February Eve

Orion. I love Orion. In the cold Minnesota winters he is right there, but he is here, too, in California. Between the storm clouds I saw him the other night. I always think of Peter when I see Orion. My prince.

This weekend was difficult. It was not for not trying. A friend who saw my "no plans" of last weekend invited me on a hike. We hiked for four hours in Eucalyptus groves, alongside bubbling creeks and alongside a lake. We enjoyed cheese and fruit overlooking a stream. It was lovely. I went to church on Saturday night and the speaker was one of my favorites, and he always speaks with great humor but also great honesty, and he has just endured great loss with the death of his two parents in the last year as well as other family members. He talked of moving on in the face of loss. Sunday, I was lackluster, to say the least. I didn't want to do anything. I made myself take the pups in the woods for a forty minute walk. It started to rain, and it didn't matter. Kirsten came in the evening so she could make a post-op appointment in the morning. That perked me up. We watched some British TV together last night until I was so tired I had to climb up the stairs into bed.

I was thinking I would be better at work. The structure and meaningful connections with parents and students create a positive "flow" within me. I still was grieving inside, though. I don't talk much about Peter at work. Today, though, it was different. He was on the top of my mind. I had a conversation with a colleague, and in reaction to something I said, she said, "I'm sorry, but I would rather be hit by a bus" (rather than endure a long and painful illness). I answered, "I would have rather died with Peter." Maybe I shouldn't have said that aloud, for that stuck with me. I stayed late at work, and was sad to go home and know that no one was there, Kirsten having left on the bus mid-day. As I ate leftover Chinese food, I was perusing a book about living your dreams. I started crying, thinking that I couldn't imagine a dreamed life without Peter. Crying harder and harder, (and thinking I hadn't cried for a while), I went to the cabinet above the washer to look for a soft cloth to cry into. I reached way in the back and pulled out a soft piece of fabric. A t-shirt of Peter's. I cried all the more, wishing that the shirt I was crying into was still on his living, breathing chest. Earlier in the cry I felt Peter was saying, "I'm OK, and I love you." Thanks, thanks, but I want you here. It's me I'm crying for. I called Roberta, and she let me cry. I do miss my family.

Yes, there will be days like this. Tomorrow is February. Used to be one of my favorite months. I'm not sure anymore. I need strength, again.

Kara

Half Full

Another busy, busy week, but that's OK. There's a rhythm at home. Monday night, rest; Tuesday night, orchestra and take out the garbage; Wednesday night, grief counselor (sometimes); Thursday night, rest; Friday night, usually take-out dinner and movie night with a friend at home. During the week at work, it's all over the place.

This morning one of the teachers engaged me in conversation as I was putting away my lunch in the refrigerator in the staff room. She's new to this staff, and I don't think she knows my recent history. I don't know what she said, or what I said, but at the end she noted, "You're a person who sees the glass half full, aren't you?" I said, "I always have been." Hmm.

Last night I went to see the grief therapist. We talked about a lot of things, but at one point we talked about blessings. I said that I had a lot of blessings, and I wanted to remember that. In that conversation, I also talked of Peter's death. I talked of the loving things he said even the week before he died. I talked about that last day, and the time of his death. Perhaps his soul left before his body quit - I don't know. After looking back at the journal, I noted that I had said that for the first time that Saturday evening, everyone had left the room for a moment. I think that's when he "left". That's when the nurse found that his eyes were unresponsive, and called us all quickly back in. Peter was "the boss" at that moment. I said how precious that time of death was. I've experienced it before with other people, and it has always been an honor and a privilege.

Today is eleven months. Onward into the last of the twelve.

Oh, just something that I would appreciate, probably, but I'll share it anyway. Yesterday in the mail I received (or Peter received - his name on it) junk mail, I'll call it, from Trout Unlimited. "Decal enclosed" it said. An oblong white decal came out, with "TU" on it. I smiled. One of the nicknames Peter had for me, and I really had forgotten about, was "TWO". It stood for two N's. (Nutty Noren). "Two!" he'd call out to me. Or, he'd say, "Two N's, no waiting," but often it was just simply, "Two!" So, I smiled, and the decal is sitting on the table.

I think of Peter often, and it's with a smile. Blessings, yes, I have many blessings.

The glass is FULL!

A little bit of wild

I've been working on getting the house looking more like a house. I told my brother-in-law I was working on the living room. "You mean the golf-storage room?" Yeah, that's about it! This past Monday, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I brought the 500 cookbooks upstairs to the den, and moved the wine cabinet out of the living room to another place in the house. The living room got painted, and there is no more O.S. color. (O stands for orange, and you'll have to guess the S. Bob, my dear F.I.L. so named the color!) Now the living room is a lovely neutral color. Yesterday, I had help in moving things around the house, and now the living room looks almost like a living room! Today I bought two chairs to go in the living room. A zebra chair! Perfect! Nothing makes a girl feel better than a little bit of wild.

Someone who hasn't seen me since Peter's funeral asked how I was doing. She supposed out loud that I must think of him when something comes along that reminds me of him; something I see, such as his picture, and as a result, I get sad. Obviously, she hadn't experienced grief, at least lately. I always think of Peter, and I'm sometimes happy, and sometimes sad; sometimes feeling strong, sometimes feeling weak, but he's always near. Anyway, I don't fault her. I am living this grief and not just being surprised by a jolt here and there.

I see January 27th coming up, and February 27th isn't far behind. What is it about this "year"? 365 days. A trip around the sun. A return to the season, to the time of a great loss, a great sadness. I don't know if I should have people over to commemorate this, or what. I will know, I hope.

Meanwhile, I do laugh, and I do start to hope. And, I'm enjoying a little bit of wild. I think Peter would enjoy that I do.

Kara

Plans?

I never posted this picture of the cello section warming up which was taken by my very good and supportive friend, S. S and her husband came to my first concert back in December. I knew I'd be so nervous that it would be of no use to go to dinner together beforehand, but we had coffee afterwards. I'm still continuing to "cello away". We had a sectional last Tuesday. The pieces are not easy, but we'll get there. The next concert is February 12th at the Bankhead Theatre (for those of you who complained that I didn't tell you when the first one was. I was nervous!)

The week went by quickly, full as it usually is with work. I love my job, and I know I'm fortunate.

I met with the Hope Hospice people this week, in a different capacity. Schools are filled with kids who have sustained loss, whether it be death or divorce, recent or not. Many times we see the result, be it behavioral or academic. I'm hoping that we can create a community partnership to benefit our students. I'm very excited about the possibilities.

As for me, I'm kind of bumbling through the day. I didn't make plans ("Bad Noren," Peter would say) so I've had some bouts of self-pity. Yuck, I hate that. I told myself, "You've got to make things happen!" Well, I'm wondering if I really wanted to do anything? Perhaps it would have been better to just hang out with a good book. Maybe I feel good about myself if I get a ton done? Who the hell knows. I just have to go with it, I guess. I felt really alone, though I did have coffee at Denica's this morning, though I did go to the Farmer's Market with a friend and tasted fresh fruits and jams and bought beautiful and fresh flowers and took home some gorgeous strawberries. I also visited a gallery and drank in the beauty of created art. It is so quiet, and I just want to be with Peter while I do these things. I'm lost without him sometimes. That's it. I want to be a part of him, but my partner in the dance is off somewhere getting us drinks.

Did you see the moon this week? I actually cried when I saw it large and full rising over the hills to the east. I don't know what it is about the moon that gets me. I called my brother-in-law and left a message on his cell phone, "Did you see the moon!?" He had indeed, he said in his message back on my cell phone, as he flew from Missoula, Montana to Salt Lake City. Another friend from New York e-mailed me as he was in San Francisco for a quick stay this week. "Did you see the moon?!" I e-mailed him. He had indeed, he e-mailed me back, as he was flying from Dallas to SF. I think the moon reminds me of what is larger than me. It is light in my darkness, and is beautiful. It moves, transitive and intransitive. I hope you enjoyed the moon this week. It will change with us through the next month.

Kara

Healing by way of water and trees

I made the trip up to Arcata this weekend, dogs and flying gecko and Kirsten in the Subaru. I wasn't feeling well, and Kirsten drove most of the way there. Besides the feeling I get that Kirsten's driving is subject to the gravitational force of trucks, I mostly relaxed, slept, and knit. The second half of the trip going north is always magical, whoever is driving. The ferns are lush and stretching out from the loam of the earth, Redwoods racing their sisters and brothers to the sun, soaking up life-giving water from the fog. It is quiet, so quiet, but so magical.

We took the dogs to the beach, and they ran and played in the water. I quietly picked up rocks and stuck them in my pocket. I thought of the almost four years that have passed since bringing Kirsten up here for the first time, and all that had transpired between then and now.

When I go to Arcata, I must have coffee, the best coffee on the planet (so far) at Brio's on the square. I told Kirsten it was a good thing that I didn't live up there, for I'd have to go to Brio's every morning. Kirsten said it would be a good thing - the dogs could go with me and sit outside while I drank my coffee on the patio, and "wrote my book." That's what she said. I like that she pictures that.

Coming home this morning, I was lost in thought as I drove south through the beautiful trees, mist rising between the hills. The rivers called to me, and memories and thoughts of Peter sifted down through my body. The water and the mist and the trees ushered in gentle comfort. Carrying my bags into the house, the reality of Peter's absence jabbed at me a bit. I missed my family.

Daniel then called, and then Roberta. I squealed loudly for both of them. I talked to Kirsten, made lefse with a friend whose mom and dad were visiting from Minnesota, and then came home and watched Sweet Land while eating fresh lefse. I cried and cried at the end of the movie.

It was a good weekend, and a good day.

Kara

Joy Will Find A Way

Today is the most relaxed I've felt in a long time. I actually had the desire to cook. I think it helps to have another body in the house, and especially one that has lost around twenty pounds in the two weeks post surgery. Kirsten is able to eat soft foods, and I thought that lamb shanks that have been in an oven for three hours with vegetables, chicken broth and wine might produce a wonderful gravy to go over polenta. I made it, and it was fabulous. It was quite satisfying to pick the bay leaf, rosemary and thyme sprigs from the back yard. I'm most proud of not killing Peter's plants, and also very proud to have cooked a good meal. We had a friend over for dinner. I mentioned to the table that I have cooked more this week than I have in the last ten months. Kirsten thought that I should have "dinner parties", or at least "pot lucks." That's what they do in college, and if it works for them, she reasoned, it should work for me. Might be a good idea.

The rest of the evening was spent companionably in the living room, me reading a book of Kirsten's, and Kirsten doing some pre-studying, with Lulu's help.

I'm still amazed at how good I feel today. It was a challenging week, and yesterday felt like an exercise in futility with lots of rushing around and not feeling like much was done, but today was perfect. I can go on another day.

As I think about this peaceful day I remember: I laid in bed this morning and listened to two songs on my I-pod by Bruce Cockburn. I don't know why I picked the songs - the titles appealed to me in the early hours when I transition from dreaming to this world. (Bruce Cockburn is a Canadian guy who I discovered after looking up his work after seeing a verse or two quoted in the book The Shack.) At any rate, the first song was "Joy Will Find A Way." The lyrics are:

Make me a bed of fond memories

Make me to lie down with a smile

Everything that rises afterward falls

But all that dies has first to live

As longing becomes love

As night turns to day

Everything changes

Joy will find a way

Then I listened to this song by Bruce Cockburn, titled "Love Song":

In the place my wonder comes from

There I find you

Your face shines in my sky

In your heart where the world comes from

There you will find me

Your eyes dance in my mind

Come with me

We will sail on the wind

We will sway among the yellow grass

When you be beside me

I am real

Though my eyes be closed forever

Still I would find you

You shine across my time

Come with me

We will sail on the wind

We will sway among the yellow grass

When you be beside me

I am real

In the place my wonder comes from

There I find you

Both songs were amazingly comforting.

Thank you....

New - or, Just Keep Walking

I've been out of sorts, and I am wondering if it is because I haven't written. I don't know if I like this "blog". A friend said she tried to post a comment and she wasn't able to. The blog seems lonely without Peter, and I think I'm grieving even the change/loss of CaringBridge. I'm leaving lots of things behind, and it's not comfortable. Yet I need to be aware of the new things ahead.

On my fridge I have two little magnets, each with a lower case "n". Peter had bought them and put them there, and now they are the only things that remain on the fridge front, save for a mirror cut-out of the word "hope". Anyway, the two "n"s are for Nutty Noren, one of Peter's nicknames for me (as you may remember.) Yesterday, on the fridge, I noticed that the second "n" got turned around and put together with the first, and it reads "nu". I have been contemplating "new" now.

A friend has been reading "The Artist's Way" . I've had the book for probably seven years, but had never gotten beyond the first few pages. Intrigued by his enthusiasm, I pulled out the book and opened to the middle - a random look-see. I was drawn in right away. One part of a paragraph that jumped out says this: "Think of yourself as an accident victim walking away from the crash: your old life has crashed and burned; your new life isn't apparent yet. You may feel yourself to be temporarily without a vehicle. Just keep walking." Well, that I can do. Believe that there is yet hope, that there is a new life ahead, and for now, I should just keep walking.

Kara

Gifts

Last night I made myself a little dinner. Thank God for Trader Joe's. A frozen quiche, along with a wine that Peter and I bought together for use as an every day table wine. It is the last of that bunch. I thought that if Peter were here we would be having some scrumptious creation of his, surely not a little frozen quiche. This is the "new normal," and I try to spice it up with a lit candle, music, and some wine.

As I was about to entertain the thought of having a pity party, the neighbor came over with a gift from his wife. The impetus of the visit was a humidifier for Kirsten, whose sinuses are, well, bleeding, and while he was messing with the humidifier, I was examining the rose. "Is this a real rose?" I exclaimed. "Can't be," he said, as he fiddled with the controls. I pulled on the leaves, and then one of the petals. It looked too perfect. I smelled it. "It's real!" I realized my little dinner was turning out to be pretty special.

The gift was very fitting. "Journey," it says on the mug. My neighbor wrote some encouraging words on the beautiful card, and also mentioned that the last rose of the season (January 2nd!) was so beautiful and was a special gift for me.

I'm thankful for the love and encouragement I'm receiving on this journey.

Getting It Together

I did get my room put back together. Of course it is Sunday, the last day of vacation and I'm forced to "get it together" before going back to work. I convinced Kirsten to hang out on my bed while I sorted and purged the books. We listened to Pandora off of her new laptop. She's doing better, one week post-op. I can't imagine how hungry she must be. She has been living off Ensure, Gatorade, Carnation Instant Breakfast, liquified vegetable beef soup, broth and water. She'll be on a liquid diet for a month. She won't be able to eat "normally" for six months. I would have gorged myself before the surgery if I was her.

Things

I've been "messing" with Peter's stuff. He left me a whole bunch of things. I've been able to face some of it. For instance, for some reason I was able to give (most) of his clothes away soon after his death. Hard to do. Those tennis shoes that he wore into the hospital, and I took to the car? Those were hard to give away. Peter was a collector. I have my stuff, too. But you know how it is. When you're with someone, they have "junk" and you have "projects." All in the perspective. Here I was attempting to deal with the overflow of the kitchen. I finally laid out all of the wooden implements, and put the repeats in a box. No, I didn't get rid of them, but they are not in the kitchen anymore.

And here are some of his cookbooks. A lot of cookbooks. At least 400. They are taking up a bunch of space in the dining room. I tried to deal with them once, putting them in boxes, and I called Peter's sister and started crying. She said I didn't have to do anything, and so I didn't. They bring me comfort. I still wonder what to do with them, or when I could possibly do something with them, but I'm just not going to right now. Touching those pages, with the little markers, the spattered stains of food, the favorites, makes me smile.

And then there's my own trouble. Hmmm. I thought I should go through some of my own books this weekend. "Never pull out more than you can put back in an hour." Ha. That regulation is for sissies. Well, maybe that would have been a good idea. I look at the books; some Peter had given me, some from other friends, some from my grandparents. Peter built me that bookcase, and I treasure it. It is in our bedroom, and I love to curl up on the little couch in the mornings and read or write in my journal. "Transcribing," Peter used to call it.

I wonder with all of this "messing about" I am trying to find myself amidst this disequilibrium of Peter's departure from this earth? I seem to be stirring things up quite a bit; looking, looking. Trying to make sense of what is, and who I am without Peter.

A Clear Midnight

A Clear Midnight

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,

Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,

Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best,

Night, sleep, death and the stars.

Walt Whitman

This is my own journey, and now rest from the world that was mine. I was an actor in a play, a lover whose world was changed by the word "cancer". In reality, the journey goes on, but now, it is my hour, my flight is not consumed by doctor's appointments, pharmaceuticals, fear and pain. I am free to ponder the themes my soul lovest best.

This writing is in honor of my husband, Peter Alan Holthe, who changed my life and changed my world. The greatest gift he gave to me was myself. Myself and humor, love, the art of play, food, wine and celebration of our common gift - life and people.

Our story was a story of risk-taking, of hope and optimism, of science and of God. Of people whose spirits extended far beyond and alongside their knowledge and talents.

Our families who rallied beside us. "Fucking cancer," one of his brothers always declared. Yes, use it as an adjective and as a command.

Peter's and my love for each other, and letting go. The courage to live, and the courage to let go. The courage to go on.

Peter made each day lovely. His bright spirit woke up with a song. "Morn' my Noren," he'd always say as we woke up. He attended to others, his gift was healing.

2011 - A new year. I'm going to keep writing, but writing here.