Author: ferylfiles

That’s the sound my heart is making today. Ouch! OUCH! Son-of-a-….! OWWWWWWW! Four months. He’s been gone for four months. What even is time?

I’ve been working really hard on the back garden and have it pretty much completed (now it’s just maintenance). There’s something about working really hard to see the fruits of one’s efforts. I remember in grad school, winter and summer breaks were a flurry of crafting and baking because I wanted to have a beginning, middle, and end to something that I could see, touch, taste. It’s not terribly gratifying to see a stapled paper with red marks on it as the culmination of months of work. Maybe that’s why I’ve been doing the avoidance dance with the piles of paperwork on my dining room table and the materials from Bryan’s office on a folding table in the living room. The work in the garden has been heavy labor, hard work in the sunshine, and the results are beautiful. Sorting through paper, contacting businesses, and sorting through 25 years of a career that belonged to someone I loved is not beautiful–necessary, but not beautiful.

My sister has encouraged me to turn my attention to the office items. She’s right when she says I’ll feel better in my home once that table is out of here. I’ve been doing bits and pieces over the last several months, but what do you do with 18 years of wooden boats calendars that Bryan clearly loved? He kept them all from 2002 to 2020. It feels sacrilegious to put them in the recycle bin. But what am I going to do with them? How do I honor something he loved and treasured when it is a stack in the middle of my living room right now? I have a lot more compassion for folks who end up with piles of things they don’t know what to do with. Things become fraught with weight, sorrow, a desire to do the right thing and no where to put them.

Sunday was such a high, good day. Today is really hard. And that seems to be the way of it. And I keep surfing these waves.

I like to paint with acrylics on canvas. Typically, I use a variety of brushes. Occasionally, I like to finger paint. There’s something about telling my inner critic to buzz off in no uncertain terms and settling into childlike play is my most fiercesome weapon against it. Finger painting is a giant raspberry in the face of that wretched critic.

A couple of summers ago, I did a finger-painted portrait of our neighbors’ speckled hen. She is a glorious silver wyandotte–black and white all over with red on her head. I had so much fun painting her and I was delighted to show another neighborhood artist, Pierre, who lives three doors down with his wife, Sue, and his dog, Gus. Pierre paints American flags and does detail work on vintage cars. He’s incredibly talented, an awesome neighbor, and a kind person worth knowing. He indicated interest in learning how to finger paint chickens, too. At first I thought that’s not really something I can teach, but maybe it’s something we could do together. For nearly two years, Pierre mentioned his interest and I said of course, sure. And yet, we never did it.

This is where Bryan comes into the story. Bryan would often talk about the “let’s do lunch” phenomenon. People can say, “hey, let’s get together” or “let’s do lunch” without any real intention of doing either, but by saying those words, it scratches the same itch in the brain as actually doing the thing. Here I had been telling Pierre “let’s do lunch” over an activity I enjoyed and knew he would, too. Not my best work. Friday, I saw Pierre out front on the walk with Gus. We chatted about the weather and our lovely neighborhood, all the ways we are blessed and grateful. And Pierre brought up finger painting chickens once again. These gentle entreaties were never overbearing, simply a desire to do something fun with a neighbor.

“Pierre,” I said, “what does your Sunday morning look like?” We scheduled a session in his garage/den/studio for this mid-morning. I have been taking photos of chickens constantly, so I had a lot to choose from. We painted together on one canvas and I explained how with finger painting there are no rules except to have fun. No shoulds or judgment. Play. A Vietnam vet and retired painter and his 46 year-old neighbor turned into little kids getting their hands dirty in all colors of paint. I didn’t think I was any sort of art teacher, particularly to an accomplished artist like him. Sometimes, though, I think we need permission and examples of good, wholesome play and possibilities and messiness.

My sister, who is staying with me for a while as she recovers from a serious medical emergency, came down the alleyway and found us in Pierre’s garage. The enthusiasm and glow of joy were infectious. She remarked how Pierre seemed to shine, that very same sensation I had the first time I had finger painted the speckled hen two years ago. We finished an impressionist version of the hen and each signed a corner of the canvas–PR on the bottom right and RL on the bottom left.

I miss Bryan. I wish he could have been here to see this. But I love so much that his spirit and the things he taught me are still very much with me. Thank you, sweetheart.

This last week, I stayed with dear friends I met through Bryan long ago–Darrin and Laura. Bryan worked with Darrin a couple of lifetimes ago at Standard Insurance Company. They shared a fondness for smoked salmon, nerdy science things, beer, and fine spirits. Laura is a force of joy and good in the world with a healthy side-helping of no bullshit. I love them both dearly. Darrin stayed with us for three weeks while Bryan was sick, cooking for us, giving me straight talks, playing with and cuddling the cats, and making us laugh. Laura had a milestone birthday alone because she knew her fella was where he was most needed. This kind of love and grace and care is what still fills and overwhelms me.

They fed me and took me around Portland to try tasty beverages and visit all kinds of haunts–new favorites and old familiars. They teased me and hugged me when I cried. They made sure I got plenty of rest and laughter. Trips to Portland were something Bryan and I did often so to do this trip without him physically present was hard, but also it was good and important. I got to visit with Erin and Mark who loved and laughed and fed us over Christmas after a long, chilly drive in an electric car. I got to spend time with cousins and their kiddos who had their own special bond with Bryan, too. Portland is a weird, wonderful city and I have such fond memories over the years, and I’m glad to have made new ones, too.

One thing I love to do when I’m in town is visit my favorite little boutique, Fuchsia, and its fabulous owner, Anne. Jewelry, curated second-hand clothing, accessories, art, and a loving, welcoming vibe provided by one of Portland’s very best. While there, Anne shared an abundant stash of crystal and gemstone beads that I have already begun to play/work (it feels more like play than work) with. This is the first time in a long while that I’ve been really excited about creating jewelry and it’s a good feeling.

While this trip was really great, I did have a pretty big worry this weekend. My sissy, Emilie, ended up in the hospital with a really bad allergic reaction to some oral antibiotics. Things looked pretty scary yesterday with some extremely high liver panel levels. Things are dropping and it’s looking better and as though she should be sent home tomorrow. After the last several months, I don’t take for granted how things can turn on a dime so I’m so relieved that the steroids and Benedryl are doing their jobs and that the rest of her vitals look really good.

I’m glad she’s going to be okay. I’m glad for the time with friends and loved ones. I’m glad to be home. And I’m so glad to get to see my kiddo today after a very full Pride weekend. And I’m glad she had fun and is safe. I don’t take that for granted either. We live in a world with endless precariousness. Love fully and stupidly. It’s the only way.

Today, the City of Walla Walla, led by the city’s arborist, Kyle Clemens, planted a Northern Red Oak in Pioneer Park in Bryan’s memory. This is the same kind of tree Bryan put in the planting strip in front of our house when Mary was a very little girl. Bryan loved trees. Bryan had a passion for Walla Walla’s urban canopy. He could talk at length of the benefits to our community and environment, but all a person needs to do is sit on our front porch and feel the shade, coolness, and dappled light the trees offer to get exactly what he meant.

It was a beautiful, solemn event. It was perfect. And it was so sad because he’s not here to see and enjoy it. I can just imagine his reaction to finding out that there’d be a tree in his honor. Humility, surprise, delight, joy.

I keep getting reminded just how much people love and miss Bryan. My grief blinders often limit my view to just Mary and me. I know we do not love him alone and it’s good for me to see that love from others. Bryan was extraordinary. He would often quote the Greek proverb: “A society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they shall never sit.” Today, I got to see a little girl put some dirt at the base of Bryan’s tree, or eat the dirt, I’m not quite sure. Either way, I know she will have stories read to her by people who love her very much under that tree.

I grew up in a home where one of the main coping mechanisms modeled for me was going to bed when anything was upsetting. Sleep was avoidance. Naps were a kind of drug against feeling. I adopted this form of coping for must of my teenage and young adult years. Bad day, bad interaction, somebody made me mad, off to bed. Middle of the day, early evening, time didn’t matter. Nothing hurts when you’re sleeping.

When I moved to Walla Walla in 2008 and especially after meeting Bryan, I didn’t use that coping method again. The only time I came close was in early 2014 and Bryan had been diagnosed with prostate cancer. I had been staying at his house at the time because a friend was staying at my cottage so she could do maternity leave coverage for a colleague. After Bryan got home from the hospital, there was an evening around 5 o’clock or so, I went to bed and curled up in the fetal position. Bryan gave me a few minutes, and then he came in and sat on the edge of the bed. “Sweetheart, this isn’t going to fix it.” And so, I took a minute or two, pulled myself together, and got up. And we faced that together.

Here I am without him. And there’s definitely a pull towards numbing and avoidance. But I know that isn’t going to fix it. Instead, I walk and cry. I garden and cry. I send texts, songs, stupid memes and reels, and tell ghastly jokes and laugh and then cry, too. I wish that he could see all that I’ve been doing in the back garden. I wish he would come home, arrange two chairs in the backyard, make tasty evening beverages and then we would look at the garden together, his eyes full of love and pride. But he’s not here. And numbing myself to that fact “isn’t going to fix it.”