I Can’t Stay Here
It Could Be a Metaphor
Forgive me if I don’t start with a lengthy explanation about what has happened between my last post and this one. I think most everyone reading my writing knows that my husband’s sudden death has upended my world and created a fault line that will forever be marked ‘before’ and ‘after.’
The last thing I wrote in my journal was about the fear of starting a website/blog and losing inspiration or the discipline to keep it going and the need I would have to dig deeper to find insights.
“Bless the blank page” I wrote.
Yes, bless it indeed. What a glorious luxury it was to worry about a blank page, to worry about stagnation, to worry that what I wanted to accomplish could be thwarted by my lack of discipline or lack of focus.
Who knew it could be completely derailed by having the love of my life severed dramatically from me. Ironically, it has spliced me open and all the depth and insight I have (or more accurately, do not have) are laid open in the most unfiltered vulnerability I’ve ever experienced.
This morning I tried to ground myself in a photo meditation. I didn’t know if I would be able to, but I thought I’d try. This is my own medicine after all; I should try to take it.
As I scanned through David’s pictures I landed on this one. This is the northern coast of Ireland near Carrickarede. I loved it there. I settle in and try to sit still. It’s not as hard as I think.
I sit with the tiny village nestled up against the sea, I imagine the farms that line the top of the cliffs and the people’s lives no doubt going on as they always have.
The port seems so small leaned up against the cliffs, the rolling ocean lapping up on the shore, over and over and over again; all under the grand dome of that huge endless sky.
I am sitting right now in my living room. This has been my beautiful routine for several years; after everyone goes to work, I sit on the love seat and face our big sun-filled room. The base of the coconut tree with palms hanging down, the calamansi tree beside it.
I love the big window, I love the way it reflects light all over the shiny tile floor. I love when the palms sway in the reflection on the floor. I especially love when the prisms I have hung in the window catch the light and throw rainbows on the floors and walls. Cut glass, sunshine and a breeze make for magical ambiance.
I listen to the birds. The ones chirping something that sounds busy, and the coo of the doves.
I have loved this morning routine, and while I may be able to keep some of this (quiet mornings can happen anywhere and my prisms go with me everywhere), I can’t stay here.
I can’t stay here.
I can’t stay here.
On every level I know...
I can’t stay here.
I can’t stay in my home - financially.
I can’t stay in the country - legally.
I can’t stay in this frame of mind, in this state of intense grieving - realistically.
Elevate
So, I look at this picture of Ireland, with her great cliffs and grand skies and I know that this view, the one David saw and captured can be one that I will anchor myself to.
If he showed me (us) anything, it’s that there is beauty everywhere; the world is big and beautiful.
It was his joy and pleasure to explore new places, to seek out beauty and to interact with it through his photos and music and to share it with others.
My heels feel dug in. I want to stay in the space where we so happily lived. In some way, I want to wait right here where the memories of everyday life are so strong. Then I look at the cliffs, the green, the sky and the water and I know that staying in this living room even with its dancing rainbows was never the intention.
No - it was not my (or our) intention for one of us to leave alone. No, it was not the intention to be yanked violently away from this life before either of us were ready - but as I make plans to move forward I will try to stay grounded in two realities.
We were never meant to stay here forever.
There is still beauty in the world to be discovered and enjoyed.
And continuing to discover it after we left here was always our intention.
We had goals and ideas of what was to come next. I am only half of the equation now but I will do my best to continue on with the essence of our lives. I will represent us and all that we loved, were, and are. I can’t articulate what all that is yet, but it’s something like this:
Stay open (keep learning, about yourself, others, skills, life).
Seek peace and understanding.
Be kind.
Love deeper.
Look deeper - be reflective.
Find beauty - stop, appreciate and engage with it.
Attend to your health - physically, mentally, and spiritually.
Don’t settle - (but if you have to, because we all do sometimes...seek beauty, love deeper, look deeper, find peace, stay healthy...repeat).
It’s not a complete list, but it’s a start.
*Don’t misunderstand - I will be rushed away from my home and Qatar but I will not be rushed away from this intense grief. It’s so painful, but it also feels like love. I am not living in a state of inspiration and beauty. Know that this writing is born out of a moment that I was able to elevate my thoughts in the midst of a time that is largely stress-filled and often grim. Life is not glossy and tidy right now. It’s messy and wet with tears and fraught with a mind that keeps getting new glimpses of the truth of my future and imploding under the weight. I don’t want you to get the “Instagram” effect from this post. Especially if you’re grieving too, or have grieved. All is not well. We are not quickly and successfully “moving on to brighter days”. I don’t think that’s how it works and I don’t think that’s even the mark of success. But if you can feel what I did while looking at this picture, for even a moment, then maybe you too can find some hope. If not, that’s okay. I get it. We don’t need to be anything triumphant (whatever that is) we just need to be together.
Sending love to all the broken hearted.
