My Dad died today

He was 87 years old.

It's Gil's Birthday today

And my dad seems to be dying, and the election is too unbearably anxiety producing,  and I'm coming to the end of the first phase of grieving, facing whatever is next.
Anniversaries sort of skip me back in time though at a new octave.  I remember all the different Birthday celebrations I did for him over the years.  The octave change is that there is only remembering now, no new memories will form.  And I need to keep moving forward.
That's  why it was so hard the other night.  I hate feeling that way, and almost went back and deleted that post, so I wouldn't have to remember myself in that whinny phase.  But it's part of the process, and if this writing is any good for me or you it needs to be real not pretty. 

I am learning, growing but it's not linear.  I need to remember that.  I also need to remember to, as my beloved Aunt Lou used to say to herself,
"Pull up your socks, Ms. Page!!"

It's hard

I'm coming off a big family reunion which culminated in a Gil remembrance, Gil story sharing around a big bonfire.   Everyone has left.  I'm left with a house full of dishes and chaos and love and the Gil celebration music on LOUD.   It was wonderful to hear all the stories, images, imaginings, LOVE,  that Gil inspired.
And he's not here.  I've finished off the dregs of an open bottle of wine and I can't stop crying.   He would have loved it and he's not here!   It's one more step away from him      and I don't want to.       I'm sorry, please, please come back.
But he's not coming back.
Even the essence of him, he's fading, fading, and it's so hard.  Why is it sooooo hard?   It's just hard.
Celia Cruz on LOUD LOUD;  I can feel him.  He wasn't who he was all the time these last years.  It was hard as he was gone even when he was still here, but I miss who he was at heart, at essence.
Get a grip.  Move on.   But it's so hard,  Why is it so HARD?
There are the dregs of a beautiful sun set over our hill.
The beat goes on.
great music
ask for a copy and I'll send it to you.

Learning curve

I'm an old dog, but I am learning new tricks.  I've gotten comfortable starting the tractor and brush cutting.  I even was able to troubleshoot a tractor problem the other day, and solve it. The world feels a little more three dimensional. Set backs (our bees are too mite ridden and probably won't over winter) or friendship strains feel like just part of the oceanic abundance I'm being pulled through.  There is the uncertainty of being at the beginning of a learning curve without the anxiety I felt when I was young. Now, not knowing feels like just part of the process not inherently better or worse than the things I'm good at.

I've had some good Gil dreams of late, and my hips/knees seem to be taking a turn for the better, but I'm not sure why the equanimity.  Perhaps it's the absence of the background hum of responsibility and anxiety around Gil's health.  The loss of him still can hit me up side the head with little notice, but I no longer wonder if this is normal grieving; it's the grieving I'm doing, and it sure beats hysteria or apathy.

I marvel at the willingness of friends and family to help me, or need me, the interdependent "pack".  Why has it taken me so long to feel like I'm at home in this particular space, time, collection of fellow travelers?? My 87 year old dad appears to be giving up on living after his current spouse was put in a nursing home, no longer there to give him the motivation to live of care taking.  He never wanted to be on the receiving end, to feel the ebb and flow.  Now he's left with numb emptiness.  I wish I could share the relish I feel at this low end of the learning curve with him, but it's not a word/idea kind of thing.  It's the air I'm breathing, what is helping me relax into whatever is next in my life.  "I am not done with my changes".
Here's the poem that line comes from.  I shared it at my retirement party, but it feels even more apt now.

The Layers  by Stanley Kunitz

I have walked through many lives, 

some of them my own, 

and I am not who I was, 

though some principle of being 

abides, from which I struggle 

not to stray. 

When I look behind, 

as I am compelled to look 

before I can gather strength 

to proceed on my journey, 

I see the milestones dwindling 

toward the horizon 

and the slow fires trailing 

from the abandoned camp-sites,  

Oh, I have made myself a tribe 

out of my true affections, 

and my tribe is scattered! 

How shall the heart be reconciled 

to its feast of losses?  

Yet I turn, I turn, 

exulting somewhat, 

with my will intact to go 

wherever I need to go, 

and every stone on the road 

precious to me. 

In my darkest night, 

when the moon was covered 

and I roamed through wreckage, 

a nimbus-clouded voice 

directed me: 

"Live in the layers, 

not on the litter." 

Though I lack the art 

to decipher it, 

no doubt the next chapter 

in my book of transformations 

is already written. 

I am not done with my changes.