Author: ferylfiles

Sadaversaries are around every corner, particularly now that we’re at the end of September. And a friend of mine has reminded me that I can either get bogged down in the sorrow or I can acknowledge that these are just another day in September. I think it’s both and I’m trying very hard to process the scope and scale of this past year, but to also embrace that change keeps coming. And change will keep coming and I will keep taking a step (baby steps?) forward.

These last couple of days I’ve begun organizing, sorting, purging, cleaning in ways that I was inacapable of just a few weeks prior. Bryan and I had always envisioned organizing our books that were scattered in bookshelves randomly in every room. We never did that project together. I did it by myself. I wish he could see it. It looks really good. I’ve rearranged the living room, I’m beginning to empy out the front bedroom to prepare it for some extensive work. Yes, that means finally a door. (Laugh with me.) I’ll be moving my bedroom to the back room that has been a catch-all for a long time. I organized my art and jewelry-making supplies in the middle room, which will probably be the next catch-all room until I’m ready to tackle it.

Change is good. Continuity and change is very good. This is still home. This place has Bryan’s soul and spirit throughout. How could it not? But it looks different so that I can move forward. The mixture of feelings is about 70% pride and satisfaction, 20% sorrow, and 10% guilt. Damn guilt. I try to whack-a-mole it, but it still rears its ugly head. Hey, at least that’s a solid C- and a passing grade so I’ll take it.

There’s a lot more to do, but I have confidence with each step I take that I’ll be able to take the next one, too. In the process, I will do my best to “be here now” and take the day as it is because as I get older, all the days will be sadaversaries if I’m not careful.

Today is the autumnal equinox. Fall is such a great season–carved pumpkins, bright colors, endless pots of soup and homemade bread, cinnamon and apples, costumes, band concerts, and cozy sweaters. The changing color of the leaves is probably my favorite. As a painter, it feels like nature puts on the best art show and we get to walk in the gallery for free.

And autumn breaks my heart.

My mama died on October 15th in 2007. My big brother died last year on October 11th. Bryan was diagnosed at the end of September/beginning of October last year. This time of year is both amazing and fraught. I watched our Northern Red oak tree change into the most extravagant colors last year. It caught my breath while I was confronting the reality that my husband had terminal cancer. It has begun to turn colors again. This time I will watch without Bryan.

Bryan often talked about liminal spaces–where ocean meets sand, where mountains rise up out of flatlands, when time shifts from one season to another, when we shift and change. It may seem a little pagan, but we shared a fondness for the equinoxes and solstices–four times a year of guanteed liminal space. We got married on the vernal equinox for this reason.

The rain the last few days has kept me inside and I’ve used the time to move some furniture and reimagine the space in this house–changes to create something new, new modes of thinking, new ways of living. Changing seasons force us into newness even as we reflect on anniversaries and the bone-aching memories. I am both grief-stricken and hopeful. And this song makes me think of all of that loss while celebrating beauty and change.

I haven’t made journaling a regular practice and I regret it. I guess that’s part of why I am making a more deliberate effort to write this blog now. I was looking through some old things and found this journal entry that I thought was worthy of sharing. This is from a trip to France Bryan and I took to meet my bonus parents, Francie and Gordon, who had flown in from Reno, and our dear friend, Sarah from Australia. The date is June 4, 2018. I hope you enjoy as much as I did rediscovering it:

Yesterday, Francie woke up sick. 😦 Sarah opted to go to the Louvre toute seule. Gordon did some venturing on his own. Bryan and I went to the Marché aux Pince, but I don’t think we hit the right section with vintage and antique items; instead we found dollar store central w/inexpensive clothes, housewares, accessories, a Les Halles grocery type environment and tons of Syrian refugees. It was incredibly overwhelming. [I want to make a note here–it’s one thing to read articles about people leaving an untenable situation at home and to see it face-to-face in the eyes of people striving to find a new way of living in a new space. Bryan and I discussed at length his travels and what seeing folks in Paris escaping a place he had found so beautiful and welcoming meant to him. He shared his grief unhesitatingly. Lots of feelings here that a couple sentences don’t adequately express.] Bryan gave all the coin he had to an older woman and her granddaughter. We walked around the area quite a bit, popped into a church mid-mass. It was a gritty industrial area N of the highway that circles the city. We got a metro to the Stalingrad station and found the Paname Brewery. Beer was so-so, but the space was very Portland, 30-somethings w/families, canal, picnic area.

When we headed home we got groceries and rested/visited for a bit enjoyed beer and conversation. Francie had found a Moroccan restaurant and made reservations. She and Gordon treated us to a wonderful dinner. So much delicious lamb! We ate until we were stuffed. Roasted lemon (already preserved) mixed w/potatoes and olives…WOW! Gordon had lamb chops, Bryan had a medley of delicious things of which he offered tastes. Francie & I had the same tagine and Sarah got a salad which was essentially salsa, but she enjoyed nibbles from around the table. On our way home we stopped at the Trocadero to see twinkling lights on the Eiffel Tower, along with loads of other tourists. B

PS The selfie stick is a shit invention. That is all.

There are things on my to-do list that I have a frozen response to. Hey, we’re at least past the fainting goat stage of things. (HA! Laugh with me.) Paperwork, Bryan’s office, his service, home repairs, bills–I navigate these things the best I can as the bandwidth or urgency dictate. Bryan’s service was just a couple of days before the income tax deadline for filing. I had to file for an extension because I simply could not do all of it at once.

Bryan typically did our taxes. We worked on getting materials together for his private business and mine as well as our W2s and everything else. But when it came down to it, he got the software and he did the filing. And now, like the lawn mowing, I decided to call upon someone else’s expertise. I met with a sharp, kind accountant today. The ball is rolling and I’ll tackle this, too. Finally.

I have other big items on my list. I still need to figure out the rest of today, this week, this month, my five-year plan. Good grief, it all sounds so daunting. It’s not that I’m incapable or that it’s impossible, I’m simply not used to the new method by which I must proceed–alone. I am so thankful that I only cried once in today’s meeting. Nothing like dad jokes and a jovial attitude to put me at ease. So maybe not quite alone…

On a side note, friends have encouraged me to find ways to make a living from writing–everything from writing a book (I have ideas…), to getting paid for the advertising on my blog. Out of that encouragement, I put a “tip jar” up on this site which is really a link to my Venmo account. This blog is free for anyone to read or share. The tip jar is there if you feel like you get something extra out of my writing. I also make jewelry and art and am back at it. So if you’re inclined, great. If my style is not your style, no worries. It’s all a little awkward to put myself out here like this and I won’t make a habit of it. As a dear friend said, “we all try to find a balance of doing a job we enjoy and paying the bills.”

https://account.venmo.com/u/Rebecca-Lubbers-1

https://feryldesigns.etsy.com

I live inside my head a lot. I don’t know if that’s a result of being the youngest of four by a large margin and having a lot of time to myself. Maybe it’s the side-effect of being creative. Living alone with three cats ensures that I spend a lot of time inside my head, too. Reading, gardening, painting, baking, walking in nature give me a chance to live outside of my head for a little bit, but even then the ruminations creep in. The last several days and yesterday in particular had me deep in thoughts. The most significant was the question “was any of it real?”

Memory and imagination are tricky bastards. Memory isn’t the brain’s archives where we can pull a reel or microfilm off the shelf and play it back. It’s more like photocopies of photocopies couched in emotions and accumulation of experiences. In many ways our memories and our imagination overlap. Humans make terrible eye-witnesses because we see things filtered and we remember them filtered even more.

A few weeks ago, I was walking home from my friends’ place. Coming up the back alleyway into the backyard, I remembered Bryan and I often walked this together, holding hands, laughing about our conversations, appreciating time with friends. And I could feel myself saying out loud trying to convince myself of a truth. “It was real. It was real. It was real.” Yesterday, while painting little watercolors at my dining room table, my memory thought of times Bryan and I would stop in Hood River for a meal and a beer on our way to and from Portland. This time I said, “Was it real? It was real. Surely, it was real.” And then the crying jag started in again.

I cried a lot yesterday. I’m crying this morning. The heartache is real. The longing is real. The boxes of tissue I search for in every room are real. The swollen eyes are real.

Yesterday afternoon, I planted some mums and did some pruning and weeding in the backyard garden. I found a little anchor to hold onto. Becci, sometimes we can’t see something or someone, but we can see the effects. I know it was real because I am changed. I know to my bones what it feels like to be loved for exactly who I am, flat sides and all. I live in a house that has a front porch that my husband made sure got built because he felt like we had a responsibilty to make our neighborhood and community more cohesive. This plot of earth at 707 Newell Street has twelve trees–10 Bryan planted and two that volunteered. I have friendships with people I may not have ever met had it not been for Bryan. I live in a neighborhood with neighbors that are like family because Bryan wanted to live in a space where he built durable relationships. And above all, I have Mary. And she’s the most real of any of it.

Loss is such a trip. I think it’s very human to mull over all these things, to feel them. My eyes are protesting and telling me, “could you feel them a little less?” Sorry, little buddies. Nope.