Widowed Without A Manual

Some of us grieve longer then others. I will not be rushed out of my love, that still inhabits my heart.

Grief Is TRICKSTER

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June 4 2015

Grief is a trickster.
day two of my being home.
home a place that once was and I now have to find out if it still is.
home. what is it really? as I look up the definition I am amazed and at the variety of this small four letter word.
basically we say a place where we live from one time to another and where you receive post. where one lives or where one’s roots are. to the fullest extent. to drive a point home. dwelling. home is where the heart is.
to conclude I would have to say it means a whirl of things.

the first full day I was here, home, I saw everything with strangers eyes. the house seems worn out, tired. I haven’t had a creative thought since I came back here. Yes I know its only two days but it should inspire, shouldn’t it? I know that B does not expect me to continue living his dream here. This is my inheritance and I should take the biggest advantage of it.

Before I came out this week I allowed myself to fantasize about converting the studio into my living space and selling the corner with the house. That failing I could open an artist residency. These are thoughts that should accompany a 30 year old not 60.

There is much love within these walls but there is also much hardship. The immense struggles of making a living from ones art. The disapproval and jealousy from piers. He would often say, ‘no one likes a winer’.

I sit here in a chair that he often sat in. I’m looking down onto the tiled floor where is trusted dog lays. I remember how he used to count the tiles beneath him to mark how fast he was growing. This companion of his is also very old and will most certainly not make the winter. I look at him and think that I just can’t take care of him too. I know I should be able to but I fear that it might pull me back to the depts of darkness. A darkness that I once wanted to make permanent. Do I have the strength to not succumb, again?

To just think it makes me feel guilty. That I’m letting him and B down. I look at those white whiskers and see him sitting next to B in the afterlife.
I had not thought this through. I just wanted him back quick so I could somehow bring B back as well. I mean it all makes sense doesn’t it? I come home after 5 ½ years, I bring Janus back but two days and no sign of B. Not a whisper, not a conversation in my dreams. I was wrong to think I could manage to somehow have the clocks stop and I could live in the night. Happily would I do so. Grief is a trickster. It lets you feel good for a while. It lets you feel the grass on your toes while the sun bathes your body with its warmth. Medication keeps the tears at bay giving you the illusion that you have cried your last cry. Then unexpectedly you walk into a situation where all that was meets with all that is and your on the balance beam again. Your standing on uncertain stones trying not to breath for you could fall off. The question is are you balancing to survive or holding onto a moment to let your soul absorb every emotion, to relish in the experience the moment of choice.. Stay or go..

My first morning waking in our bed in our room looking at his majestic mural on our wall. I could see the bridge as a gate. Past the gate were faint images of his essence. There was also a large birds head but the end of the beck there was another smaller birds head. There was also an erect penis, [isn’t there always hehe] The strangest thing of all were four letters that kept coming into focus and going. it was M O V E.

Was that a sign from B on the other side or was it my subconscious peering out? I can go both ways on that thought,,,,,, buttttt I do have the stronger feeling that its B trying to help me out of this room I have locked myself in.

I’m sorry if my post today was not an inspiration. This widowed without a manual still holds truth.

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Author: ilovecloudstoo

I live in Canada thought I was not born here. Newfoundland is where my heart breathes. Primarily I am a visual artist, welded and or cast bronze sculptures. Sylvia Plath may have been the seed planted in me that is creating poetry. Since then I have read so many great modern poets work. Art is my sustaining business poetry sustains my soul.

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