I'm still here

The garden is in, the chicklets clucking, big goats about to be joined by some kidlets, and then there are the new pigs.   My sister is a force of nature. By her sheer persistence and the grace of cardboard and wood chips (why did I never do this before? Oh my God, what a difference it makes!) there are less weeds and more clear spaces than there have ever been here before, both in the garden as well as the flowers and walkways.  
And there's more clear space in me too.
There's plenty to do, but I'm clear none of it's life or death because the death has already happened, there is no need for anxiety, he's already gone; I can survive in one form or other, anything.
I'm not lonely, but I am ready to reengage with folks.

When I was traveling crosscountry on the train, I sat with a woman whose husband had died a year ago.  She asked me if I'd noticed folks pulling back from me.  She feared that they didn't want her around them as a single.  I'd noticed the pull back also, both from others to me but also from myself in response to death or great tragedy in friends.   I told her I thought it was from discomfort, what to say, how not to impose, an unconscious fear of being too close to that pain and having it rub off.  I've kept distant from folks and also felt the distance grow from them, but I don't take it personally.  It's an organic reaction and must have some evolutionary benefit.  When I reach out, friends have been wonderfully responsive.  And I like being alone.  I like it a lot.

I am surrounded with delicious empty spaces.  I notice certain birdcalls (have they always been here?), faint scents, a small shift in my inner emotional weather front.   Flooding hits, my driveway washes out, Adam and Kate's newly carpeted basement ruined, and I feel the pain, but somehow I don't feel panicked by it.   Just curious.        I'm still here.
In some ways, I'm more here than I may have ever been.