The Wild Frontier

Here I go, counting time again. The 18th of the month is upon us. It's now 10 months I've been a widow. I looked back through some old posts just now and came across the one I called Braving the Frontier. I wrote it when I was just 2 months a widow:


Lately, I feel like the heroine of one of those old movies. The ones in which there's a young wife who goes out to the frontier or the old west or some equally remote place with her husband. And then her husband suddenly dies. And there she is, this young widow, out on her own...trying to make her way. Trying to be bolder than she feels. Stronger than she looks. She struggles to survive the winter...or the demise of her farm...or life in a new town... Whatever the premise, I feel like that young widow. Forced to go it alone on the rugged terrain of life.

I kind of chuckle to myself when I ponder this. She always puts her boots on and scurries outside, ready to do what she has to do. She always surprises everyone around her. She always learns a lesson about independence / finds love again / changes the town in which she lives.

She always comes out on top.

If there's one thing I've learned in my 29 years and 9 months on this earth, it's that real life is nothing like the movies. It's way more interesting.

So I'll pull my boots on and brave the frontier.

Many months later, I still chuckle as I imagine myself the heroine of such a plot. I can see how the story is unfolding and it makes me smile. I strain to hear the soundtrack in the background, rising and falling - crescendo after crescendo as I face life head-on, meeting challenges, fighting for what I want, and of course, having fun in spite of the trials and tribulations that inevitably come my way. I am every bit as wild as this frontier.

And it's always a good idea to laugh at yourself. Roll credits.

Exhausted in Flight

Today it is 3 months since Rick took his own life. Today I have been wrestling with the feeling that Rick is less of a person and more of a memory every day. Right now, I hate that feeling.

I am moving forward every day...

I consider this amount of time. 3 months. I feel like I have been alone forever. Every day, back home alone. Every night, sleeping alone. I long for someone to kiss me. To hug me. To tell me that everything will be okay. I am tired of the loneliness. And then in the same breath, I feel like it was last week that I came home to a suicide note. How could 3 months possibly have passed? Wasn't Rick just here?

The concept of time is still strange to me. I don't try to understand it.

I swirl around in this timeless Grief Zone, feeling every emotion possible. Sorrow. Hope. Pain. Joy. Anger. Love. Loneliness. Peace.

I feel sore all over, like I ran 100 miles and then lifted weights. Grief is hard work. I am tired.

Exhausted. Wanting.

I feel like Jimmy Stewart in The Spirit of St. Louis, making a 33 hour transatlantic flight. I can't keep my eyes open. I can't find enough things to distract me. I can't go back, but moving forward is so difficult. I know it's all possible, but it feels so unreachable and tiring at times.

I think about 3 months of this. And when I imagine 3 months more of this, I cringe. I shake my head. I hang my head. I cry. It is hard to keep my eyes open.

On days like today, when time is marked by a date that sticks out like a painful spike, I remember the end of The Spirit of St Louis - exhausted and spent, barely achieving what seemed impossible, Jimmy Stewart (as Lindbergh) reaches land and is met with crowds of cheering people who believed in him.

When I feel like I can't keep going, I remember the end of the movie. I'll get there. I'll make it. This grief is my 33 hour flight alone without rest. Through uncharted air currents. Through fear and loneliness. I'll get there. I'll make it. Thank you for cheering me on.

Braving the Frontier

Lately, I feel like the heroine of one of those old movies. The ones in which there's a young wife who goes out to the frontier or the old west or some equally remote place with her husband. And then her husband suddenly dies. And there she is, this young widow, out on her own...trying to make her way. Trying to be bolder than she feels. Stronger than she looks. She struggles to survive the winter...or the demise of her farm...or life in a new town... whatever the premise, I feel like that young widow. Forced to go it alone on the rugged terrain of life.

I kind of chuckle to myself when I ponder this. She always puts her boots on and scurries outside, ready to do what she has to do. She always surprises everyone around her. She always learns a lesson about independence/finds love again/changes the town in which she lives.

She always comes out on top.

Today, my good friend Jenn came to visit me for the day. We decided to turn my poem "I Don't Know How to Say Good Bye" into a song. She's a singer/songwriter/musician and Rick's going to be like...humbled...by the finished product. In fact, I can almost hear him saying, "Me? You're going to make a song about...me?"

But I was thinking about the frontier and in my car tonight, after leaving Jenn at the bus station, I said, "It's the soundtrack to the movie, Rick." So it's going to happen.

If there's one thing I've learned in my 29 years and 9 months on this earth, it's that real life is nothing like the movies. It's way more interesting.

So I'll pull my boots on and brave the frontier.