Widowhood

Arthur Boyd Houghton, "Widowhood," for Jean Ingelow's "Poems" 1867.

Today is my mother's birthday. October, 13th and a Friday, too. If she were alive, she would be very old, 104 years. That's too old, perhaps. I don't know. We all want to live forever, don't we?

I've been writing very hard on the WIP, The Ambitious Fairy Project, since July 1st, and I don't mean a crappy first draft. I don't write in drafts. I revise, rework, re-plot, rewrite, write new, etc. etc. etc. as I go, inching along toward the new while always looking at the old. I read it aloud a lot from the beginning and so forth. This is the  way I work and I am way over 250 pages at this point. Much more to go. I plot so I know the big stuff, even though surprising little stuff might pop up. That's the beauty of writing, all of this. But I have also been plagued this year by one illness or event after another. October has been cruel and I've made some mistakes, being highly reactive to that cruelty, too. This is part of being a widow, always doubting decisions that are not familiar from previous experience. I always had help before with my loving and trusted companion, my husband. Almost seven years gone now and goodness, I have made some disasters for myself, live and learn. I have also made some very good decisions. I suppose life is like that. But this year, wow, what a year of illness. One thing after another. I've worked on with the book, but the garden suffered. My confidence suffered.  My mental state, too. I have to get up every day, like it's a new world and talk myself into living the best life offered. That's how I roll right now. That's what I do. Talk myself into faith.

Living alone is hard. Choosing to live alone is even harder. There is a difference, because it's what you sacrifice that sometimes haunts you, that laughs at your efforts.

Being a widow sucks.

But I am determined to survive and live the best life possible.

Today I thought a lot about love. How much I loved and how I was loved and what a beautiful thing that is.

I thought about my personality some, that "just being" has always been one of my gifts, that the things I enjoy in life are so simple and easy to find. I know that I was privileged to have had a good relationship with Johnny and that I will always miss him.

I also miss my mother, that incredible force of Nature. Oh, she was. An original. Mother died right at 90 years of age, so she has been gone 14 years now. My father 16, my husband nearly 7. These are numbers I can hardly believe. And I have been alone without them in that singular and special way I remember...

There is an aloneness that I possessed even as a small child. That aloneness is different from being lonely. One can be lonely in a house filled with loved ones. No, I was alone as in separate. These three people could occasionally reach across that aloneness and touch me. I loved them deeply. Only my three sons and Haylee, Jamie, my grandchildren, my siblings touch me now. Perhaps a few friends. But not the way my parents or Johnny did. Not the way Johnny did.

Being a widow sucks.

I know much of this present sentiment is the result of illness and perhaps some depression that goes along with certain struggles. I know these feelings will change. They will pass.

It all passes. Places, People, Purpose.

But my loves are inspiration to me. Those living and those dead. 

Then why do I feel crushed.

CRUSHED.

(Feeling better today)