Author: ferylfiles

When I was little, we used to live in Yakima, Washington. At the time, there was a Nordstrom and a mall downtown. One Sunday, my mom took my sister and me shopping, a passtime they thoroughly enjoyed. As we were headed back to our parked car in a downtown lot, a woman in jeans and a tshirt carrying a handful of toiletries was trying to walk away from a man pleading or arguing with her, certainly trailing her a bit like a lost, grumpy puppy.

Two things happened that I remember on this walk back to the car. One, my mom started singing hymns loudly in her rich alto voice. Two, the man said something to the woman that sounded a lot like “I’m not just one of your johns.” Put a pin in this.

We got to the car, my mom locked the doors and clenched the steering wheel. At first her shoulders were really strained and tight. She had been trying to protect her girls from the darker elements of the world. And then, her shoulders started shaking, not with fear, but with laughter. For whatever reason, this moment in time was a key that unlocked a previous mystery.

My sister and I looked in wide-eyed wonder at our mom trying to figure out what just happened between the walk to the car, the hymn, the man and the woman fighting, and now our mom’s laughter. When she finally collected herself, she proceeded to tell us a story that didn’t seem to have any connection.

“Months ago, I was volunteering at the Red Cross here in town.” (Mom was an RN and a teacher, so often did volunteer and missionary work.) “A man came in to donate blood and he was very good-looking and reminded me of my dad.” (Mom’s dad was named John Jensen. Her brother is named John Jensen, Jr. One of her sons has the name Jonathan in his full name.) “So I told him, you look like a John to me.” To my mother, this was high praise. This was an honorific. This was a compliment of the highest order. You remind me of my dad. That’s beautiful. Except, she explained, the man gave her a dirty, quizzical look as if to say, “what the heck do you mean by that, lady?!”

And now, instead of looking through a glass darkly, all was revealed and my Mom connected the dots in the most MariAnne fashion. It’s one of my favorite stories of her because I can so relate to the naive earnestness getting turned on its ear in the funniest way. She was smart and worldy and simultaneously very innocent and she could chuckle at her own foibles. It’s the only way to proceed.

A friend of mine from grad school had an epiphany after 9/11. Knowing that security is not guaranteed and life is uncertain and short, he decided to pursue his dream as a musician. For the last couple of decades, he has been a hammer dulcimer player at Renaissance faires and festivals, an international busker, and a successful recording artist. He uses his history degree in researching music, educating festival goers, and navigating archives in cities around the world. In short, he chooses to live and create deliberately. He’s a tremendous role model for me and I encourage folks to check out his music and travel dates here: http://www.vinceconaway.com/

Because of Bryan’s forethought, I’ve been given time to figure things out. I fully realize, acknowledge, and am so grateful for the gift of that time. I know it is a privilege that not everyone is afforded (although they should be). I know of a certainty that art and creativity will always be the core of my living deliberately. Will this provide me with an income I can live on separate from an office job? That remains to be seen. I do know this, my life isn’t work. My life is the time spent with people I love, creating, imagining, digging in the dirt, cooking, sharing, laughing. I’ve seen firsthand what it looks like when a person’s entire identity is tied up in their profession. When retirement comes, it’s devastating. I reject that kind of life. In social gatherings, I try to ask less “what do you do for a living?” and ask more “what do you do for fun? for joy? to live deliberately?”

The question “what do you want to be when you grow up?” is a question I still ask myself. And I think it’s a problematic question. I want to have great stories and experiences, not a career trajectory. I didn’t have things all figured out at 18, 25, 30, or now, but I have a whole lot more grace for the notion that the plans and the knowing are far less interesting or helpful than the being and experiencing.

And these are all great, but at the end of the day, I still have to pay the vet bills and the house payment and health insurance. So how does it all stack up? That I don’t have figured out completely, but I’m on the right path.

Chores, tasks, errands, groceries, laundry, dishes, cat care, garden care, taking out the trash and compost, oil changes, paying bills, thinking about work and health insurance and Swedish Death cleaning–these jog right alongside grief and don’t stop. There’s some comfort in knowing that life goes on whether we like it or not. And then there’s the sensation of being overwhelmed still? All over again? We did these things together and facing the minutiae of daily life made it fun, less overwhelming for sure.

Seamus, our indoor-outdoor Maine coon that adopted us at Pioneer Park the summer of 2014 has a habit of getting into scuffles (no awareness of boundaries when he’s got people to meet and hands that haven’t petted him yet). For a while, Bryan and I were taking him to the vet every three months for stitches, a drain, and a shot of antibiotics. Have mercy. It’s been a while, but he managed to get another infected bite recently. The Animal Clinic East crew have taken care of him and he’s home with the cone of consequence. Bryan’s stoicism in the midst of these sorts of things was something I leaned on really heavily and I miss it so much. I’m an emotional whirlwind and it gets worse with stress and lack of sleep. His confidence and his assurance helped settle me. And now I have to do these things alone. And I HATE IT.

I don’t mean to paint such a picture of woe, because it’s not always like that. For example, yesterday evening Mary came over to help me prepare dinner for her best friend and her wife and daugther. We made chicken parmigiana and peach cobbler. Mary had brought a boule of homemade bread she had made that morning. Watching a little toddler dance and try to sweep and eat tomatoes was so joyful. At one point, they all went outside to collect basil and I observed them from my kitchen window. Here were grown women and a little girl and I got to see the circle of life in the place where they had grown up playing, imagining, loving each other. It was so incredibly precious. Practical matters and routine get bounced for really hard stuff AND for extraordinarily beautiful stuff. Most of the time, though, it’s all happening at once.

My heart is heavy. My heart is full. My heart aches. My heart sings.

Often music communicates what I’m feeling much better than words possibly can. Here are a few songs I’ve been listening to a lot. You can call it Summer ’23 Mix, the Widow Mix, Gratuitious Emotions Mix–whatever you like. 🙂

“Reminds Me of You” Van Morrison

“Speed of the Sound of Loneliness” Amos Lee’s cover of John Prine’s song

“Remember Wild Horses” Birds of Chicago

“Hold You in My Arms” Ray LaMontagne

“With You” Amos Lee

“Such a Simple Thing” Ray LaMontagne

“Better Together” Jack Johnson

“Like I’m Gonna Lose You” Meghan Trainor

“Hold Me” The Teskey Brothers

“Sad Songs” Elton John

Every person is different so I write this solely from my perspective. I absolutely love it when people share stories, photos, videos, mementos of Bryan, my big brother Todd, my parents, of people who I have loved and lost. This keeps their memory alive to me and shows me that love endures. If you’re wondering if it’s okay to bring them up or if telling a story might hurt me or offend me, please know that rather than retreating from it, I love and embrace it. I got reminded of this over the past few days.

Saturday evening I went to my friends’, Horte and Max, to enjoy visiting, grilled hamburgers, and tasty beverages. While there a few people described their positive experiences and good memories of Bryan with me. My heart was really full. Yes, he was kind and could approach bullies with calm logic and even-tempered questions in defense of others. Oh my heart. Yes. You knew him too, eh? I love it so much.

Yesterday, our good friend Walter sent some photos of Bryan and me from a long time ago, ones I hadn’t seen in ages. There we were at the beginning of our relationship and the love and joy that marked all of our time together are right there, palpable. Oh how wonderful to revisit all of that.

Finally, this morning, I opened a video from my sister. In it my big brother, Todd, is reading a poem he had written. He touches on loss, love, forgiveness, and art and I am filled with awe that I get his words and voice and sage counsel even now.

I appreciate so much the folks who share these things. While I may cry or have my heart lurch with longing and sorrow, it is washed with giant waves of love and gratitude that drown out everything else. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.