New Season?

I'm in the northern reaches of California, a wonderfully wild area where the coastal fog feeds the giant Redwood trees, and trout are plenteous in the beautiful rivers here. Kirsten has graduated from Humboldt State University, a journey she began in the fall of 2007 when I dropped her, her snake, and her few possessions in the tiniest single dormitory room I had ever seen, Redwood trees and ferns visible from the tall slender window in the center of her room. I'm so proud of her for her accomplishment.Peter would have been proud, too.

At these occasions that mark a milestone in our lives, it seems natural to reflect on the history of events and the people that have brought us here. These reflections rushed through my mind as I sat in the stands on a slightly overcast day, the majestic trees in the background of the "Redwood Bowl." And now, Kirsten has a new season in front of her. Via con Dios, dear daughter.

Summer Light

I've been thinking of places in latitudes above mine. Seattle, Minneapolis, Montreal, Oslo. I love the light that hangs on 'til late in the evening (in the summer, anyway.) People revel in those hours of light. Summer is such a celebratory time, given that in the winter, it can be so dark and cold. Nature gives us some sort of payback for the patience required and given to make it through those tedious months.

So, I'm thinking about summer, and wish of course that I had some more light with Peter - a little extra bonus time; that special evening time where the light lingers and one can play. I feel like the next thing after a grueling winter should be summer.

I remember as a child, the lingering summer light and other children's voices in the streets called us to play, but we were to be in bed "at a decent hour". It didn't seem fair. Mom used to read poetry to me and my brothers before bed, and often poetry by Robert Louis Stevenson. This is one about those nights:

Bed in Summer

In winter I get up at night

And dress by yellow candle-light.

In summer quite the other way,

I have to go to bed by day.

I have to go to bed and see

The birds still hopping on the tree,

Or hear the grown-up people's feet

Still going past me in the street.

And does it not seem hard to you,

When all the sky is clear and blue,

And I should like so much to play,

To have to go to bed by day?

I think my themes are I feel the change of seasons coming; I am mad that Peter's not here - I feel like I've gone through the hard winter and it's still winter in my heart, but summer is tugging - maybe a little more light, and I do want to play....

Someone, bring in the garbage please

So, I've been busy; busy and having a good time visiting with people here and away. A thought I had was that I feel like I am coming out of a long, dark tunnel. I feel a bit bewildered, blinking back the light. I still feel a bit disconnected to things that I felt connected to before. (Like my brain. Where did that go?) I'm making some effort to swim along with the rest of humanity, and hoping that it's not completely obvious that I'm pretty bad at this. Yet, I can laugh, and I can connect with people. I just feel, well, different. Not sure of my place, identity, or anything else. Yet, I do know I'm loved. And that's a good thing. Loved even though I'm feeling pretty lousy about reaching out.

So, time keeps going by and here it is April already. I noticed that when I wasn't writing, Peter kept popping up in my dreams. I would awaken, sometimes disturbed, and not be able to go back to sleep. I wondered if my writing was helping me process (duh), and without it, I was processing all right, but it was put off until the night hours when I didn't have a conscious choice about it.

I try not to fall into self-pitying (pitiful!) thoughts, but this afternoon I slipped as I was driving home. I was thinking about the little chore that faced me of walking the garbage, recycling and compost bins up the driveway to the backyard after the pick-up this morning. (The driveway is hardly longer than the length of the car. This is pitiful.) That was Peter's job, and I was mad that I didn't have him to share responsibilities with; large or small. I noticed my foible, and as I was battling that thought back, I drove up to see that some kind person had done the deed while I was at work. I laughed, and was humbled.

Peter, I miss you like crazy. When this is all over, I wonder what I'll think. Wonder that it wasn't such a long time after all between seeing you last February and seeing you again. That darn time/space deal. It sure can be hard from this side. I'll try to be patient.

Rainy Sunday

It's been raining for days. On Friday one of our secretaries said she'd seen animals walking past two by two. Reservoirs are at 102%. How can that be?

Last night our orchestra performed at the Bankhead Theatre in Livermore. I had eight fans there! My son was the surprise, saying, "Mom, can my two friends come too?" Of course! I bought the three of them tickets.

This morning, the crew took off for southern California.

Yes, they all fit in the truck. It took some rearranging to get the guy on the left to sit in the front middle. You can guess why. Later, near Bakersfield, I got a call saying that there was some green fluid coming out of the engine, and that there was steam. I had shown Daniel how to add power steering fluid to the engine yesterday, but now I was a hundred miles away. Luckily I had told him not to open caps nonchalantly for fear of loss of limb or face. I got him in contact with a friend who is a car mechanic, and tried not to worry so much. They had the Grapevine to climb, and that is the ultimate in engine blowers. I called later, and they had employed duct tape and had filled the radiator with water, and were going around on Highway 101 instead of 5 to avoid the Grapevine. I'll be glad when I hear from them. The last time the crew went south, they were caught in a snowstorm on the Grapevine, and the seven hour trip took 18 hours. All in the adventure, right? I like what our friend said. "If he waits for the light to go on, and we call that the idiot light, he will be an idiot, because it will be too late and the engine will be blown."

I wish I wasn't the dad, too, right now, but I am grateful that I know something, and that I also have friends to reach out to.

Today I had more friends over, and of course my mom is here. Also talked to bunches of people this weekend, and have lots of good trips to look forward to. However, I feel like I am coming out of a tunnel, and I'm not sure about it. My eyes are blinking in the light, and I'm a bit discombobulated.

I cleaned my closet today. (I thought momentarily about taking a picture of the resulting chaos, but it was over-the-top crazy.) Things are put together now, and there are five black lawn bags full of stuff that will go in my car and then to Good Will. Of course I handled some of Peter's things, and that leaves me melancholic. I smell his clothes, searching for his scent, but I don't find it. I hug the clothes to me, hoping to impart some of him to me, but he is gone. Yet, I do feel him somehow near. I'm amazed at how long it takes to integrate a death into oneself. I wonder if there is some gift in grieving. I think I'll only be able to report later. Much, much later.

Hey - another sincere thank you to friends (and my family members are friends, too) - who are there and continue to be there. Love you all....

Kitchen Table Wisdom

I'm reading a book called Kitchen Table Wisdom: Stories That Heal by Rachel Naomi Remen, M.D. In the introduction, Dean Ornish, M.D. says, "Telling stories can be healing. We all have within us access to a greater wisdom, and we may not even know that until we speak out loud." A statement he makes later also rings true for me: "During the times that we feel most vulnerable, that which is invulnerable within us becomes uncovered, becomes more apparent." I also love that the book is dedicated To everyone who has never told their story.

I'm glad that Peter and I could tell our stories, and that people so lovingly listened. It made all the difference. It still does. The book talks about community, and how we need each other. I agree. Do I always feel connected? No. I think a lot of times I've contracted into a cave to lick my wounds, so to speak. I'm still grateful for the patience of those that keep reaching out. I'm sure I look and sound pretty normal most of the time, but I'm still absorbing the shock and the reality of what has happened - still trying to make sense out of it, if there's any sense to be made. Maybe there's not. I agree with something I saw in the book, too, that our society is all about spring and summer, all the time, and never fall or winter. I know I'm in the fall and winter stage, and it is hard for me to open myself to another spring and summer. Spring coming means that I have lived through death. I sat down to paint with a troubled child in the counselor's office this week while I waited to speak to my principal. I painted a rainbow first; the colors just came and laid themselves one upon another. Then a tree. A barren old tree with no leaves. Finally I saw a bird in my mind's eye, a bird rushing in from outside the picture somewhere. Coming in fast. "What's with the bird?" the counselor gently asked. "I don't know - maybe it's hope." "The tree has no leaves," the counselor said. "I know," I replied. "I can't do it." It sits there, barren. Maybe the leaves will come. I think so. It has to be.

We had a dress rehearsal tonight for our concert in two days. It's been raining for days on end, and tonight we had quite a lot. Our conductor drives in from Palo Alto, and we heard it was near flooding over there, and we all sat in our seats past our definitive starting time. Finally the second chair violinist said, "At least we can get tuned." Then Virginia made the announcements. When she came to the end, she slowed down, and then finally said, "I don't have any more." Someone understanding that she was hoping to fill time chirped, "Then start again from the beginning!" A few people said, "Someone start directing!" At last a percussionist volunteered and said he'd try. A bunch of us encouraged him with hoots and clapping. "Do you have a score?" "I have part of one." "Don't worry," our principal cellist said, "just wave your hand and we'll go." Larry actually did a great job. Without the conductor, many of us unabashedly counted rests out loud and tapped our feet. After a couple of pages, we were still going full steam, and our conductor walked in, and carefully placed his score on the stand as Larry was still conducting, and then exchanged places and we continued on, though our mouths and feet were now disciplined and quiet. We had a good rehearsal, though this is the most difficult program we've played yet. One funny instance was when some brass players got out of rhythm. "Count!" our conductor admonished. "And you all are engineers from the [Lawrence Livermore] Lab? God help us all!" he said. We stayed until ten, and I thought that we have such a nice community in our orchestra. I'm really glad.

Connections, and community. I'm grateful. I need you.

Oh, What a Day

I wonder how things come together to shape one's day. I woke up this morning with a list of things I wanted to get done at work. List formulating in my head as I was in the shower, I was struck with an interruptive thought that I needed to be open to what would come my way. Arriving at work, I paused by the parking lot to say goodbye to the fourth graders who were boarding busses for a field trip to see the state capitol. As I was talking to the teachers, one of our secretaries ran out and said that I was needed in the health office. I ran in, and such started a day that ended up with a ride with a child in an ambulance, and a visit to the ER in the same hospital where Peter died. I didn't even think about it until I walked through those doors and suddenly the familiar surroundings knocked on that part of my subconscious, threatening to pull me down. I was strong, and of course felt strong in my role as surrogate parent for the child as I was her advocate and protector. Familiar process. I recognized the phlebotomist as someone who had worked on Peter both in the ER and on the floor. I told her so. She works in three different hospitals, so was noncommittal, but she came back in the room later and said she did remember me. I saw the head ER doctor, the one that was so kind to Peter and me on one of those first visits, the one who said he was so sorry for him, and for me, and for our family. "You're a good man," he said to Peter. "This shouldn't be happening to you." The doctor was working at a computer at one end of a station, and I just had a grateful thought, and walked by. So many months ago. A lifetime, literally.

I didn't return to school until noon, and then in fact I had district duties off campus. I said to my principal, "Nice seeing you today!" as she dropped me off at my car after picking me up at the hospital.

Later I took the truck to orchestra so Daniel could use my car to pick up my mom at the San Francisco airport. Another feeling of deja vu. Being in the truck, smelling it's familiar scent, feeling the way it rolls over the bumps, then laughing at the stories attached to the truck, including the golf balls. Bittersweet thoughts, and I allowed myself the leisurely mulling over them as I drove the twenty minutes to practice.

So, no, I never got to any of the items that were on the list this morning. But that is perfectly OK.

Stick Me Back in the Ground

I had a busy weekend - hardly enough time to think. On Friday during the day, I felt like crying. I promised myself that I could later. I kept my promise and had a nice cry in the car.

Friday night, I chaperoned a two school 7th-8th grade dance. Enough said.

Later Friday night, Daniel arrived home from UC Riverside with four friends. The five of them made it up through the rain and wind just fine. That night they found something to do in Dublin, and in the morning, I made them pancakes and sausage. They went through two containers of juice! Good to see the guys. I had warm chocolate chip cookies ready for them when they arrived. I kept hearing something like, "This isn't like Stonehaven." (Stonehaven is the on campus apartments where they make lots of macaroni and Daniel states without embarassment houses a lot of mold.)

Saturday night Robert came over. So good to see both of the boys. I made them Cornish game hens.

Today the two boys and I got up early and went to Denica's to meet the gang. We ate and shared stories and laughed. The laughter is the best part. When I took Robert home after doing some soccer shoe shopping, Asmita showed me something in his room that she wanted to fix. We talked about it. When I looked around to Robert's bedside table, I saw some neatly laid out artifacts from his dad. I mouthed something to Asmita, and she quietly brought me into the den where there was another very carefully laid out collection of Peter's things that I had given him. Robert came in and quietly smiled. I told him how nice it was.

On the way home, I stopped off to visit some friends who have been staying at his parents where his dad has needed some caretaking lately. I'd never met them, but the mom instantly grabbed me and we looked at her garden. It has been raining madly since Friday, but there was a break. She's from Hawaii, and in her garden were beautiful orchids, succulents and other things. Before I knew it, my friend had a shovel as his mom pointed for him to "dig up this" and "dig up that". Plastic bags appeared and were filled with beautiful plants. Rose stalks were cut along with a representative flower. Succulents pulled, snails killed, lots of laughter, and soon the back of my Subaru was loaded with living things. The mom had followed Peter's struggle closely, and even though we'd never met nor talked before, I felt a closeness to her as she now experiences the declining mental and physical health of her husband.

As she ripped out plants from the ground, I said out loud how the people with the greenest thumbs seem to be the most rough with their plants. "Just stick it in the ground!" she advised. "It will grow!" When my tentativeness came through, she said, "Just think positively!" I got home and planted and planted. It was therapeutic, and "grounding".

I feel like I've been ripped from my moorings, and I'm also self conscious about the snails that have dropped from me. I think I'll survive. Just stick me in the ground, let the rain fall down, and think positively!

Pebble Beach, Again

I got an e-mail from dear friends of ours last night. Peter and Julian have had many of wonderful rounds of golf together, and Julian's wife Tarra and I have enjoyed watching. Today is Julian's 50th birthday, and he had a dream for some years to play Pebble Beach to celebrate. His plan, his wife said, had always been to have Peter play that special round at that special place with him. Tarra said last night that he was going to get a birdie in Peter's honor.

The wonderful fact is that he did, on the sixth hole. Julian, I wouldn't be surprised if Peter was down there with you anyway. He got me that hat at the Open, you remember.....

Options

At grief group tonight, our subject was difficult feelings. Grief, anger, guilt. We talked about anger, and some of the options for dealing with it. Profanity was discussed quite a bit.

Favorite places to express oneself and "let it out" ranged from the garage, shower and car. "No one can hear you from the car," one person said. "You'd be surprised," answered another. Some of us hadn't tried it, but the method was roundly supported by the ones who had. One person laughed that when she screamed "sh*t" while in the garage filling up the bowls of food for her well-trained Dobermans, they promptly sat.

We did some "multi-media" therapy tonight. There was clay, mandelas to color, sand trays, and other projects. We worked for fifteen minutes while some nice music was playing. We became engrossed in our work or play, and it was nice to escape for a bit. One well-dressed woman was working on the sand tray. She said later, "I was trying to make it smooth - I wanted to make all of us smooth." She faltered, then started crying and said, "But I couldn't do it." I told her, "Thanks for trying, though."

I always feel better after going to the group. I'm glad we're together.

Cello in the Corner

I'd been anxious about tonight's rehearsal for probably ten days. The music is hard, and I mean hard. I was anticipating the sectional rehearsal last week - just us cellos, and boy, would they know I didn't know the music. I was sick, though, last Tuesday- as sick as a dog. That was good and bad. Good because I wouldn't be exposed, and bad because I'd be that much more behind in learning the music, as well as missing out on new fingering suggestions and bowings. Also bad, because, well, I was as sick as a dog. Wednesday morning I went to San Diego - no cello practicing down there. I returned midday on Saturday, and I avoided, yes avoided practicing. So, I've been dreaming about my cello and all sorts of disasters attached to it. A little anxiety perhaps? Good to know its common in grieving people, but still not fun. (I even flirted with the thought of bowing out of this concert, but my mom is coming to visit the end of March, and is looking forward to seeing it, so that little plan wouldn't work.)

So tonight I loaded up my little cello and took it down the highway, trying to remember to give myself some positive self-talk. I arranged myself in my chair and acted cool while others were still getting settled. In an act that I'm sure he didn't realize would give me just what I needed, the conductor put his blue eyes right in front of mine and said, "You're going to feel much better after tonight. It's going to all come together - you'll see." What was that? The principal cellist when he saw me said, "This is the hardest music we've played. We're all struggling with it." More grace. One of the women cellists came in late, and sat in front of me, where we'd left two spaces. "Why aren't you sitting up here with me?" she hissed. I moved up later. We played from 9:15 to almost quarter of ten. There were parts that our conductor said, "Well, that's something for the woodshed." Driving home, I felt that familiar groundedness, like magnets had been placed inside me, drawing all of my insides into nice, parallel, elongated and organized fibers. I felt whole again.

I'm going to practice this week. I'll take this music to the woodshed and chop, chop, chop away.

A New Frontier

Someone asked if I felt like I was walking in a new frontier. "Like Star Trek," he added. Yes. I think I am.

"How we deal with death is at least as important as how we deal with life." James Kirk - Start Trek II, The Wrath of Khan.

Peter's song

I'm home. I had a good time. How can you not have a good time with 1,300 Activities Directors from all over the state of California and beyond? You know, the people that work with youth in our high schools and middle schools running leadership, rallies, spirit days, dances, and more. They are the most inclusive and fun-loving people on the planet. Last night at the dinner/dance I was seated with people from our area. I was sitting next to one of the speakers, and he thought my answer for "are you looking forward to tonight?" was a little weak, so some of us brainstormed little challenges for our table to do during the evening to make it more interesting. One woman wanted to make a human pyramid. This was nixed by speaker and me. But later, I thought, why not? We could make the smallest pyramid possible and it would only take three. There was a open spot behind our table, so I said, "Let's go!" You don't have to ask an activity director twice to do something fun, so off we went. I think it was the highlight of my night.

Another highlight of being in San Diego was meeting up with someone who made a difference in my life as a youth worker 35 years ago. It was so great to see her. Last night we went to Ocean Beach and walked around. I had to get some salt water taffy. Yum.

On the flight home this morning I pulled out my I-pod. Recently I upgraded some things on my computer, and some of Peter's songs transferred to my I-pod. If you remember, he had assembled a playlist entitled "Sad Songs" for his Zune. He would listen and cry - when my friends were over he would have them listen and cry.... argh! But one of the songs, evidently (because I don't listen to country) made it on my I-pod, and I listened to it on the flight, three times. It is entitled "If Heaven" by Andy Griggs. The song is beautiful, and it was so rich, thinking of Peter and him listening to it. Now it is for me. The chorus is:

Don't cry a tear for me now, Baby

There comes a time we must all say good-bye

And if that's what heaven's made of

You know I ain't afraid to die.

I'll try to attach the link to the YouTube Video, but I just like hearing the music....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KpIdRkfVtA8

Peter - you are something else!

Stuck in the Sand?

I'm in San Diego at a CADA conference - California Association of Directors of Activities. Fun to be in San Diego, but realizing that being out of my usual environs and out of my routine proves to be a challenge. Missing Peter again.

The weirdest thing was meeting a person here who looked very similar to Peter. I was walking up to my group of friends who were seated at a restaurant for lunch. A person the size and shape of Peter, with red, wavy hair, sort of greying under a baseball cap had his back to me. Glasses and blue eyes.... argh! In his conversation he said he was going to be 51. So was Peter. Of course he didn't have Peter's personality, but each time I see him (1300 people here, and I keep running into him!) I have to take a deep breath.

I told my sister-in-law I was struggling. Her answer gave me courage: "No getting stuck in ruts for you, girl!" Nope. That's not me. I'm going forward. Maybe slowly, but I'm not going to be stuck in a rut.

Thanks, Sis.

One Year, Already

Today marks the one year anniversary of Peter's death.

We'll make it through.

Peter, I love you.

Thank you for loving me.

Your gifts go on and on.

Your life was amazing,

is amazing.

Thank you for blessing my life

with yours.

I wrote on www.caringbridge.org/visit/peterholthe this morning.

Blessed be.

Kara

Healing Notes

Tonight I went to orchestra practice. I was so tired, and didn't want to go, but routine and perseverence, guilt and good training got me out the door. I had not been able to attend last week's practice, being that I had just returned late on my birthday from the Redwoods. I had a friend/co-worker/french horn player receive the new music and she presented it to me at school the next day. Dark Curly Locks isn't fearlessly leading us for the next concert - I'm sure he has a meeting in Germany or something. So the next guy in line sent bowings via a dropbox on the internet, and notes for practicting, such as: "the sixteenth notes after U in the last movement are probably not playable...." That's encouraging! As I write this, we cellists just received another note from him regarding next week's sectional rehearsal. Well, not a note, but a highly detailed letter, I'd say, with more instructions about practicing. What is cute in this missive is that he says, "Since we don't have to give time to Nick to arrive from Palo Alto, we'll begin at 7:15. We'll work until 9:30, unless Naomi offers us cookies or something, and then we might stay a few extra minutes." Ha! See, food wins over all!

I'm consistently anxious about orchestra, and I did get in some practice this week, but the music for this next concert is very tough. One of the first things the director said as we went through a Ralph Vaughan Williams piece tonight was, "I don't care what notes you play, just play them in the right place!" I can do that! I'm great with rhythm! That tells you the difficulty of that piece, and that comment made me feel a heck of a lot better about myself. So we all slogged through happily, really. Orchestra is the only time during the week that I forget everything, and I'm content and distracted and happy. So this thing I get anxious over, is really a godsend.

So I'll practice some more, and maybe Naomi will serve cookies.

California Snow

Well, I was a bit surprised to see that I've only posted here once in February. You'd think I would have recognized this fact; after all, it is me who is responsible for not writing.

I wasn't looking forward to this month. It used to be my favorite month, but I'm kind of just wanting to get through it this year. I'm OK with that. Even yet, I've been the recipient of all sorts of wonderful surprises and gifts of all shapes and sizes. Friends, cards, notes, presents, new paint on the walls, and this week, snow on the hills around town. Fabulous! (Fabulous when you're in California and just looking at it, and not slogging through it and digging out your car like friends in Minnesota!)

I hadn't seen Robert for a long while, and I finally figured out that I needed to see him. Fortunately, he was thinking the same thing, and I drove up to Berkeley this afternoon, pups in tow, and we went to our favorite haunt on Solano right in Albany - Brit Marie's. Peter and I loved to go there, and Peter also took Robert there, too. It's got a great menu and a changeable wine menu that you can taste by the glass. Robert likes to sit near the kitchen in the back. He says it smells better back there. We get appetizers (today duck pate and topinka) and usually Robert gets the pork schnitzel. If you pay in cash, you get a free dessert. We both picked bread pudding - Peter's favorite.

Broken Glass - Rebuilding Dreams

Driving home today, I made my way off of the highway onto the large boulevard that leads north towards my house. Neatly swept into a pile on the side of the road was bits of broken glass. I'd never seen an organized mound of what certainly was the result of an accident. It looked like a signpost: "Accident here." I sometimes wonder if I have a dark magnet within me that attracts gloomy analogies out of ordinary things, but I couldn't help but think, "That's me. There was an accident here, a trauma, a 'bad thing' and I've been swept up into a tidy pile, but I'm still a pile of broken pieces." I chided myself for this morose thought, but it felt true. It is where I am. I'm looking pretty organized, functioning pretty well, but in pieces, nonetheless.

I was reading a book entitled To Live Again: Rebuilding Your Life After You've Become a Widow (isn't that a beguiling title, just pulling you in?!) The author validated this feeling of loss of identity and the struggle of finding out who you are without partner. I wonder what I will become?

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.