Alone with My Thoughts

In so many ways, my late husband and I were a perfect match.   I could see a problem; he could fix it or was willing to brainstorm with me possible corrective scenarios.

            If either of us needed to wander the land or a national park or any new vista, we’d determine first if it was a solitary wander we needed.  If it wasn’t, we’d go hand in hand.

            We both liked cobblers, pies, and crisps rather than cakes, although he loved German Chocolate Cake.  Food likes were on opposite sides of the scale with him loving meat and potatoes and me liking salads and stir fry.  We both, however, loved hamburgers, French fries, malts and strawberry shortcake with ice cream and whipped cream.

            He loved to debate; I love to argue.  He loved to debate so much that he would switch sides just to keep it going if he thought you weren’t proving your point well enough or just for the fun of it.  That’s why I baffled him with my itch for a good verbal battle.   I seem to need to pound a drum either while standing on a soap box or standing firm trying to prove an emotional point.

            It took him a while to learn not to take my tirades personally.  Instead, he would poke holes in my theories either to make me think about what I was saying or make me madder.  He would get out of the way if I needed to throw something and ultimately hold me when I ran out of steam.  I often ended by laughing hysterically or sobbing.

            I have no idea why this defines some portion of my personality.  I thought it might be because of a dysfunctional family, but then everyone has one of those these days.  I thought maybe I was working through some kind of past life when a Chinese astrological reading unearthed my category as a metal monkey which involves the attribute of being quick to anger.  Of course, I denied it, at first, then had to shrug and own this tendency.

            Another form of astrological analysis crowned me with the designation, “unexpected thunderstorm.”  I’m seeing this in myself more and more and am trying to find my balance with it.

            These thoughts were stimulated by my defense of a recent blog topic and surfaced as I weed-eated a path up the hill to where Y’s ashes are buried.  The location is/was a favorite of his, and he spent many hours tending sweat lodge fires there before pouring water for that ceremony for himself and anyone who attended.

            The container of his ashes is an unfired clay pot which will gradually deteriorate into the land as he wanted.  The used lava rocks which cover this spot are dwindling in number.  Every time I make the trip to feel the energy of his hill, I return with one or two stones in my hands.  My intention is that some day there will be no marker.  Then I will be ready to know, with all my being, that he is matching me stride for stride in my new life from his side of it.