#1

I'm sitting outside on the deck, sheltered by a large rust-orange umbrella. 

My knee is sending messages, the brain telling me to take a pill for the pain I'm feeling, but I'm waiting to take it closer to the yoga class at 1 o'clock.

My growing collection of children's chairs in the studio have been moved, and are now peering out from under Costco work tables.

The floor has been washed twice.

There is now room for yoga mats.

I'm using one of J's mats with a long history, bought many years ago from Lululemon. Its only concession for its long life is that the colour is now a dirty-looking charcoal grey.

I'm struggling with an old and familiar feeling that I am responsible for the people I have invited to join me for this class. 

Responsible for their enjoyment or for their disappointment.

That is my job, I believe.

Strangely, I'm not worried about my own enjoyment.

A friend who has been working with me in the garden for about a month, gave me a brass #1 to keep where I see it every day.

The number sits in the bathroom near the sink.

He says it is to remind me to place myself as important, not near the end of a line- up.

How selfish, I mumble.

Still, it remains near my toothbrush.

 Can a brass number glare, I wonder.

I'm going inside now and I will move this shining number into my studio, before our first class.

To remind myself.

P.S. the class was great!

Gratitudes

It's 6:05 and I'm drinking my second cup of coffee.

I've been up since 5. 

It's been several weeks of both challenges and of gratitudes.

The injury from my recent fall has sent me to physiotherapy for both laser and hands-on treatment for my right knee and surrounding area.

This trauma has made me forgo doing so much of what I  count on to make my days joyful. 

I've had to curtail my daily walks to Willows Beach and surrounding area as well as doing almost nothing in the garden I love.

I don't look at the health app on my phone which seems to blame me for taking far fewer steps this week and this month than I have previously.

While I have been feeling discouraged and bordering on depression, my daughter Sat-Sung,  who lives in Israel, has asked me to join her in a daily practice.

Each day we message each other with 3 Gratitudes and 3 Wins.

While I was initially upset for having a poor sleep, my first Gratitude today is "the birds are singing in a nearby tree." 

While it is so difficult for me not to be in gardening gear when the spring garden explodes, Thursday's Gratitudes, all 3 of them, were "I met J and he knows and loves plants and he will work in my garden!"

The Wins have been harder for me to compose.

What qualifies as a Win, I wonder?

My daughter has explained that it doesn't need to be something BIG.

So today, my first Win is holding my loving cat, Oliver, in a warm hug.

And Win #2 is sharing my thoughts with whomever reads my blog entries.

                                                        the first poppy in my garden

It has been nearly four months since I last wrote a post. 

Today, for the first time, I want to!

My morning began at St Mary's Church where every Saturday the church is transformed into Churchmouse, a wonderful used book "store".  

More than the books, it is a place to sit and talk, or to sit quietly and just be present. 

Today, after choosing a few books, I sat at a round table that is  "home" to the knitters. These women gather to knit and to visit and later to sell their beautiful creations. The money goes to Churchmouse, to be donated to three organizations that happen to be on my personal donation list! 

The food bank at St John the Divine, Hospice and Threshold. 

One of the women offered me a cookie that she had baked to share.

Later in the morning, I had planned to do some gardening with the help of a wonderful new acquaintance.  

And then he texted that he wasn't able to come.

At first I was very disappointed, but soon moved on to see what I could do by myself on this beautiful warm and sunny day.

An aside...about 10 days ago I had been weeding in my small lane garden, crouching, as I can't kneel, and I fell backwards. 

 Really!! 

( I quickly looked to be sure that no one had seen this inglorious tumble!)

 It didn't seem like much, although several days later it warranted a visit to my physio.

Fall #2.

Going down the basement stairs, that injured side...knee/thigh...gave way with two steps remaining, and I fell onto the concrete basement floor. 

Another visit to my caring health practitioners!

And today, feeling so much better,  I said "to hell with it".

I worked/played in my garden for hours.

It was wonderful!

I've just put a bottle of Pinot Grigio into the freezer (with a timer set!)  and decided it is time for an extra strength Tylenol . 

I forgot to say that I've signed up to take a class "Feldenkrais Method Balance and Fear of Falling"at the Monterey Centre beginning May 25!

 

Several times during the last few weeks I thought that I'd write a new blog entry.  

I've written a lot here about Brian's death and I thought I needed to "move on" from that.

What does that mean??

I think we might not "move on" but rather try to pull other thoughts and activities to the forefront to fill in the space.

The space that is big.

Moving on might mean to lay a soft blanket over the grief.

For the morning or for the day. 

I usually get up early, perhaps at 6 a.m.

Two coffees made by my 30- year-old Rancillio machine, added to hot milk and a dash of cream.

Sweet Oliver, my cat, gets wet food and a bit of chicken broth before I look quickly to see if any "important" messages have been recorded on my phone overnight.

Then I pull on my gum boots and head to the beach.

Willows is beautiful in the early morning light  

        And I struggle to find my phone, buried under layers of clothes, to take another series of photographs.

Each morning the sky and water are different.

Each photograph uncovers another layer of beauty.

With a noticeable compulsion to gather "special" stones, I often walk on the sand.

I search especially for stones shaped like a heart.  

And I add these to the ever-growing collection on a metal table on the deck.

 I put some of the smaller hearts into my pocket so that when I go to the cemetery 

I can lay one on Brian's headstone 

And bury a piece of Brian's favourite milk chocolate into the ground.

relief

 I've moved from "will I ever create art again?" to feeling the relief of "yes I will".

My new neighbour, a young man renting the suite next door, carried a Costco table downstairs for me. It's in the dining room, already covered with books.

Some are open to pages that I can cut up: insects, faces and even backgrounds from a very old book of typing exercises.

These are books deemed "Not Wanted" by former owners.

There is barely room on the dining table for me to sit with a small bowl of fruit, sprinkled with granola.

Sometimes Oliver sits on a chair, bewildered.

Bewildered, but soon moving on to sleep or to demand another helping of cat crumble.

It's been a hard time for me.  

Choosing a headstone reinforces the fact that my life's journey is no longer shared with my sweet husband.

I believe that his spirit lives ....somewhere....

But where?? 

In the sky? In the studio? 

Maybe everywhere.

I'm moving closer to forgiving myself for words unspoken.

And I believe that Brian knew all these words of love, spoken out loud or whispered directly from my heart.

Cutting paper again and pasting it down is a step.  

I remember a game we played called Mother may I? where we lined up and asked another child, who was blindfolded, if we could take steps forward.  She might respond that we could indeed take a step, though she usually added, "Yes, you may take three baby steps".

I remember the disappointment I felt that that the blindfolded child didn't say that I could take three GIANT steps!

So, here I am again, back with the three baby steps.  

But I'm back.

 

I'm sitting at my computer deciding if I will begin a new blog post

or perhaps, just add some hand-written thoughts into my small black notebook.

Maybe a short poem.

Words, just to myself.

A bit scary 

even though I can close my book anytime

and no-one will read my jottings unless I say it's okay to do so.

I feel a deep sadness of loss

and I know that joy is within me too

nudging me to see all the wonders surrounding me.

The early morning light on the water at Willows beach

and listening to a man

who swims at least a 1/2 hour each morning

singing in the ocean.

I love my many garden plants 

that are collecting their seeds

to share with me.

 And Oliver,

the treasure that he is, 

nudging his soft cat-face into my neck.

I'm seeing the people who support me

and who love me just the way I am.

Three weeks ago saw a woman wearing a sweatshirt

that said: "I won't be remembered for being quiet".

In vain, I searched the internet to find one for myself

and then realized my wish is to be remembered for being kind

and quiet has nothing to do with that.

               "Turns out you can just buy a birthday cake anytime and eat it yourself. Nobody checks"  

witness

I'm trying to fill my day.

It's 3:10

and I ate lunch at 2 so it's too soon to eat again.

I could work in the garden 

with my big hat and a reapplying of sun screen.

But my garden isn't calling me, though I strain to hear.

I go outside anyway and water my trees.

The beautiful ginko, that  has always leaned back, seems to welcome the additional attention.

I'm lonely, with no one to tell about my day

and about the single white peony that is in bloom

 the one that we brought from our garden in Duncan.

                                    .....................

For a while I kept a small journal, writing about the books I had read.

Yesterday, I found a single entry from 2014, with a quote from the  book "Man" by the Vietnamese writer Kim Thuy.  (apologies for not having the appropriate accents) 

"I heard the echo of her silence, though, and the burden of everything that couldn't be heard. At night, when we used to share the same bed, the sound of Maman's tears sometimes escaped the corners of her closed eyes. I would hold my breath then, because with no witness, sorrow might exist only as a ghost."

You are my witness.