Saturday, February 26, 2005
In the summer of 2001, my life changed from white to black, light to dark, sunny to cloudy, bright to dull. It was a gradual transition over the preceeding year that climaxed abruptly with the end of my beloved’s life. Who is to say that smoking caused his death, but certainly smoking invited the cancer. As the cancer took time to develop, the adjustment to my loss took time. For the first year, I existed in a stupor, a form of shock where I went through only the daily tasks necessary for existence. A greater being than I took over my routine, "Cook now. Eat healthy foods. Drink lots of water. Now rest. Sleep. You will heal." Not only had the cancer taken my husband’s life, it had taken my life, as I knew it, and made me a zombie. It was the night of the living dead. Now three and a half years later, my grief has subsided. Today I am back in life as we humans have defined it. I am working. I am playing. I have released my dear one from this world. His spirit is free from the responsibility of reminding me to eat, dress, sleep and build a community on Earth. I am here. He is there and everywhere. We are both at peace. At peace with it, the separation. My wound has healed--with scar tissue, yes--but healed, closed. And now, almost four years hence, I am ready for the next sixteen years of my life. Or the next twenty. The cycle. I have let him go. I will accept the new life that is mine ... the good that comes my way. Chapter closed. New beginnings.