Wedding Rings

I took our wedding rings to a jeweler today to blend them into a pendant on a gold chain. But what I didn't realize was how much a miss the ring on my finger. It was more than a piece of jewelry, more than a symbol of our love - it was my touchstone. In times of stress, I would reach for it and gently rotate it on my finger. I could feel its weight and be reminded of our bond. I would look at it and think about that time almost eighteen years ago when she placed it on my finger. It was truly a part of me.

Now her ring and mine will be connected and will reside next to my heart. I will feel it there and know she is also in my heart.

Fog

I keep waiting for the fog to lift

Or be blown away by gentle breeze

To see blue sky

Or glittering stars

I keep waiting for the earth to firm up

Or a path to emerge

To touch something solid

I keep waiting for the sound of spring

Or the soft laugh of my lost love

To know that life can go on

I keep waiting for the scent of new flowers

Or the fragrance that she always wore

To believe that I can go on

I keep waiting for my heart to lighten

Or laughter to come again

To know there is a reason

I keep waiting

Milestones

Yesterday - March 26th - was the one-year mark of Janell's death. We had a wonderful gathering of friends and family to celebrate her life and to comfort each other over our loss. The time was joyous and heart-wrenching. We laughed, we ate, we talked and we cried. Janell would have loved that we came together - she was such a raving extrovert.

And now today - I spend the vast majority of the day, as I spend most of my weekends - alone. I did what I needed to do - laundry, groceries, bill paying, cooking and cleaning. I also did what I wanted to do - took a walk, read, and began the transitional process of putting away the "snowman" decorations and bringing up the Easter decorations. I also wrote out a list of "to-do's" - getting the carpets cleaned, getting a new battery for the camera, taking our rings to the jewelers to re-design/combine them into something I can wear to remember our marriage, make a series of doctors' appointments (ophthalmologist, ENT, dermatologist), renewing our AAA membership, etc.

And after I did all this, I realized I am taking some "next-steps" in the transitional process to a different life. I feel like I am dragging myself kicking-and-screaming into this new life. I have "shadows in the wings" of my "life-production" - I can't see them or hear them, but I feel them. It might be travel to new places, a new avocation or the renewal of an old one, maybe a new or expanded career move. I don't know, but I'm experiencing a shift, albeit a minor one.

And I'm afraid - fearful of losing the connection to Janell's spirit, fear that those shadows in the wings are without substance, fear of making unhealthy decisions, fear of drifting into old age and ill health.

"This is how the world ends. This is how the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper."

My Messy House

I walked through our home last Sunday, thinking about March 26th, marking one year since Janell died. I was thinking also of the upcoming gathering this Saturday to honor and mourn her. As I examined each room, considering what I needed to clean, rearrange or put away, it seemed each room represented a part of my life.

The dining room's wallpaper was stripped and a fresh coat of paint applied. A new chandelier hung over the table, and new blinds covered the windows. I feel like part of my life was also stripped away and I've attempted to put a new face to the world, but it's only a facade. I appear okay (whatever that means), but inside I'm still raw and unhealed. The blinds are my way of hiding from the world - they are translucent, letting in light but not a clear view. And the light - it has a dimmer switch, currently on the lowest setting, just as my light-life is dim.

The kitchen is also remodeled, with new paint, new lights, new window coverings, a new range and some new appliances. Much of it different, but it feels empty. Gone is the woman I sat with through joyous time - making Easter eggs with the grandkids, playing Trivial Pursuit with Bill and Sarah, eating our two-some scrambled egg and toast meals, and Sunday mornings reading the paper (and having Janell giving me "the look" when I just HAD to read her a segment of an article).

The family room has gone through Janell's seasonal transitions: the fall decorations, the Christmas tree lacking her flair, all of the snowmen figurines and pictures, and soon the spring, summer and again fall. But it's not the same. Transitioning through the phases was exciting for Janell, putting away one season, having me haul up the next season's decorations and going to work to make the season outside the season inside. And now - it's hollow. I do it - I do it for her and the kids.

Our bedroom remains the same - all of her clothes, shoes, jewelry and bureau ornaments are there. Her sink still has her makeup in the small basket. Her pillow is next to mine and I can still feel her imprint. I'm not ready.

Janell's scrapbooking "workshop" is still in place in the downstairs family room. I've moved a few things around and shifted some pictures from the counter to the table. She so loved to spend hours working her craft and no doubt wanting to escape the upstairs TV where I watched endless hours of football and cable news.

And the study - a real mess - papers, notebooks, textbooks, folders full of who-knows-what kinds of forms, pictures of Janell and the grandkids, boxes of documents, and books, books, books. Looking at the chaos in the study would give one a picture of the chaos in my mind and soul. I am scattered, in disarray, no direction, no organization, just piles of stuff.

And so I prepare for Saturday, March 26th, the beginning of my second year without my soulmate. I'm lost.

A Gathering

On March 26th, it will have been one year since Janell passed away. As I've said before, it seems like an hour and it seems like a lifetime. I know next Saturday is only one day, but it seems to be one that pulls at our hearts and reopens the grief. Many of us may need to be together. I've invited all of you to our home. Let us "break bread" together: 10:00 a.m. to 12:00 noon for a light brunch, and/or 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. for snacks. Also if you feel the need to spend the day - you are more than welcome.

As with all of you, I miss my kindred spirit, but her legacy lives on in all of us. Her impact is indelible and her legacy will have a lasting effect on her family, her teachers, and her peers. Her influence also carries through us to our children and students we touch.

We hope to see you on Saturday, March 26th. Remember.

The Impostor Syndrome

There is a theory called the "Impostor Syndrome" where about 80% of us perceive ourselves to be a fake in some way. We fear that someone will ask the one question that will reveal us. I'm headed to Baltimore tomorrow to present at a national Safe Schools/Healthy Students conference on evaluation. Even though I've conducted more that forty evaluations and presented literally hundreds of times, I still quake a bit, fearing that someone will reveal that I'm not the expert people claim me to be (notice I didn't say I claim to be an "expert").

But I fear it runs deeper than that - the events of the last year have shaken my confidence to the core. It's not that I have ever been that confident about anything, even though I have a Ph.D., been a successful counselor, consultant, evaluator, facilitator and mediator, and have done okay financially. I feel like an impostor as a person - as a friend, a neighbor, a co-worker, a step-dad, a dad and even a husband. There is so much more I could have done to be a "better" all-of-the-above. What has held me back? Fear, selfishness, laziness? Probably all of the above!

One of the strongest pillars in my life for the last eighteen years that gave me courage and meaning, and confidence was my marriage to Janell. And now she's gone and I feel lop-sided, disenchanted with life and without direction. I still do things - work, relate to people, take care of my home - but it's a front. I'm an impostor-person. In fact, I sometimes watch myself walk, eat, make breakfast, do ordinary things and wonder: who IS this person carrying my consciousness? I feel fragmented, disconnected, disembodied.

When will I be whole again? When will I be real again?

New Eyes and Ears

I noticed something over the past few days, watching movies and listening to music that I had seen and hear before. I seem to feel the emotions more intensely. The meaning that underlies the plot and the dialogue seems to apply directly to me and conveys some important lesson about life. The interrelationships send messages about my life with Janell and reveal some aspect that I hadn't remembered for awhile. I sense that she is so much more with me - we watched these movies together - The Big Chill, Peggy Sue Got Married and Julie & Julia, and the stage version of Les Miserables - and we watched these together again. It's as if she is teaching me to live again, to let go of my pain and grief, and to reconnect with the world.

Am I ready - not really. But I find myself making decisions on which I had been holding off. I've become more assertive. I'm finding interesting new potentials arising - whether I move on them or not is not the issue - they are there and I'm considering them, where before I only thought about "39 months" (the number of months until I can retire). I'm tentatively reaching out to friends, but I still cherish my private time. That time revolves more around reading, writing, and exercising and less around mindless TV. I can talk to people about my life with Janell and my continuing love for her and not always cry. I still cry but I can feel the cleansing quality of those tears. They seem to wash away the grief and leave her courage, her grace, her warmth and her love deeply ingrained in my heart.

Am I incubating and it's becoming Spring?

A Comfort of Others

A friend posed a very interesting question to me today: "What will you do on March 26th?" That's the day of Janell's death, one year ago. My initial thought was - alone, preferably out in nature. But then I thought: what about the others who loved her and miss her? How do I comfort them? My worldview of Janell's touch is broadening - she loved and was loved by many. How selfish of me to think about my solitary grief and how insular of me to shield myself from others who might want to be with me.

So what do WE do on Saturday, March 26th? We mourn her loss and we celebrate her life. And how will we do that? Our home will be open all day Saturday - please - come - share a meal, tell a story, laugh, cry, hug, be with us. I truly believe that is what Janell would want.

Walking in the Fog

A haze has settled on my mind

blurring reality 

and

dulling my senses

I still walk and talk and drive and eat

I still do my job, clean the house and cook

But if breathing weren't involuntary

I might be in trouble

A cloud has settled around my head

raining tears

and

eroding meaning

But I wake up, shower, and drink my coffee

A shadow has descended over my being

filtering out light

and

hiding hope

My Kindred Spirit is gone

and 

with Her went my soul

I'm lost

Walking in a fog

As I watched the movie "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil," a line jumped out at me: "don't commune with the dead so long that you forget the living." Janell has been on my mind and in my heart literally night-and-day. I miss her constantly, as do many others. I think about her; I talk about her and bring her name into many conversations. She is the focal point of my life; or is her loss the focal point of my life?

And yet I am constantly reminded of the living, others that Janell touched who are also grieving. I was being myopic in my vision of loss, and thanks to to others' willingness to reach out to me, I stepped away from my selfish grief and connected with them - a former neighbor who is also struggling with cancer-related issues in his family, a dear friend of Janell's who felt remorse for not telling her how much she loved her, a nephew who mourns the loss of a dear aunt, a daughter who painfully reflects on the fact that Grandma Janell will not be there for advice and reassurance. . . . the connections seem endless. Janell touched so many people in so many loving ways. 

What can I learn from this? Janell is with me - the handprint on my heart. Her courage emboldens me; her warmth encourages me to reach out to others, for support and to support; her spirit guides me to make healthy decisions; her grace gives me faith in tomorrow. "Because I knew you, I have been changed for good."

Waiting

I dreaded March and I continue to dread it. Slouching toward the 26th. One year since Janell died. It seems like an eternity and the blink of an eye. All this talk about the stages of grief - there are days I feel like I'm still in denial, that I will hear the garage door open, hear her car pull in, sense her footsteps, and see her walk in, apologizing for working late. But I never will. She won't come back, no matter how much I wish and hope.

How do I go on, how do I cope, how do I find meaning in anything?

My Walks with Janell

Today, finally, the weather was almost balmy and I was able to take a long walk, the first in several months. As I walked, I reflected on the all the walks that Janell and I had over our eighteen years. I remember our first walk, a short stroll from the car to Grandmother's Restaurant on a cold December night. I remember putting my arm around her for the first time, slipping my hand inside her coat and around her waist. She commented on that "maneuver" for many years.

Long walks seemed to be a central part of our life together. I remember the walks through the tulip garden in Pella, when we visited my daughter at Central College. One of my favorite pictures of Janell is her sitting amid a bed of red and yellow tulips. When we were surreptitiously dating when we both worked at the Area Education Agency, we slipped away during retreats to walk, talk and kiss. We were like star-struck teenagers!

During our journeys to various educational conferences - San Antonio, Marina del Rey, Denver, Chicago, Nashville, Orlando, Kansas City, Phoenix  and many more - we walked and talked and laughed and shared such fun together.

Our most memorable walks were on our vacations and our trips for Janell's medical treatments. We trudged up and down the pathways in Rocky Mountain National Park, strolled the beaches at Clearwater and Daytona, slipped through the crowds on the River Walk in San Antonio, meandered through a streets of New Orleans, and gloried in the views of Lake Michigan and Grant Park in Chicago. I fondly remember the strolls through the streets of Zurich, Lucerne, Geneva, Basil, St. Moritz and Zermatt. We relished the views of the mountains, the lakes, the beautiful architecture and the lavish displays of Swiss chocolates.

I thought of her and missed her as Brian and I labored up the slopes of the Himalayan foothills. She would not have liked this walk - too steep and rugged, but she was with me, as she will always be with me as I walk - alone but not alone.