Seven Hundred and Thirty Days and Nights

October 2 1014

Two years.

Seven hundren and thirty days and nights.

When I think of waking up seven hundren and thirty times I feel exhausted.

I wonder to myself, why do I even commemorate this day?

The day my husband died!

Would it not be better , emotionally anyway to commemorate the first time we made love, or the first time we looked at eachother and just knew that a life had just begun.

Why do we commemorate when someone very dear to us left?



On that moment.

That split second, we become consumed with sadness.

There is a void. Black emptiness where someone once filled the space, now no more.

Like a lung collapsing,whusshhhhhhhhh.

It takes us a while before we can take a deep breath again.

A while before we fully understand that we are now alone.

While friends and family are vastly important it’s often better not telling them of this lonliness.

They take it personally, or feel insulted that their presents does not compare.

Days do get better. Meds help a lot.  



Grieving may be embarrasing to others.

Grieving is an extension of the love I feel.

For me anyway.

Everyone is different.

Today I feel an intense pain in my chest. I know its because my mind has learned how to shut things out, but the pain just shows up somewhere else.

Two years.

Seven hundren and thirty days and nights.


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To Walk Down the Road You must First Be Aware of The Speed Limit











I can barely see the reduction of things I must pack. This weekend there was a big neighbourhood garage sale so I leaped to the opportunity to relieve this house of things.

I had decided to create a living room setting for all the things I put there were of the living room left overs.

The white wicker chair.

The white wicker stool.

The white wooden ladder.

The white ceramic plate and white painted river rocks.

The stand up lamp and matching clip on.

The t.v., the dvd player.

Two ironing boards, with an iron on top.

Hot pink chair with 60’s pillows.

My sisters cabinet.

White baskets.

One very ugly end table, this did not attract any attention.

All the whites were loaded up into a small care by a woman I think I may become friends with in the future. She invited me to sit by the lake at her place about an hour outside of town. She spoke of mystical properties of soft edges river rocks. I told her that yes I knew of such powers but for me its the finding that gives me great pleasure. I am in transition and this phase means I have now reached a place where I am letting things go.

When you believe that purpose leads us to avenues and our choosing certain routes is part of our learning paths that sense of urgency for the most part is removed. I don’t mean to say that I sit waiting for life to come to my front door. Every day I try and understand the moment I am in. Saturday it brought two people here to look at the house. They did not purchase it but we had a personal discussion of the events that we had lived in terms of caring for loved ones and the family structure. So was it a failed viewing of a house or was it a needed side trip of emotional value. I chose the latter.

My siblings have an abundance of financial values so the sale of mom’s house is urgent to them for they just want to get on and possibly give their share to their kids. For me, well I do need the money but perhaps more so I need to cherish the moments of leaving mom’s house. I feel that as long as her ashes are here with me that we are still finding ways to say goodbye.

I know the right family will look at the house and see themselves build a life here within these walls. It’s well priced for a family but not for someone that just wants to flip it.

To conclude today I would leave on these points,

take the time you need! Grieving is a process of emotional inventory and filing in a way. As an artist my inventory comes from the hundreds of drawings I created and still create of my path. the filing is my choosing which gets transferred into a painting or sculpture or poem.

These past two weeks I have let go of so many of B’s clothing items. My only compensation was that he is in every sculpture and painting and drawing he created. He Is in every monumental sculpture that graces the city streets. But I still keep things like his pen that I found in his jacket.

When someone has been a part of your every day and breathe for 32 or more years or more, speed is not a word that suits at this time.