It Goes On

"I'm crossing that bridge with lessons I've learned. Playing with fire and not getting burned. I may not know what you're going through, but time is the space between me and you. Life carries on. It goes on." Seal.

Listening to a "Prayer for the Dying" and thinking of how much time has come between Billy and me, I've realized that healing takes time. Grief is a process that time changes. When Billy first died, I did not believe anyone who told me time would heal me, but now I am starting to see that adage come true. Perhaps because I am busy; school has started and I have more to focus on than Billy's death, perhaps because I am surrounded by people who are incredibly giving and optimistic, or maybe it's just that so much time has gone by (nearly three years) that I realize Billy's death can not control me in ways that it did in the past. Seal is such a funny song to be inspired by because he's not even one of my favorite musicians, but that line is so telling. The cliche of the bridge being crossed almost seems immature and cliche; however, it's true. I have crossed some threshold, some line now. I don't cry as much as I used to, and I certainly have stopped feeling sorry for myself. Those days are behind me, but the loss is still so great and virtual. This is a short post, simply just inspired by a song I was listening to the other day. But, it needed to be written and I will remind myself of the quotation when I find myself taking backwards-steps into grief-land.

What Beaders Do

I bead because I think it's cool. I bead because it's fun. I bead because when I create I feel alive. I bead because when I finish a necklace, bracelet, or pair of earrings, and there is something tangible and beautiful in my hands, I feel like I have given birth to something unique. I also bead to heal.

People say that the oppostite of peace is war, but I think the oppostite of peace is creation. I heard the phrase used in one of my favorite musicals, Rent. When someone close to you dies there is an overwhelming numbness initially, but as time wears on, you seek out life in any shape you can find it. I sought life in creation. Bringing to life beaded works of art is the only sound way I know to live again in an inspiring way. The initial blurb about myself on this blog is that "I don't live my life as well as I used to." That includes not going out and doing the things that once made me happy...that is, until I realized that beading makes me happy.

Billy used to look at my work and praise it, and criticize it. I welcomed his criticism because his taste was impeccable. I never knew that such a man, this blue collar, hard scrabble, welder could actually comment on the aesthetic of beading, but he could and did. He was my best critic commenting about a necklace once and proclaiming that it looked like I hung a cracker from the center--that memory always makes me laugh because it was so true. The necklace resembled a hanging Ritz cracker on a chain of woven, colored beads. Those fragile memories are ones that make me bitterly happy.

I bead for so many different reasons that most of the time I don't even realize it's actually grief relief. Now, when I create a new piece, it has to pass the "cracker test": Does the centerpiece hang like a piece of food, or does it look like art. So Billy continues to inform even my hobbies these days and, for that, I can be happy.

Tech and the Brain

This summer has been technology overload. Although I am comfortable with most things techie, I am nervous about the new year; starting with new technologies and new students is never easy, but I am also excited about the possibilities. Diigo is an interesting way to gather great websites for kids to peruse as they are taught new ways of learning language skills. Twitter is the most bizarre but perhaps most fun social networking site. What can you say in 140 characters? Not much, but OH so much! It also has the ability to link to other websites so it's another way to make sure that my students are viewing websites that are both relevant and inspiring in some way. We can teach them to surf the web in ways that will make them productive and engaged, but it can also be social. Diigo also allows for "mark-ups" and teaching good reading strategies of sites that may be challenging and not something they would normally read. I also have become more interested in blogging in general. I began using this blog as a healing process, but it has also turned into a record of what I notice, learn, read, and engage in myself.

I want my kids to use their blogs to practice their writing in the same way that an artist uses a blank canvas to practice, play, create and inspire. During my own grief period I was unlucky in that I shut down completely. I turned off. I was unable to read, write or think for several months. Then, slowely, and much more slowely than I wanted, it started to come back. I read a paragraph at a time, 20 minutes at a time. My pace was slower, I was slower in general. My normal quick, rapid fire thinking went away and I feared it was the curse that comes with great loss, but it's coming back to me as I write this and as I know I will read tonight little by little.

I engrossed myself in an abundance of TV viewing, lying on the couch, or bed and watching nothing at all really. I didn't really watch, I simply gazed and thought about other things. But, I'm coming back bit by bit. I'm seeing colors again. I'm tasting things again. It's all part of the bigger grief picture. My loss is total and engrossing and it has changed the way I view my world, so everything is different, but I'm moving on as best I can. This blog is just another way.

Images That Remain

My parents went away this weekend and I did the isolating thing again, but forced myself to leave the house. Thursday and Friday were the worst days; I sat, ate, watched TV, tried to read and beaded a little, but not much. My energy was just zapped completely. I was watching the dog for my parents while they were away and I realized that if they died, I would become a hermit. Bad idea! For some reason, I was again back at the hospital in my memory. I keep thinking about the doctors and nurses that watched us as Billy slowly faded away. These occasions come to me every now and then. His hospital memories are very fresh still. I often wonder if I will be 70 and still thinking about him and his illness, but I never know. Perhaps I'll move on one day, but that look on his face when he decided to die is just so stung into my brain. I can't seem to look back into the 15 years we were healthy, alive and thriving in this world. I'm still stuck on his death for some reason. This seems tragic, but I don't get panic attacks when I think about that day anymore. He was lying in bed and left in a matter of minutes. The oxygen just went out of him and that was the last I saw of his life. Everytime I pass Holcombe Fisher funeral home I also remember him because that was the last time I saw his face. I would like these images not to remain, but they do in and out of consciousness. I had two recent dreams that tell me I'm healing. One: Billy is holding my hand. And two: he is in the room and walking around my bed, I could hear his footsteps. Considering I never dream of him, it is amazing that I had such dreams as these.

Tin House

I did it; I stepped out of my comfort zone as I have been told to do over and over again for the last year: get out, do more, see people, get involved with your life. A plane took me 6 hours out to Oregon and there I met the most fastidious and intelligent group of writers I have ever encountered. These people appeared unblemished by life's losses; I admit I was jealous of the talent, but I learned more than I ever expected. I met writers, yes. I met friends, sure. I met literary agents, wierd. But, more than that, I realized that human suffering comes in all shapes, sizes, ages, wisdoms, and talents. My writing group was amazing to put it mildly. There were losses of all kinds: body parts (a cancer survivor), spouses (me), children (poor woman), and friends. These losses composed the workshop of Creative Non-Fiction with Ann Hood. A phenomenal leader, Ann tore our pieces to shreds so that we could build them back up to something that resembled good writing. I am trying so hard to get back to the writing I used to do as a regular practice, but am still struggling with times of blockage, unknown white page demons that regale me at all times of the day. The white page is my least favorite color. But, I got started again and I will not stop because it helps. Billy would call my adventure this summer heroic and he would say he was proud of me for going to a writing group, sharing my story and moving forward with my life by meeting new people that fulfill me. I'm proud of myself as well, but hope to write more, and better, as time moves forward. The days without him are simply not forgotten. Everyday something, somewhere (a sign post, a road, a song) reminds me.

Summer

Summer for teachers is a necessary evil for me. I am not good with unstructured time and I feel very burned out. The unstructred time leaves me with too much time to think about my losses. I got great correspondance and praise from students over the year, so for that I am thankful; but now, I am left to my own devices. I am alone thinking of summers that I used to spend with Billy and now I am alone in my apartment thinking of times I used to spend with Billy. A little repetitive yes, healing, no. Today was a "school day" developing curriculum and using my time to create a new plan. My brain was not working today and my curriculum partner and I were hashing out old plans and seeing what worked and what didn't. It went well, but again, my brain is just not working. I'm alone on this wierd island (sorry for the awful cliche) but alone nonetheless. I feel awkard in a crowd, so of course, I am awkward in a workshop. It feels like I am on the outside of a glass restaurant looking in at all the people eating and enjoying their company and their meals. This summer should be a time for growth. We'll see how it goes.

The End of the Year

The end of the year for teachers begins in June. That doesn't mean we don't work over the summer; on the contrary, many of us have second jobs, tutor, or write curriculum all summer. Most people think that teachers don't work over the summer. Simply wrong. We do. I will be writing curriculum, revising curriculum and reading about curriculum all summer. I am looking forward to these new endeavors, but I have more things I would like to accomplish. I want to read more. My concentration has been "off" since Billy died. Reading and writing is now very hard for me. It is almost as if I have ADD and everything just takes a little longer. I used to be very "quick" with my thinking, reading and writing. But now, language can sometimes escape me. I often am at a loss for the right word. This seems to be a product of grief. People don't understand how I could be grieving for so long, but I lost the best my very best friend in the world and that is the sad reality. SO, this summer will be devoted to reading, writing, getting my thinking stamina back and continuing on with my technology pursuits in education.