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Two years ago on this very evening, Bryan Lubbers slipped from the constraints of this mortal plane. I won’t go into the details of that night except to say it snowed…appropriately. I miss him every day and anniversaries like this, his birthday, our birthdays, high holidays, etc. hit harder. It just is. So instead of being somewhere warm, or visiting one of his bucket list places, I hunkered down in our home for most of the day.

Grief is interesting. I mean it’s painful as all hell, but when I step outside of it to analyze it like my mathematically-inclined husband might have, it really is quite interesting. Initially, it hits like a massive, traumatic injury. Acute. Piercing in pain. The body goes into shock. The efforts for triage are to maintain the core functions and to keep alive. Then, as time and a bit of healing occur, things start to get achy, itchy, abrasive, but one has to keep exercising and stretching physically, emotionally, spiritually. Wound care moves to physical therapy. Eventually, an emotional arthritis sets in as one continues to live. The pain flares up in the most unusual places and times. Bryan used to talk about sitting with heartache on a melancholy evening or after a “high gravity day” and sipping a little whisky, raising a glass to memories and even the pain. Maybe that was his acknowledgment of emotional arthritis.

I don’t sit alone in my grief. We are connected. I appreciate the way folks reach out to say I love you, I’m sorry, I hurt too. Bryan was an incredible human who filled a room with his spirit and his voice. His hugs were the best. His laughter my drug of choice. He did everything he could to love and protect Mary and me to the very end and after. I miss him.

Recently, on top of all the things, I’ve been a little blue because my attempts to re-enter the dating world went sideways and I got my heart bruised. It’s all good. Many lessons learned there as life is so excellent at teaching me. My sister encouraged me to create art for myself to put around my house as reminders to myself. I thought it was a good idea and I share with you in case you need to be reminded, too.

Crumbs. Less than the bare minimum. These are unacceptable in a relationship—both in the giving and receiving. Sure we have off days and in good partnerships we can pick up the slack or the other one can just so that the average is approximately 50/50. But it is better to be without, to be alone than to have crumbs consistently, perpetually.

I know what it is to have my whole cake. I had to have a painful reminder why less than that is not okay for me. It shouldn’t be okay for anyone.

Oh sweetheart, you deserve the WHOLE cake.

Apparently I needed extra this week–counseling with my counselor, counseling with my hair styist, counseling with a dear friend over popcorn and tasty hot beverages, and of course the counseling from texts with my sibs, bestie, and dear friends. I am not a rock or an island or whatever metaphor for isolation you prefer. I am unable to do *waves arms* this without help.love.support.

In the darkest moments of my life, it is the connection with and care from others that has sustained me. Someone might ask, what about faith and hope in God? The Divine? I guess I understand the way God moves much like the space between in a murmuration of starlings. The space in between the warmth and love of people and the effects thereof are what make God’s love visible to me.

We’re nearly at the two year marker of Bryan’s passing. It hardly seems possible–that he’s gone, that this much time has passed, that I don’t get to feel his hugs again. Grief and mourning don’t stop. They don’t ever go away. They are baked into every thing. Yes, I move forward. Yes, I live. And I am lifted and supported every step of the way. I’m so grateful for that. And my heart is still broken.

Late last summer, I thought it would be a good idea to join a dating app. You can skip the middle and end and just know, it wasn’t. I had a goal–ten dates by the end of 2024. It was some sort of misguided attempt to affirm that I am continuing to live and moving forward. Ugh. Gross. Can I go back in time and tell late summer 2024 Becci that she was/is continuing to live and move forward? Some lessons get to be learned harder than others, I reckon. I met three different fellas and had a total of five dates. I won’t bore you with the details.

Here’s what I learned:

Being polite and listening are not the same as romantic interest. Chemistry matters. More than chemistry matters–things like curiosity, care, and effort are essential. If my platonic friends make more of an effort to check on me and care for me than any romantic interest, I need to pay attention to that. Sometimes things don’t have deep, hidden meanings. They aren’t symbols of something important. Bryan’s first gift to me was a potato peeler. One of these fellas gave me bucket of potatoes. A hopeful romantic heart wants to make meaning even if there isn’t any. Sometimes a bucket of potatoes is just a bucket of potatoes.

Where do I go from here? I recalibrate. Dating was not some magical lift to my spirits. It was basically terrible (no offense to the three fellas–I’m just not your huckleberry). I am discovering how to be my own huckleberry and remembering I have people tell me every day they love me. Is it the mind/body/heart/soul connection I had with Bryan? No. But right now it’s exactly what I need.

This past weekend, I started small-scale organizing. I began with the bathroom cupboards. You wouldn’t think that’s an emotionally daunting task, but it is/was/is/was. Whatever. Yes. One corner had Bryan’s contact supplies, some cologne he never wore. I went through like a small cyclone. The third drawer down by the sink, emptied of beard trimmer and accessories, now holds hair ties and clips. I hate everything about it and know it’s time and necessary. I keep telling myself, every hard thing I don’t do is something someone else will have to. Early July, there will be a yard sale. I’ll give more details as that nears. I keep plugging away at shredding and sorting and donating.

This sense of “doing” something stems largely from the feeling of helplessness. As I look at and experience (what I consider awful) cultural whiplash, I find a gift in the act of menial tasks once again. And I also look for the lifting of weight because much right now feels so heavy.

I’ll be selling my piano, too. The last time I played it in earnest was on January 6th, 2021 when I plunked out to the best of my abilities “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” I was angry and disgusted with what I witnessed happening at the Capitol. I remembered my mom sorting through her feelings often by playing the piano. It’s what I had in the moment because I didn’t even have words. This past week all those convicted for what they did that day have been pardoned. I’m sickened. And I need someone with a stronger heart than mine to plunk out the chords.

Sitting here thinking about how to streamline things, make them neater, simpler, throwing off ballast and battening down the hatches, I am determined. The process isn’t fun. It isn’t easy. It is, however, necessary.