see. Birthday's up next. I will probably look in the mailbox for a card from my dad, just like picking up the phone to call him.

So live gently my friends who are grieving. Honor any traditions in the way you can handle, and feel free to cry. The reality of our loss is settling in for good. That's worth a good cry. And when the sun comes up tomorrow, it will be beautiful. And bring you a gentle joy.