Claiming my Own

A year ago, when I began blogging, I had no idea I’d be sharing emotions I’d never felt in my life.

But, here I am, tripping and stumbling my way through widowhood and using this space as a way to make real to myself all that’s happening. I can’t lie to myself when I’m sharing because it wouldn’t help anyone. I have to be true to myself, while I seek my future after the loss of a husband who guided me for over half my life. I say “guided”. That’s not quite true.

What I realize now is he held a vision created after great thought, lots of reading, and a kind of meditation while he walked on this Earth. He was drawn to Native American philosophy. Our home has over 100 books on the subject as well as writings by Herman Hesse, Whitman, Thoreau, Emerson, Norman Cousins, Kahil Gibran, John Bradshaw, Jane Roberts, and more. Where he traveled, I followed. Not just in our vans or RVs, but in philosophy. What fired the understanding we shared initially was our love of this creation we call Earth. Every creek we followed, every hill we climbed, and every desert we cross was adventures in seeing and connecting with this entity we live on. Every morning to his dying day, he watched her come alive, and he thrilled to the spectacle, no matter what the weather or where we were or what we had to do.

Now, I find my day doesn’t truly begin until I take the spirit bowl outside like he did every morning. This bowl contains a bite of every food I’ve eaten the day before and prayers of thank you to the beings who gave up their forms so mine might be maintained. I place it for the sprirts of the land to consume. Usually the ravens and the blue jays are the first to arrive after I turn my back.

I’m realizing this morning ceremony is as necessary for me as a first cup of coffee is for many others. This time of prayer is my opening to say thank you again to all the spirits around me and my home for standing through the night.

One morning a few months’ ago, I cried with aloneness. Friends had gotten busy. Family was even busier. I was facing the end of 2010 on my own, and I was scared and grieving. After I was done with my request help and personal strength, I heard the quiet.

Ever so gently, the trees around me swayed while I heard the words, “Never fear. We are your family.”

I’ve begun to find peace more frequently now and can turn off the voices of the TV. I’m much less anxious about living here alone, listening to the patter of rain on the roof, the bump of animals under the house, or the thump of a stray limb falling in the forest or driveway.

I’m finding my strength in talking to the fruit trees as I prune them and turning manure into the garden. I’m feeling the blessing of the rain pelting on my head as I haul the wood inside and the caress of the heat from the fire in the wood stove. The guidance I followed when he was alive wasn’t just his. Many of the thought patterns and habits of my husband of 33 years I’m claiming as my own.