Despite having Chris Stapleton’s encouraging song as my theme for an entire year, and despite getting up, bathing, dressing, and sometimes even going out, I’ve been unable to restart my life since my husband’s death in 2021. I acknowledge that part of that inability is having had no real desire to continue. My dear family has kept me from the darkest points and they’ve inspired me in trying to recover some sense of self and maybe consider the possibility of joy again.

But nothing has sustained any momentum built, and each day has continued to be a re-grieving, as I wake up and reach for him and he’s not there. This week is always particularly difficult, as our birthdays- four days apart- were always celebrated all week, sometimes culminating in a group “Gemini Party”at our house. I’ve consequently alternated between sadness and anger, failing miserably at my attempts to distract myself and be cool.

A few weeks ago, a dear friend with whom I‘d reconnected a year or so ago, called me out of the blue to deliver a message he’d received from Spirit. The message was, “Don’t hold hands with the dead” repeated several times.

Now ordinarily, I’d have taken that as metaphor, a reminder that like it or not, I’m still on this side of the grave and that I need to somehow let go or something like that. And to some degree that is how I decided to interpret it. But in reality, his words hit me like a baseball bat, because about a month before his call, I’d held my late husband’s hand.

This came about after one particularly intense bout of tearfully crying out for him to return to me or take me to where he is. Wracking sobs and entreaties led to the sense of his presence. I often sense him to be here, but lately I’d been making a conscious effort to move away from magical thinking and to accept this as a psychological manifestation of my grief.

So on this particular night, still sobbing, I yelled out “You’re not really here, you’re dead and I have to stop this! You’re not coming back and I have to get that through my head.”

Turning away, I heard his voice: I am here, Anjana. I love you and I’m here.”

Then, “Hold out your hand, Anjana.”

Cautiously, I opened my hand, wondering what it meant. And just then, as I lay on my bed with my arm extended and palm open, I felt my husband’s hand in mine. The weight, the warmth, the texture of his hand, first simply on mine, then encircling my fingers, as he’d done ten thousand times. And I felt the most profound sense of peace and love I’d felt since his passing.

Shocked and joyous, I sat upright and said, “You’re here! You’re really here!!!”

Quietly, he responded in that sweet voice I knew so well, “I’m here, Anjana. I’m always really here.”

Happy, but confused, I asked why I couldn’t see him, why I’d never felt him so corporeally before. And he began to explain the tremendous amount of energy such manifestations require, and how it was not something he could or should do regularly.

This made sense to me and fit with things I’d been taught when young, so I accepted the gift of his presence and basked in the sense of him and the love that permeated the room.

Now this might be a good time to add a bit more about my husband. Although everyone saw me as the spiritual leader and more advanced soul, I knew that my husband had some special qualities that I’d felt only with a very few spiritual teachers and other folks. He was almost always cheerful in his quiet way, and had an amazing ability to calm my rather high strung nerves simply by entering into my presence. As he was doing that night, he would simply hold my hand and my blood pressure would drop 10-20 points to normal. I’m not talking about the grounding that comes from being with someone you love, I’m talking about what yogis would call a siddhi, and being my walking valium wasn’t his only power.

Perhaps my favorite was his ability to keep me warm. While most men tend to have warmer bodies than women, Ray could aim and project his heat. He’d ask where I was cold and without moving a muscle, I’d feel toasty radiant heat in whatever area I’d specified. I asked him once how he was able to do it, because it really was extraordinary, and he said he didn’t know. He simply thought it and it went there. In 37 years, I’d never had cold feet or hands and my first winter without him came as a complete shock, requiring socks, extra blankets, and a portable heater.

When he died, a dear friend who is a Buddhist monk, did a traditional seven day ritual for his spirit. At the end of that period, he contacted me and said “You know Raymond is a bodhisattva!” I answered that I wasn’t surprised, and he continued, “He has offered to remain in this realm in order to help others, and you can call on him whenever you need him. He’ll be here for you and for others.”

I openly wept, because being of service and helping people was what he always wanted to do. I managed to say only “I can believe that.”Going through his notebooks after his death, I found plans he had for starting a business dedicated to helping elders and invalids, providing the services that often fall between the cracks: running errands, household chores that cleaners might not do. Just generally being useful and bringing his air of patient kindness and respect to everyone he met.

So I took my friend’s message not to hold hands with the dead quite seriously, even as I mentally rejected it, because I knew in my heart that if my husband wanted to hold hands with me, we were going to hold hands. That intense act had brought me the most fulfilling sense of peace and of being loved that I’d felt in nearly four years, and with respect, I knew I’d always take his hand whenever he extended it to me, just as I had in life. It was the one gesture he would use that could cut through my anger or hurt or fear and bring me back to balance and comfort and love. If he added his exaggerated, big eyed, tilted head look, he knew I’d laugh. It was, for whatever reason, a locus of his considerable ability to divert my anger and remind me of how much I always loved him, even when he was being a complete asshole or fool. He always knew that once I took his hand, I’d be his, always. And resist as I might for a while, at some point, I was going to take the hand that waited patiently and confidently for mine.

And no, I wasn’t going to lie to myself: if he graced me with his physical presence again I was sure as hell going to hold his warm, cushy hand. But I did make a decision to practice being more present in my life and to make an effort to accept being alive and find ways to seek joy in that. Best I could offer, and still not an easy row to hoe. But I’m trying, and today was one of those remarkably sweet days, starting with listening six times to a song my friend wrote for his beautiful wife one Valentine’s Day. And as I listened, I almost heard Raymond singing it to me, exactly the kind of song he’d sing for me to make me smile or rock me to sleep.

With an energy I haven’t felt in some time, I got two loads of clothes washed and folded, completely rearranged the pantry, and most significantly, cooked in a way I haven’t since my husband died. I cooked as though he was here and I could see the complete rapture with which he ate my food, making me feel like the most revered chef in the world. I made two of his favorite dishes and a big pot of coffee, just the way he’d like. And I felt love for myself in taking care of me as he did, cooking all day for the first time in four years and taking care of things I’ve neglected or done only minimally.

Love uplifts and love sustains. Real love might make you a little crazy sometimes, but  love weathers even the tsunamis of grief. True love  never ends.

And that’s the thatness of that.

https://youtu.be/-Bu0vN9W_JI?si=H8lvQ83dR1AisOBe

Y’all might be tired of me, but I just want you to know that yesterday I finished physical rehab for my knee. To celebrate and test out their assessment that I could resume normal activities, I decided to check out a park I sometimes pass but have never entered. I’ve missed being in wooded areas, and figured I have a good chance of fighting off or bullshitting any scary people I might encounter. 

Besides, I’d had another mini adventure on Tuesday when, while in an area of town I’ve only been to twice, I somehow thought I might be near a BBQ place the ladies at the phone store had recommended when I first arrived in SC. Turned out to be only eight minutes from my errand, and I was thrilled to finally feel I had a sense of location in relationship to anything here, in a place that does not run along the NY grids I’ve known for most of my life. Looking forward to seeing if it was as good as I remembered, I entered and proceeded to act as goofy as many tourists would when I lived in New York. I somehow managed to always be going the wrong way where people were trying to go, had too many questions that the very busy, yet patient staff tried to answer, and managed to bump into or cut in front of the same gentleman three times. After the third time, I could only laugh, apologize, and say, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this!” And fortunately, he was amused and witty, quickly replying with a serious face, “Why?” giving us both a good laugh and relieving my very uncharacteristic awkwardness.

 Today, being a bit hyped when I left the physical therapist, I decided to make my way downtown, maybe have, or pick up some lunch, be around friendly people, and enjoy this beautiful, sunny day. As I headed there, I again noticed the sign for the park I’ve never been in. One of the things I’ve missed most while being incapacitated has been my pretty regular walks in a nature reserve not far from my house. So this seemed like a good time to check out this park, walk a little bit, but mostly just enjoy the woods and the sense of peace it brings to my soul before heading to our adorable downtown area.

As I entered, it appeared to be somewhat similar to my local, but with a worse entrance road. The scenes I glimpsed through my right-side window as I carefully made my way to the parking lot were inviting, with tall trees, and what looked like a lake or stream from the car. I said hello to the trees and thanked them for being here, happy that the recent wildfires hadn’t reached this area, and that these wetland woods were being preserved.

 The parking lot was empty except for one car. No entrance station, but one picnic table a few yards from the information sign and a fence leading to the main trail. I surveyed the desolate area, clear in my mind that this would be a short exploration for both physical and safety reasons. Got out to explore, knowing that I wasn’t going far with my cane, but remembered that I keep trekking poles in the car, and retrieved them, figuring that I could get closer to the cypresses that so fascinate me and take a photo, but not get close enough to fall in or have any problems.

As I got closer, I realized that although it fed into the Waccamaw River, this area was, in fact, swampland. Now folks who know me know that I’m a bit phobic about swamps. I can appreciate them and their mysterious beauty, and I’ll fight for their preservation and for the critters that make those swamps their homes. But I do NOT enter swamps, willingly. Driving my son one day during my first year here, he noticed that I was close to the yellow line and made a remark, thinking that I needed to be warned. I in turn explained to him that I had a mortal fear of driving into the swamps that line the sides of the roads and around which there are no barriers. Surprised, he said, “You could get into a head-on collision, isn’t that scarier?!? You’d probably survive a crash into a swamp, Ma.”

I’m not sure if I said exactly what I was thinking, but I made it clear that the likelihood of death was less disturbing to me than the possibility of winding up in the swamp. My phobia might be born of stories from my elders, or just the fact that the water is murky and a repository of who knows what. Whatever its origins, it is visceral and real.

In the years since, I’ve become more secure, and very consciously stay in the middle of my lane rather than the edge furthest from the swamp, but my feelings about swamps remain.

When I entered the park and from what I initially saw, I had no idea that I was heading towards swampland, but once I did, I decided to be brave and athat I wasn’t leaving without trying to get that photo if it could be safely accomplished.

I began to make my way very carefully down the incline, checking for critters, but also anything that might cause me to trip or slide. I stopped every few feet, checking for safety, but also enjoying the scenery at each angle. As I continued down the hill, I noticed a lovely circle of trees, like a giant fairy circle in the woods. It looked like a perfect spot for my photo, and I made my way over to it, quietly asking permission of any inhabitants, and assuring them that I intended no harm to any. As I settled into the circle, I had a good view of the water and noted the fallen branches along the water’s edge. Now two things I learned early on in the South when I spent summers with my grandfather in North Carolina: ya don’t swim in dark/murky waters, and every log isn’t a log! I’ve been reminded of both since moving here, but since I seldom enter anything other than my son’s pool or take an occasional trip to the nearby ocean, these bits of wisdom were in the recesses of my mind. Until today.

As I looked at the logs, one in particular caught my eye, pricking my Spidey senses and causing me to focus my myopic sight as keenly as possible. Remaining still and silent, I watched that log intently. Nothing. But something told me to keep watch, even as I was considering how best to make my way up the slope and back to my car, should the need arise. I remembered hearing that gators couldn’t make sharp turns, and I accessed my ability to “run serpentine” thinking that as slow as I am, the gator might be confused by a human running at angles and in slow motion, thus giving me the chance to make my getaway. I don’t know if gators can laugh, but I imagined that the ridiculous sight of a semi-crippled old lady imitating the funniest scene from “The In Laws” might evoke surprise and amusement enough to slow it down.

And immediately after I had that thought, the log blinked! I in turn blinked, and then, without alarming it, and as quietly and quickly as my arthritic legs could move, I skedaddled!

I’ve had encounters with elk and once with a bear, and I’m respectful towards all living beings, and try never to disrespect their ways, homes, or relatives, so it seemed wise to leave this creature to its territory, because I don’t know much about gators or crocodiles, but I know damned well that even with an adrenaline burst, I can’t outrun one!

Now I’m here to tell you that South Carolina is a beautiful place, with wonderful people, but I am not a lowlands kind of person. I do not like heat and humidity, and ancient as I may be, I do not belong in physical proximity to prehistoric reptiles! That’s a big, fat NOPE for me. Anoles, yes, gators/crocs, no! I’m not a person who tends to panic or lose control, but you can believe that my progress was as swift and steady as I could make it, twisted humor and all.

Once safely ensconced in my locked car, I vowed never to explore the woodlands here alone again. For the foreseeable future, I’ll stick with my local forest reserve, the beaches and finding good places to eat. In my many decades on this earth and in spite of my extensive vocabulary, I have never had cause to say “skedaddle” and I hope never to have such again.

Reptiles: .5, Cool Old Lady: 1

 With no disrespect intended to the tune “I Lived To Tell About It” by War and Pierce that’s been running in my brain since: https://youtu.be/6Yjo4_WHGug?si=akkXOuukiOj9gcOUhttps://youtu.be/m4zwP-W2wwwhttps://youtu.be/m4zwP-W2www