Monday, May 28, 2018

Moving slowly along

I was looking through the Mesa Arts Center season brochure for 2018-2019 that came in recently. As I thumbed through the pages, several performances caught my attention, performances in normal times, Warren and I would have liked to attend. We had attended several wonderful performances at this beautiful venue and enjoyed them immensely. But these aren't normal times for me anymore.

As I read each short description, I knew I wouldn't be going to any of them. The idea of attending any of these performances doesn't appeal to me. I can't envision me initiating a trip to one of these evenings. It just doesn't feel right. At least not yet.

Places we used to go together seem off the radar to me right now. I've been to two of those places recently and while they were pleasant experiences, I viewed them through different eyes, eyes that had tears hiding behind them.

I know these types of memories will continue to pop up, reminding me of the wonderfully happy times we spent together, doing things we loved.

I wonder, too, as I continue to write about how I feel, about how I'm trying to cope with my new reality, whether friends and acquaintances are beginning to think I'm not making progress, not crawling out of my hole of despair, not trying hard enough to shake off the sadness, that I might be swimming in self-pity. No one has indicated that kind of thinking.... yet..... but the invisible antenna in my brain causes me to speculate about what they really think.

I personally feel some differences, albeit small ones. My meltdowns are mostly less intense even though they still occur. More of my 'conversations' with him revolve around happy memories. The intense anger I have felt for so long is slowly abating. I don't know what a timetable of grief looks like but I do know my own is crawling slowly along. And crawling is the key word. There is some movement. And, no matter how slowly it goes, that's progress.

Copyright © 2018, Reisa Sterling Miller. All Rights Reserved

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

I'm different and it's okay.

As the months have slipped by since my Beloved passed away and I reflect on the physical and emotional residue that I'm left with, I am not the person I once was. My words and actions are measured and hesitant. I'm more introspective. I've become a bit reclusive. I'm not as comfortable in public as I used to be. I hide behind a facade of what might appear to be cheerfulness but inside I'm still broken in millions of pieces. The passage of time hasn't seemed to change that.

I'm most comfortable with our sons and just a very few others. I've gone from a happy, carefree, full of fun existence shared with the love of my life to a quiet, contemplative, thoughtful kind of life with lots of time to think about what kinds of things should fill up my days. There are a few possibilities that I'm thinking about. But first things first.........

I haven't paid much attention to or taken care of myself for a few years and I'm reaping those "rewards" now.  So I'm taking steps to change that. And the joy I feel when there's a camera in my hands is returning now that I've picked it up again. Warren would love that and I can envision that gorgeous smile on his face, encouraging me as he always did. That's what will keep me going. We were so attuned to each other. That really hasn't changed. And for that I am grateful.

Copyright © 2018, Reisa Sterling Miller. All Rights Reserved

Saturday, May 12, 2018

The end of Kaddish

I have been saying Kaddish (the Mourner's Prayer) every morning for my Beloved since he passed away. We have an extraordinarily wonderful friend in Connecticut who has been saying Kaddish for him, two times a day, for the same amount of time. It was his way of honoring his dear, dear friend.  This week, during our conversation, he told me that today, Saturday, May 12th, would be the official Hebrew calendar date that the tradition of saying Kaddish for him would come to an end.

So, as I had done every morning for so many months, I stood in front of the many photos I have of him adorning my dresser, lifted the written prayer (which I had committed to memory years ago) and slowly recited the familiar prayer through copious tears. At its conclusion, I felt bereft, uncertain, sad and a little lost.

I spoke to him then, explaining about the ending of the recitation and reminding him (and me) that this was not an ending but now I would spend those precious few minutes each morning starting my day with a specific happy memory in place of the Kaddish.  And at that, I could see him smile.

My life with Warren was such a wonderful gift. What better way than to begin each day now with a smile, a giggle, or an outright laugh at one of the thousands of happy memories I have to draw from.

Copyright © 2018, Reisa Sterling Miller. All Rights Reserved