Dear Ellen
It will be one year tomorrow since you died.
This is what I've realized and learned within the past years journey...
You were the most vibrant, full of life and loving person I'd ever met. Strong and strong willed, yet shy and withdrawn into your shell when frightened. Hard working and honest to a fault. Intelligent, creative and insightful. Affectionate and kind, quick to laugh, sweet natured, but with a wicked sense of humor. Generous and beautiful both inside and out. Most of all, you lived life to its fullest from the first time I met you.
Cancer changed your ability to live life the way you wanted. It was a shock, physically and emotionally, to comprehend the changes happening so quickly. You were thrown into a tailspin of hospitals and treatments all the while dealing with your own mortality. You found a way to deal with the changes in your body and found a way to adjust to a life in which you had so little control. Sad and frightened in the beginning you slowly found a way to fight, a way to endure, a way to accept and finally a way to let go. You rarely complained, despite the pain. You drew from an inner strength and faith I could only admire. The peace, acceptance and pure love in your eyes during your last days reassured me I could let go too.
I was a very different person before I met you. Closed off from myself and most of the world, not confident and not very happy. Our relationship changed me. I learned how to live, how to truly enjoy each day and appreciate what we shared. I grew into someone I could finally live with and for the first time, finally happy too. You brought out the best in me. When you were diagnosed with cancer it was devastating. The very thing I most feared was happening, unfolding before my eyes and there was no stopping it. I became a warrior, a caregiver, a nurse, I fought doctors and insurance companies and anyone who stood in the way of you getting better. I gave myself completely to the fight and became someone I didn't know existed inside me. I kept fighting until your eyes told me to stop.
I would do it all again in a heartbeat.
And now a year has passed. I'm not the same person I was before I met you. I'm not the same person I was before you were diagnosed. I'm not the person I was the day you died a year ago. I'm someone I didn't know existed inside me. Losing you was so hard, but the experience and the good I've gleaned from it has made me stronger and wiser. Our friends and family have carried me when I couldn't walk. Your memory and my willingness to honor it has pushed me forward when I was afraid. Strangers have found me, through this blog or through my art and left me messages of profound love and encouragment. I didn't do this alone. These connections and conversations woven with others is what sustained and taught me the most these past months. I've learned life is still worth living and joy is still possible. There are times of deep sadness, but I'm slowly healing and learning my heart is bigger than I thought. A little scarred, but bigger.
I'm finding ways to gently pack up the memories, find a place to keep them, find a way to honor and draw strength from them. They're gifts you and the life we shared have given me. I need to find a way to move forward with my own life now and I know, because we talked about it many times after you became ill, you would want me to do nothing less. You wanted me to find a way to be happy again. You brought me home, here to New Orleans, because you knew I needed a place to grow. I've felt your guidance, sensed your presence and honored your memory as best I could. Somehow, I knew I couldn't let either of us down.
You taught me a year ago how to accept, to let go, to find peace. Today I understand.
Dear sweet Ellen, I will always miss your laughter.
love,
cathy
Monday, January 3, 2011
Friday, December 24, 2010
Christmas Eve
Dear Ellen
It's Christmas Eve. A year ago, a lifetime ago, I wrote on this same evening about your decline, about your slipping away from us. Can it really be a year ago? I didn't think I could live ten minutes without you and yet here I am, still learning to deal with the loss, but learning so much in the process. I've cried an entire river of tears, but I've found a strength I never knew I had.
I've thought over and over again "why". There's no answer to the question and there never will be. Or at least, not in this lifetime. All I could ever do was accept and move forward one inch at a time. I listened to what I thought was your voice, loud and clear, reminding me to pick myself up, stop feeling sorry for myself and get busy. Very busy. Somehow, I thought anything less than giving my best effort would be a disappointment to both of us.
I think there was something you were to learn here on this earth, there was a reason you were taken from us so young. A lesson I will never comprehend because it was yours alone. Is it my lesson to accept loss? To learn from it? Is this your final gift to me, to teach me I'm stronger than I thought? That I can take something so painful and use it to make me a better person? Is it what we choose to do with loss that defines us, shapes us, allows us to move forward?
I believe there was a reason we were placed in each others lives. I can't comprehend the reason, but I know we cared for each other and I do believe something good must come from losing you. I think I've spent the better part of the year trying to understand this.
A year. A year to learn so much.
Merry Christmas Ellen.
love
cathy
It's Christmas Eve. A year ago, a lifetime ago, I wrote on this same evening about your decline, about your slipping away from us. Can it really be a year ago? I didn't think I could live ten minutes without you and yet here I am, still learning to deal with the loss, but learning so much in the process. I've cried an entire river of tears, but I've found a strength I never knew I had.
I've thought over and over again "why". There's no answer to the question and there never will be. Or at least, not in this lifetime. All I could ever do was accept and move forward one inch at a time. I listened to what I thought was your voice, loud and clear, reminding me to pick myself up, stop feeling sorry for myself and get busy. Very busy. Somehow, I thought anything less than giving my best effort would be a disappointment to both of us.
I think there was something you were to learn here on this earth, there was a reason you were taken from us so young. A lesson I will never comprehend because it was yours alone. Is it my lesson to accept loss? To learn from it? Is this your final gift to me, to teach me I'm stronger than I thought? That I can take something so painful and use it to make me a better person? Is it what we choose to do with loss that defines us, shapes us, allows us to move forward?
I believe there was a reason we were placed in each others lives. I can't comprehend the reason, but I know we cared for each other and I do believe something good must come from losing you. I think I've spent the better part of the year trying to understand this.
A year. A year to learn so much.
Merry Christmas Ellen.
love
cathy
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
A years journey
Dear Ellen
Your birthday party was perfect. Lots of laughter, a few tears, great stories and memories to share. It was exactly the way I wanted to honor your day and I think it would have pleased you to know we were together, missing you, but remembering you in such a special way.
My birthday is Thursday this week. Last year that day was one of the most difficult days I think I've known. It was the day I lost hope. I realize now you had let go weeks before and was simply waiting for me to realize it too. After months of fighting to keep you, of thinking there was a chance with the last chemotherapy, of refusing to accept losing you I finally realized there was no hope. You were dying and nothing was going to stop it. I couldn't stop it. You weren't capable of many words then, but your eyes said it all. I realized something as I watched you sleeping on the sofa during that afternoon. If I kept fighting my own fight you would be alone in your journey. If I let go, I could walk a least a little further with you. I wanted to help you through to where you needed to go and I wanted you to know you wouldn't be alone to get there. So I let go.
It was the hardest thing I've ever done.
In letting go of you I let go of myself too. What I knew about me, about us, about life in general was lost. In the days and weeks after you died I felt I'd never find my way back to living. I spent the better part of this year trying to figure out how to begin again, how to breathe again, how to figure out who I'm supposed to be in this world.
How to find hope again.
I dreaded December for a long while until last month when I realized I had to think differently about it if I wanted to survive it. So, a birthday party for you and yes, a birthday party for me. I have to take back my birthday. I can't remember it as a day of loss. A birthday party with cake, good food, great friends and many reminders life is still worth living. Maybe hats and a birthday dance too. Maybe a birthday shuffle conga line.
There's no escaping some of the emotions, the feelings, the sadness during this month and I'll feel all of it. But there's a balance now that I didn't feel before. There's good too. There's laughter again.
There's hope.
Love,
cathy
Your birthday party was perfect. Lots of laughter, a few tears, great stories and memories to share. It was exactly the way I wanted to honor your day and I think it would have pleased you to know we were together, missing you, but remembering you in such a special way.
My birthday is Thursday this week. Last year that day was one of the most difficult days I think I've known. It was the day I lost hope. I realize now you had let go weeks before and was simply waiting for me to realize it too. After months of fighting to keep you, of thinking there was a chance with the last chemotherapy, of refusing to accept losing you I finally realized there was no hope. You were dying and nothing was going to stop it. I couldn't stop it. You weren't capable of many words then, but your eyes said it all. I realized something as I watched you sleeping on the sofa during that afternoon. If I kept fighting my own fight you would be alone in your journey. If I let go, I could walk a least a little further with you. I wanted to help you through to where you needed to go and I wanted you to know you wouldn't be alone to get there. So I let go.
It was the hardest thing I've ever done.
In letting go of you I let go of myself too. What I knew about me, about us, about life in general was lost. In the days and weeks after you died I felt I'd never find my way back to living. I spent the better part of this year trying to figure out how to begin again, how to breathe again, how to figure out who I'm supposed to be in this world.
How to find hope again.
I dreaded December for a long while until last month when I realized I had to think differently about it if I wanted to survive it. So, a birthday party for you and yes, a birthday party for me. I have to take back my birthday. I can't remember it as a day of loss. A birthday party with cake, good food, great friends and many reminders life is still worth living. Maybe hats and a birthday dance too. Maybe a birthday shuffle conga line.
There's no escaping some of the emotions, the feelings, the sadness during this month and I'll feel all of it. But there's a balance now that I didn't feel before. There's good too. There's laughter again.
There's hope.
Love,
cathy
Monday, December 6, 2010
Birthday Wishes
Dear Ellen
Wednesday is your birthday. You would have been 54. I have been trying to remember the many birthdays we shared in the years before your diagnosis, celebrations of a life well lived, surrounded by love, good friends and laughter. It's the way I want to remember your day, though I admit I also find myself caught up in the sadness of last year at this time. The day of your birth in this world, the day you celebrated your very existance should be a day of hope and joy. And that is how I want to celebrate it this year too.
So a birthday party is planned at your favorite restaurant. A gathering with family and dear friends to celebrate you and what you meant to all of us. Probably a few tears will fall, but I know we will all be remembering the Ellen who was full of life and quick to laugh. The Ellen who was always ready for a good time, a good meal, and perhaps a glass of good wine. The Ellen who would spend hours fixing her hair, putting on makeup and going through every cute outfit in the closet to wear for the occasion. The Ellen who would lite up a room when she walked in. That's the birthday I want for you.
I am asking our friends and families to send you a birthday wish. When you were so sick they would join together and send you messages of hope, prayers and love. The positive energy was always felt and you were so touched by those reaching out in kindness. You felt loved and I think that love helped you find the strength to deal with the fear, to find some peace around it. Honestly, I think the love of your family and friends kept us both going when things were hardest.
So, sometime on Wednesday, a moment of stillness large enough to contain a loving thought, a prayer, a memory of Ellen full of love and laughter. A message sent in streams of love to you on your special day. A birthday you would love.
I know you'll be the happiest one at the party.
Happy Birthday dear Ellen.
love,
cathy
Wednesday is your birthday. You would have been 54. I have been trying to remember the many birthdays we shared in the years before your diagnosis, celebrations of a life well lived, surrounded by love, good friends and laughter. It's the way I want to remember your day, though I admit I also find myself caught up in the sadness of last year at this time. The day of your birth in this world, the day you celebrated your very existance should be a day of hope and joy. And that is how I want to celebrate it this year too.
So a birthday party is planned at your favorite restaurant. A gathering with family and dear friends to celebrate you and what you meant to all of us. Probably a few tears will fall, but I know we will all be remembering the Ellen who was full of life and quick to laugh. The Ellen who was always ready for a good time, a good meal, and perhaps a glass of good wine. The Ellen who would spend hours fixing her hair, putting on makeup and going through every cute outfit in the closet to wear for the occasion. The Ellen who would lite up a room when she walked in. That's the birthday I want for you.
I am asking our friends and families to send you a birthday wish. When you were so sick they would join together and send you messages of hope, prayers and love. The positive energy was always felt and you were so touched by those reaching out in kindness. You felt loved and I think that love helped you find the strength to deal with the fear, to find some peace around it. Honestly, I think the love of your family and friends kept us both going when things were hardest.
So, sometime on Wednesday, a moment of stillness large enough to contain a loving thought, a prayer, a memory of Ellen full of love and laughter. A message sent in streams of love to you on your special day. A birthday you would love.
I know you'll be the happiest one at the party.
Happy Birthday dear Ellen.
love,
cathy
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Into December
Dear Ellen
It's the end of November. A year ago you had a brain bleed which took away the Ellen I knew. The tumors were growing rapidly, unchecked by the chemotherapy which had kept them at bay. This was the beginning of the end. I've anticipated this coming time for several months, knowing it would be difficult, knowing the memories would turn dark, knowing I can't escape the emotions. No matter how many walls of defense I've managed to build over the past months I know these next weeks will shake my foundations.
I think of you and what you had to experience and endure. I will never be able to comprehend the emotions you must have felt, knowing you were dying. I watched the changes in your personality, watched you deal with the confusion over the changes in your physical condition and witnessed your acceptance of each. I watched you slip away from me as I struggled to care for you, as I struggled to find the same acceptance in losing you. Each day brought another change in your condition, each hour brought another challenge in simply adapting to what was happening. No matter my will to protect you, no matter my struggle to keep you safe and comforted, I was going to lose you.
I felt so helpless.
Perhaps this is what I still struggle with the most. I couldn't save you.
Such a simple statement to contain such a mountain of emotions to unravel. Where do I begin? Where will December take me?
love
cathy
It's the end of November. A year ago you had a brain bleed which took away the Ellen I knew. The tumors were growing rapidly, unchecked by the chemotherapy which had kept them at bay. This was the beginning of the end. I've anticipated this coming time for several months, knowing it would be difficult, knowing the memories would turn dark, knowing I can't escape the emotions. No matter how many walls of defense I've managed to build over the past months I know these next weeks will shake my foundations.
I think of you and what you had to experience and endure. I will never be able to comprehend the emotions you must have felt, knowing you were dying. I watched the changes in your personality, watched you deal with the confusion over the changes in your physical condition and witnessed your acceptance of each. I watched you slip away from me as I struggled to care for you, as I struggled to find the same acceptance in losing you. Each day brought another change in your condition, each hour brought another challenge in simply adapting to what was happening. No matter my will to protect you, no matter my struggle to keep you safe and comforted, I was going to lose you.
I felt so helpless.
Perhaps this is what I still struggle with the most. I couldn't save you.
Such a simple statement to contain such a mountain of emotions to unravel. Where do I begin? Where will December take me?
love
cathy
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Threads
Dear Ellen
I am finally home again, safe and sound, now rested, now happy to be back in the routine of simpler things. The show in Philadelphia was a success in many ways, but the connection to friends and the interaction with people seems to be most important to me in these past few shows. I find the messages in these conversations are always just exactly what I'm needing to hear and the emotional connection so beautiful. It's almost as though I sit and wait for it to walk in, expecting it, knowing there will be someone who will share something amazing with me at some point.
Sure enough, the messinger arrived.
A man walked into my booth and looked carefully at each piece of art, leaving and then returning some time later to make a selection. He chose a piece and as we completed the transaction he told me he was touched by my work and was giving the art as a gift to his five year old daughter. He then shared he had terminal cancer. We spoke for just a few moments, but the connection was genuine and touching. There was an understanding communicated through my work to him and through his vulnerable conversation to me. I thought that was the "gem" I'd been anticipating.
I returned home and although happy to be in familiar surroundings I felt somewhat lost, the result of traveling a 100 miles an hour for the past month and then stopping abruptly at the end of the journey. In a funk, I went to the studio to pick up my mail, expecting to find a stack of bills. Instead I found a letter from the man I had spoken with. The envelope contained a wonderful little drawing by his daughter and a poem he had written for me. I found myself dropping into a chair to cry. This man who I had never met had been moved enough by my work to write this beautiful poem. What an amazing gift from a complete stranger. The poem is focused on a small sculpture I had done of a feminine figure hanging upside down by wires, encased in translucent cloth and representing a cocoon, a chrysalis. The title of the piece was "Transformed" and this is his poem:
Star toed, she hangs,
The porcelain pendulum of a chrysalis,
Encapsulated,
Defying the shell of her spent vessel.
Woven memory,
Love fed new life.
Shadow partnered,
Each movement,
A dance step echoed.
The choreopgraphy,
The serendipity of lives shared.
One so close, another name not needed,
Halves merged without the vestige of separation.
Hush-
Hear the wings of gossamer unfolding.
Over the many years I have been doing shows as an artist I've had wonderful encounters with people, but never have I been so touched and humbled by such a sweet gesture. It reminds me, again, of what's important. You taught me this lesson through your life and within our relationship to each other. It's the human connection, the threads which bind us to one another, making us whole and truly alive, which live on when we leave this world for another. What a beautiful gift in such simplicity.
So, I turn toward December and the month which holds too many memories.
And I carry these threads as my shield.
Love,
cathy
I am finally home again, safe and sound, now rested, now happy to be back in the routine of simpler things. The show in Philadelphia was a success in many ways, but the connection to friends and the interaction with people seems to be most important to me in these past few shows. I find the messages in these conversations are always just exactly what I'm needing to hear and the emotional connection so beautiful. It's almost as though I sit and wait for it to walk in, expecting it, knowing there will be someone who will share something amazing with me at some point.
Sure enough, the messinger arrived.
A man walked into my booth and looked carefully at each piece of art, leaving and then returning some time later to make a selection. He chose a piece and as we completed the transaction he told me he was touched by my work and was giving the art as a gift to his five year old daughter. He then shared he had terminal cancer. We spoke for just a few moments, but the connection was genuine and touching. There was an understanding communicated through my work to him and through his vulnerable conversation to me. I thought that was the "gem" I'd been anticipating.
I returned home and although happy to be in familiar surroundings I felt somewhat lost, the result of traveling a 100 miles an hour for the past month and then stopping abruptly at the end of the journey. In a funk, I went to the studio to pick up my mail, expecting to find a stack of bills. Instead I found a letter from the man I had spoken with. The envelope contained a wonderful little drawing by his daughter and a poem he had written for me. I found myself dropping into a chair to cry. This man who I had never met had been moved enough by my work to write this beautiful poem. What an amazing gift from a complete stranger. The poem is focused on a small sculpture I had done of a feminine figure hanging upside down by wires, encased in translucent cloth and representing a cocoon, a chrysalis. The title of the piece was "Transformed" and this is his poem:
Star toed, she hangs,
The porcelain pendulum of a chrysalis,
Encapsulated,
Defying the shell of her spent vessel.
Woven memory,
Love fed new life.
Shadow partnered,
Each movement,
A dance step echoed.
The choreopgraphy,
The serendipity of lives shared.
One so close, another name not needed,
Halves merged without the vestige of separation.
Hush-
Hear the wings of gossamer unfolding.
Over the many years I have been doing shows as an artist I've had wonderful encounters with people, but never have I been so touched and humbled by such a sweet gesture. It reminds me, again, of what's important. You taught me this lesson through your life and within our relationship to each other. It's the human connection, the threads which bind us to one another, making us whole and truly alive, which live on when we leave this world for another. What a beautiful gift in such simplicity.
So, I turn toward December and the month which holds too many memories.
And I carry these threads as my shield.
Love,
cathy
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Dear Ellen
It's been too long since I've written. I've been working a lot, every day since I returned from Kansas City, trying to produce art for the show in Philadelphia. I'm really not sure how I managed to pull off getting it all together, but the truck is packed to the roof with a body of work created in just over 30 days. I'm on my way, another adventure in front of me, the last show of the year.
My work is changing. For months the pain of losing you came through my hands and into the art. It wasn't pretty, but it was powerful and emotional and it helped me heal. As I worked my way through the summer the work became less about the loss and more about the transitions I was going through. Now I think my work is a statement about who I am and who I want to become. I can't fully appreciate or see these changes in myself, but I can see it in my work. Somewhere along the way I found a determination and resolve I didn't realize I had.
So I'm looking forward to taking this show on the road. I anticipate another interesting and educational experience which will come from the most unexpected source possible. Someone at the show will remind me I know nothing about anything and someone will provide me with an amazing moment of insight. It may come from the same person and it may come in the same sentence and if I'm lucky I'll be paying attention and not miss any of it. In the meantime, this is what I've learned this past month. I'm not fighting to hold on to parts of myself I no longer need. I'm finding a balance between resolve and acceptance and the possiblilties of keeping my eyes open.
It's going to be an interesting trip to Philly.
love,
cathy
It's been too long since I've written. I've been working a lot, every day since I returned from Kansas City, trying to produce art for the show in Philadelphia. I'm really not sure how I managed to pull off getting it all together, but the truck is packed to the roof with a body of work created in just over 30 days. I'm on my way, another adventure in front of me, the last show of the year.
My work is changing. For months the pain of losing you came through my hands and into the art. It wasn't pretty, but it was powerful and emotional and it helped me heal. As I worked my way through the summer the work became less about the loss and more about the transitions I was going through. Now I think my work is a statement about who I am and who I want to become. I can't fully appreciate or see these changes in myself, but I can see it in my work. Somewhere along the way I found a determination and resolve I didn't realize I had.
So I'm looking forward to taking this show on the road. I anticipate another interesting and educational experience which will come from the most unexpected source possible. Someone at the show will remind me I know nothing about anything and someone will provide me with an amazing moment of insight. It may come from the same person and it may come in the same sentence and if I'm lucky I'll be paying attention and not miss any of it. In the meantime, this is what I've learned this past month. I'm not fighting to hold on to parts of myself I no longer need. I'm finding a balance between resolve and acceptance and the possiblilties of keeping my eyes open.
It's going to be an interesting trip to Philly.
love,
cathy
Sunday, October 17, 2010
just different
Dear Ellen
I went through your clothes last week. Closets and drawers filled with things I haven't been able to deal with until now. I sorted them into piles and boxed them up, sending some to charity and some to a dark closet where I won't have the daily reminder they're no longer worn. It was hard to go through them and yes, the memories flooded in as expected for each t-shirt or funky pants or cute little dress I knew you had worn. I'd been putting this off, staring at them from time to time as I hunted through the closet for some old t-shirt of my own, never willing to move them or make any changes to this sort of shrine to what was. I had found such comfort in this for a long time, things kept just as you left them. Shoes left in the same spot on the floor for 10 months. I would simply pick them up to sweep under them, placing them back where I thought they belonged. Did I half expect you to come in and ask me where I'd put them? Maybe. I didn't dare move them, just in case.
But it was time. It became harder to walk into the closet and see them there, a constant reminder. I can't move forward if I'm holding on to the past and I know the only way I can continue this journey is to let go. It's not just you I was boxing up, but it was me as well. Clothes and shoes and pieces of me.
It's not so simple. It's not just sorting clothes. It's painful steps again, reminding me of those early months when I walked the world in a deep fog. I know I'm not escaping memories by packing them up, I know there will always be reminders of you, but I carry them differently now. I am different now. Not stronger, not better, not free of pain from the loss, just different.
I think you would understand.
love
cathy
I went through your clothes last week. Closets and drawers filled with things I haven't been able to deal with until now. I sorted them into piles and boxed them up, sending some to charity and some to a dark closet where I won't have the daily reminder they're no longer worn. It was hard to go through them and yes, the memories flooded in as expected for each t-shirt or funky pants or cute little dress I knew you had worn. I'd been putting this off, staring at them from time to time as I hunted through the closet for some old t-shirt of my own, never willing to move them or make any changes to this sort of shrine to what was. I had found such comfort in this for a long time, things kept just as you left them. Shoes left in the same spot on the floor for 10 months. I would simply pick them up to sweep under them, placing them back where I thought they belonged. Did I half expect you to come in and ask me where I'd put them? Maybe. I didn't dare move them, just in case.
But it was time. It became harder to walk into the closet and see them there, a constant reminder. I can't move forward if I'm holding on to the past and I know the only way I can continue this journey is to let go. It's not just you I was boxing up, but it was me as well. Clothes and shoes and pieces of me.
It's not so simple. It's not just sorting clothes. It's painful steps again, reminding me of those early months when I walked the world in a deep fog. I know I'm not escaping memories by packing them up, I know there will always be reminders of you, but I carry them differently now. I am different now. Not stronger, not better, not free of pain from the loss, just different.
I think you would understand.
love
cathy
Sunday, October 3, 2010
About Peace.
Dear Ellen
It's been a whirlwind couple of weeks.
I went to the show in Kansas City thinking it would just be an art show. As usual, I was wrong. I can't begin to count the number of people, both artists and collectors, who came into my booth to just talk with me, ask about you, express their sorrow, share a story about you and simply share themselves with me. It was so kind and so reminded me how many lives you've touched without having ever met them.
A woman came into the booth on Sunday afternoon who had also been there on Friday evening. She looked intently at the work and then came up to me and asked,"how do you find this peace?" I was struck by the intensity and sadness in her eyes as she began to weep openly. We spoke for several minutes as the world revolved around us. I wasn't able to answer her question, I think because it was hers to answer, but I was made aware of the power of the human connection in that conversation. The words we exchanged remained with me as I finished the day and began my drive home.
There is an artist I've known for several years who has been living her life with cancer. She is an amazing artist, a beautiful and thoughtful, wise and kind woman. I hadn't seen her in a couple of years, but found her on Sunday morning at the show. We exchanged a warm hug and she lifted the hat over her head to reveal her cancer had returned, her peach fuzz hair the latest indignity. We spoke at length about your journey and now hers. She expressed how touched she was by you and by how I had continued to honor you and keep your spirit alive. "I just want to be remembered in that way". I was struck by both the words and the deep pain they sourced from. We hugged again as I left her, knowing full well I may never see her again.
I've thought so much about both of these women and our conversations. The connection was real, raw to the bone, honest and haunting. A rare and beautiful thing. So how do we find peace? How do we wish to be remembered?
My work reflects something which I couldn't recognize in myself. I never thought I would feel joy again when I lost you. I am learning, with time, with the empty loss, I have the capacity to feel joy again. My work is not so much about loss now as it is about what I've gained from the loss. In this way you are remembered and cherished. In this way I share your story with other women who are seeking themselves. The peace you found in your journey is carried forward. You will not be forgotten. In this way I will find my own peace.
I miss you
love
cathy
It's been a whirlwind couple of weeks.
I went to the show in Kansas City thinking it would just be an art show. As usual, I was wrong. I can't begin to count the number of people, both artists and collectors, who came into my booth to just talk with me, ask about you, express their sorrow, share a story about you and simply share themselves with me. It was so kind and so reminded me how many lives you've touched without having ever met them.
A woman came into the booth on Sunday afternoon who had also been there on Friday evening. She looked intently at the work and then came up to me and asked,"how do you find this peace?" I was struck by the intensity and sadness in her eyes as she began to weep openly. We spoke for several minutes as the world revolved around us. I wasn't able to answer her question, I think because it was hers to answer, but I was made aware of the power of the human connection in that conversation. The words we exchanged remained with me as I finished the day and began my drive home.
There is an artist I've known for several years who has been living her life with cancer. She is an amazing artist, a beautiful and thoughtful, wise and kind woman. I hadn't seen her in a couple of years, but found her on Sunday morning at the show. We exchanged a warm hug and she lifted the hat over her head to reveal her cancer had returned, her peach fuzz hair the latest indignity. We spoke at length about your journey and now hers. She expressed how touched she was by you and by how I had continued to honor you and keep your spirit alive. "I just want to be remembered in that way". I was struck by both the words and the deep pain they sourced from. We hugged again as I left her, knowing full well I may never see her again.
I've thought so much about both of these women and our conversations. The connection was real, raw to the bone, honest and haunting. A rare and beautiful thing. So how do we find peace? How do we wish to be remembered?
My work reflects something which I couldn't recognize in myself. I never thought I would feel joy again when I lost you. I am learning, with time, with the empty loss, I have the capacity to feel joy again. My work is not so much about loss now as it is about what I've gained from the loss. In this way you are remembered and cherished. In this way I share your story with other women who are seeking themselves. The peace you found in your journey is carried forward. You will not be forgotten. In this way I will find my own peace.
I miss you
love
cathy
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Pieces of the Puzzle
Dear Ellen
Already I'm preparing for another road trip, this time to Kansas City. I'm just barely back to my little routine from the last therapy session and now I'm packing again. The good part is I love Kansas City and the people who come to visit me at the show. It will feel good to be there and it's only a day's drive instead of three. I'll hardly have time to work myself up in thirteen hours.
It's hard to believe how much my life has changed in these past nine months. Sometimes I sit still and let it all in. How did I ever get from where I was in those beginning dark days to where I am now? I don't even remember much of those first few months. I think I just kept getting up in the morning, kept trudging along until I realized my legs were under me. Grief is a great teacher. It's such a painful process, but I've learned so much about who I am and who I want to be. I am at a place now where I can understand and recognize this as a gift. Maybe it's a gift I didn't ever want to experience, but the value has been etched more deeply by the pain. I know it will take me a long time to fully understand how it's changed me, but I am beginning to place the pieces together.
Time to head to the studio. There's a kiln load waiting to be brought forth into the world.
love,
cathy
Already I'm preparing for another road trip, this time to Kansas City. I'm just barely back to my little routine from the last therapy session and now I'm packing again. The good part is I love Kansas City and the people who come to visit me at the show. It will feel good to be there and it's only a day's drive instead of three. I'll hardly have time to work myself up in thirteen hours.
It's hard to believe how much my life has changed in these past nine months. Sometimes I sit still and let it all in. How did I ever get from where I was in those beginning dark days to where I am now? I don't even remember much of those first few months. I think I just kept getting up in the morning, kept trudging along until I realized my legs were under me. Grief is a great teacher. It's such a painful process, but I've learned so much about who I am and who I want to be. I am at a place now where I can understand and recognize this as a gift. Maybe it's a gift I didn't ever want to experience, but the value has been etched more deeply by the pain. I know it will take me a long time to fully understand how it's changed me, but I am beginning to place the pieces together.
Time to head to the studio. There's a kiln load waiting to be brought forth into the world.
love,
cathy
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The journey home.
Dear Ellen
Oh, it's so good to be home. Sitting here on my Sunday bed, surrounded by newspapers and cat, a cup of coffee not from an odd machine in a hotel. No concerns about tearing the room apart for those damn bedbugs I was paranoid about all the way across America.
I am home from my 4,800 mile adventure and finally rested. I know there was an art show sandwiched in between the 60 hours of car therapy, but I realized on the last few hundred miles it was about so much more. I was delirious at that point, but knew it had been a journey I had to find my way through. I think I wanted to push myself, remove myself from a comfortable routine and strip my thoughts down to their core. I resisted for a couple of days and then as I crossed into the Mojave Desert my protective barriers dissolved and so did I. It seemed to fit the desert landscape. Sometimes, I guess, you have to be in a desolate place to find what you're looking for. After some hard tears I found such a beautiful sense of peace as I rolled along, deep in thought, watching the sunrise in my rear view window.
The hole in my chest is closing. It's smaller now. It was a gaping tear reflected in my sculptures, hard to look at without cringing, but necessary for the process of spilling out my grief. I am sure there will always be a small opening near the scar. Grieving you will be a part of me, just as love for you will be held within.
Now though, the opening is left behind for what comes to spill in. Now I have room for whatever it will be.
So the journey emptied me and yet I feel filled again. Funny how sixty odd hours spent in a car with yourself can do that.
The cat is snoring. Happy dreams I suppose. Maybe she's happy I'm home.
I know I am.
love,
cathy
Oh, it's so good to be home. Sitting here on my Sunday bed, surrounded by newspapers and cat, a cup of coffee not from an odd machine in a hotel. No concerns about tearing the room apart for those damn bedbugs I was paranoid about all the way across America.
I am home from my 4,800 mile adventure and finally rested. I know there was an art show sandwiched in between the 60 hours of car therapy, but I realized on the last few hundred miles it was about so much more. I was delirious at that point, but knew it had been a journey I had to find my way through. I think I wanted to push myself, remove myself from a comfortable routine and strip my thoughts down to their core. I resisted for a couple of days and then as I crossed into the Mojave Desert my protective barriers dissolved and so did I. It seemed to fit the desert landscape. Sometimes, I guess, you have to be in a desolate place to find what you're looking for. After some hard tears I found such a beautiful sense of peace as I rolled along, deep in thought, watching the sunrise in my rear view window.
The hole in my chest is closing. It's smaller now. It was a gaping tear reflected in my sculptures, hard to look at without cringing, but necessary for the process of spilling out my grief. I am sure there will always be a small opening near the scar. Grieving you will be a part of me, just as love for you will be held within.
Now though, the opening is left behind for what comes to spill in. Now I have room for whatever it will be.
So the journey emptied me and yet I feel filled again. Funny how sixty odd hours spent in a car with yourself can do that.
The cat is snoring. Happy dreams I suppose. Maybe she's happy I'm home.
I know I am.
love,
cathy
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Dear Ellen
I leave tomorrow for California. The van is packed and waiting, fully loaded down with work for an early morning exit from New Orleans. I wish I could say I'm looking forward to this journey, but the truth is I'm afraid. I know it will be good for me to get away, to experience some fresh air, but the anticipation of spending three days in a car with just me for entertainment is a daunting and frightful thing. I'll be gone for twelve days. Twelve days away from everything I've come to know as safe and routine. My cave where the cat and I hide to heal our wounds, my studio where I'm always happy to be. All my safe little crutches removed. The only connection to sanity will be a cellphone with tenuous coverage for 1,950 of the 2,260 miles I'm traveling.
How can I have come this far, spent so much of the past 8 months alone, and feel so undone about being in a car for six days? I see myself as stronger now and yet, as our dear friend Donna reminded me this morning, I'm also so fragile. I keep pushing forward as though I'm in a race to prove myself, but the truth is I have faultlines along my edges. I'm like the porcelain boat I pulled from the kiln three weeks ago which had split wide open to reveal the flaws hidden in the first firing. No longer perfect, I broke the piece apart and mosaiced it together again. An attempt to make it whole, knowing full well where the faultline still left scars. I can't hide my scars, but they are making me stronger. And maybe I'm learning that being split wide open is a good thing. To be vulnerable, to be afraid, just makes me most human.
It reminds me of a May Sarton poem I read a long time ago called "Somersault", the passage I remember, "Is it a question of discipline or grace? The steel trap of the will or some slight shift within an opened consciousness? The tightrope walker juggles weights, to lift himself up on the stress,and airy master of his own loss, he springs from heaviness. But we, stumbling our way, how learn such poise,the perfect balance of all griefs and joys? Burdened by love, how learn the light release that, out of stress, can somersault to peace?"
I will be allright.
love,
cathy
I leave tomorrow for California. The van is packed and waiting, fully loaded down with work for an early morning exit from New Orleans. I wish I could say I'm looking forward to this journey, but the truth is I'm afraid. I know it will be good for me to get away, to experience some fresh air, but the anticipation of spending three days in a car with just me for entertainment is a daunting and frightful thing. I'll be gone for twelve days. Twelve days away from everything I've come to know as safe and routine. My cave where the cat and I hide to heal our wounds, my studio where I'm always happy to be. All my safe little crutches removed. The only connection to sanity will be a cellphone with tenuous coverage for 1,950 of the 2,260 miles I'm traveling.
How can I have come this far, spent so much of the past 8 months alone, and feel so undone about being in a car for six days? I see myself as stronger now and yet, as our dear friend Donna reminded me this morning, I'm also so fragile. I keep pushing forward as though I'm in a race to prove myself, but the truth is I have faultlines along my edges. I'm like the porcelain boat I pulled from the kiln three weeks ago which had split wide open to reveal the flaws hidden in the first firing. No longer perfect, I broke the piece apart and mosaiced it together again. An attempt to make it whole, knowing full well where the faultline still left scars. I can't hide my scars, but they are making me stronger. And maybe I'm learning that being split wide open is a good thing. To be vulnerable, to be afraid, just makes me most human.
It reminds me of a May Sarton poem I read a long time ago called "Somersault", the passage I remember, "Is it a question of discipline or grace? The steel trap of the will or some slight shift within an opened consciousness? The tightrope walker juggles weights, to lift himself up on the stress,and airy master of his own loss, he springs from heaviness. But we, stumbling our way, how learn such poise,the perfect balance of all griefs and joys? Burdened by love, how learn the light release that, out of stress, can somersault to peace?"
I will be allright.
love,
cathy
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Muse
Dear Ellen
I've been thinking about you a lot this past week. It's crunch time in the studio as I get ready to go to Sausalito for a show. I don't think you liked crunch time too much as it meant I was anxious and grumpy up until the hysterical last minute, but we always managed to get through it and you were always happy to see me when I returned home. My work reflects the change I was hoping for and I'm pleased with it. So many times I wished you were here to help me figure out the finishing touches on a piece and so many times I'd hear you in my head telling me to "calm down". It makes me smile to think of how many times you've had to tell me that.
In a way, I'm taking you with me to Sausalito. The new work is clearly about the loss and transitions I'm making, the expressions and emotions reflected in the faces I've carved. For the first time in a few years I am a little afraid of setting them up at a show and hearing the reactions from people. It feels like I've been stripped down to a core and now waiting for the verdict. I guess, like you would say, "there's only one way to find out". So, a week from today it's off to California and in the meantime, a flurry of fur in the studio.
I'm meeting with someone tomorrow from your old school, Nicholls State. I've decided to set up an endowment scholarship in your name for students who have lost a parent to brain cancer. I think it would make you very happy to know how many lives you touched, not only during your lifetime, but long afterwards. It makes me smile, because I know you wanted to leave some of your estate to charity, but couldn't decide which one. I think this would feel right to you.
I'm off to the studio as there's fur to fly.
I know, I know. Calm down.
I miss you
love, cathy
I've been thinking about you a lot this past week. It's crunch time in the studio as I get ready to go to Sausalito for a show. I don't think you liked crunch time too much as it meant I was anxious and grumpy up until the hysterical last minute, but we always managed to get through it and you were always happy to see me when I returned home. My work reflects the change I was hoping for and I'm pleased with it. So many times I wished you were here to help me figure out the finishing touches on a piece and so many times I'd hear you in my head telling me to "calm down". It makes me smile to think of how many times you've had to tell me that.
In a way, I'm taking you with me to Sausalito. The new work is clearly about the loss and transitions I'm making, the expressions and emotions reflected in the faces I've carved. For the first time in a few years I am a little afraid of setting them up at a show and hearing the reactions from people. It feels like I've been stripped down to a core and now waiting for the verdict. I guess, like you would say, "there's only one way to find out". So, a week from today it's off to California and in the meantime, a flurry of fur in the studio.
I'm meeting with someone tomorrow from your old school, Nicholls State. I've decided to set up an endowment scholarship in your name for students who have lost a parent to brain cancer. I think it would make you very happy to know how many lives you touched, not only during your lifetime, but long afterwards. It makes me smile, because I know you wanted to leave some of your estate to charity, but couldn't decide which one. I think this would feel right to you.
I'm off to the studio as there's fur to fly.
I know, I know. Calm down.
I miss you
love, cathy
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Blessings.
Dear Ellen
We have wonderful friends. Last evening there was a dinner party here with several of them. Lots of good food, wine, interesting conversation and most of all, plenty of laughter. I thought of you often, knowing you would have loved the evening, knowing time with good friends always made you happy.
I even put art up on the walls before everyone arrived. I guess I'm planning on staying here for a few more months. It's starting to look like someone lives here now, instead of feeling like I'm staying at a hotel. I suppose both things, a dinner party and art on the walls, are signs I'm joining the human race again. There's a little more balance in my life, more awareness of the world revolving around me. Mind you, I have my moments when I dissolve into sadness, but now they don't fill my days. Now when I think of you, it's more often a good memory accompanied by a small smile. Sometimes, I still can't believe you're gone, but there seems to be some level of acceptance about it.
Our friends have been a big part of my returning to the world. Honestly, I don't know how I would have kept trudging along without their love and support. Old friends have been with me every step and stumble, new friends have become a joy and blessing to me. I figure everyone coming into my life, through the door of the gallery, have been directed there for some good purpose. Familiar friend or not, I consider them as a small jewel in my day, a gift of conversation from a stranger or an exchange of love and support between friends. In many ways this is what gives me purpose now. I feel your presence with me, giving me strength to move forward, but it's these small gifts of love from friends which give me hope again. I truly am a lucky girl.
Love you, miss you.
cathy
We have wonderful friends. Last evening there was a dinner party here with several of them. Lots of good food, wine, interesting conversation and most of all, plenty of laughter. I thought of you often, knowing you would have loved the evening, knowing time with good friends always made you happy.
I even put art up on the walls before everyone arrived. I guess I'm planning on staying here for a few more months. It's starting to look like someone lives here now, instead of feeling like I'm staying at a hotel. I suppose both things, a dinner party and art on the walls, are signs I'm joining the human race again. There's a little more balance in my life, more awareness of the world revolving around me. Mind you, I have my moments when I dissolve into sadness, but now they don't fill my days. Now when I think of you, it's more often a good memory accompanied by a small smile. Sometimes, I still can't believe you're gone, but there seems to be some level of acceptance about it.
Our friends have been a big part of my returning to the world. Honestly, I don't know how I would have kept trudging along without their love and support. Old friends have been with me every step and stumble, new friends have become a joy and blessing to me. I figure everyone coming into my life, through the door of the gallery, have been directed there for some good purpose. Familiar friend or not, I consider them as a small jewel in my day, a gift of conversation from a stranger or an exchange of love and support between friends. In many ways this is what gives me purpose now. I feel your presence with me, giving me strength to move forward, but it's these small gifts of love from friends which give me hope again. I truly am a lucky girl.
Love you, miss you.
cathy
Sunday, August 1, 2010
The process.
Dear Ellen
I've been working like a crazy woman this past week. The studio looks like a tornado whipped through it, pieces, parts and papers scattered around in piles, dried clay clinging to the floor and beeswax now sticking to every tool I own. It's fabulous. I am surrounded in unorganized splendor which is leading me to the very destination I hoped to find when I began a month ago. It's been a challenge to be patient and allow the process to trudge along, but I'm realizing the education has been good for me. Getting lost in the creative spaces of my mind centers me, calms me, allows me to reach those places within which I'm usually running from. It teaches me honesty and keeps me grounded. What a gift it's been, especially these past few months.
Remember how I used to run into the house and grab you, beg you to come out to the studio to see what I was working on? You were my art consultant and number one cheerleader. Yesterday in the midst of finally seeing some success in the studio I thought of you and a smile came over me. I missed you terribly, wished you were there for a consult, but took comfort knowing you were. It's almost as though I can hear your voice, reminding me to add more color, or change the shape of the nose. You are such a part of my work and in a way, I find great joy in knowing you are living on within it. It feels a little sad, but good.
I'm off to the studio to finish some work. See you there.
love,
cathy
I've been working like a crazy woman this past week. The studio looks like a tornado whipped through it, pieces, parts and papers scattered around in piles, dried clay clinging to the floor and beeswax now sticking to every tool I own. It's fabulous. I am surrounded in unorganized splendor which is leading me to the very destination I hoped to find when I began a month ago. It's been a challenge to be patient and allow the process to trudge along, but I'm realizing the education has been good for me. Getting lost in the creative spaces of my mind centers me, calms me, allows me to reach those places within which I'm usually running from. It teaches me honesty and keeps me grounded. What a gift it's been, especially these past few months.
Remember how I used to run into the house and grab you, beg you to come out to the studio to see what I was working on? You were my art consultant and number one cheerleader. Yesterday in the midst of finally seeing some success in the studio I thought of you and a smile came over me. I missed you terribly, wished you were there for a consult, but took comfort knowing you were. It's almost as though I can hear your voice, reminding me to add more color, or change the shape of the nose. You are such a part of my work and in a way, I find great joy in knowing you are living on within it. It feels a little sad, but good.
I'm off to the studio to finish some work. See you there.
love,
cathy
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Dreams
Dear Ellen
Sunday morning again. Rainy. Perfect for staying home with a cup of coffee, the newspaper, and a large cat who is put out with me because it was also a good morning to sleep an extra hour and delay her precise feeding time. It was an unacceptable mistake which has been noted and filed away in her feline memory along with the others. She now stares at me from the foot of the bed, utter contempt registered on her face. What a wonderful little companion she has become for me. She was so much your cat and such a sweet comfort to you, but I think she has learned to tolerate me as best she can. I will keep my expectations low.
I have had the most amazing dreams about you the past two nights. First, I dreamt we were in a boat, like a small fishing boat. You weren't feeling well and getting tired, but the river we traveled was so beautiful and you were happy to feel the wind on your face. There was no motor, but we moved swiftly across the water as though we were flying. It seemed I was trying to get you to a destination, but I had no idea where it was. I'm making canoe shapes in the studio, maybe the dream began there. This morning, the dream I had was more intense. I was standing at the sink in our bathroom, staring at the strands of your hair which are lying there. I noticed there was a new hair added to the others. I sensed you behind me and felt your arms go around me in a warm embrace. It felt as though you moved into my body. It was disturbing, but comforting. You whispered into my left ear that you would always be with me. It seemed I was awake and yet dreaming at the same time. I couldn't differentiate between what was real and what was the dream, but it absolutely felt safe and good. Physically, it was an odd sensation which woke me up.
I stayed still for several minutes thinking about the dream, but the feeling was one of contentment, not sadness or fear.
I don't know what the dream meant. All I know it that for the first time in many months of wishing I just had a minute of having you back, I did.
I don't know much about how the mind works with the heart and what it all means. I'm thinking I'm not supposed to. I'm thinking the cat knows, but she's not telling me. I'm thinking the sun has just come out and a bike ride around the park sounds good.
Thanks for the visit.
I love you,
cathy
Sunday morning again. Rainy. Perfect for staying home with a cup of coffee, the newspaper, and a large cat who is put out with me because it was also a good morning to sleep an extra hour and delay her precise feeding time. It was an unacceptable mistake which has been noted and filed away in her feline memory along with the others. She now stares at me from the foot of the bed, utter contempt registered on her face. What a wonderful little companion she has become for me. She was so much your cat and such a sweet comfort to you, but I think she has learned to tolerate me as best she can. I will keep my expectations low.
I have had the most amazing dreams about you the past two nights. First, I dreamt we were in a boat, like a small fishing boat. You weren't feeling well and getting tired, but the river we traveled was so beautiful and you were happy to feel the wind on your face. There was no motor, but we moved swiftly across the water as though we were flying. It seemed I was trying to get you to a destination, but I had no idea where it was. I'm making canoe shapes in the studio, maybe the dream began there. This morning, the dream I had was more intense. I was standing at the sink in our bathroom, staring at the strands of your hair which are lying there. I noticed there was a new hair added to the others. I sensed you behind me and felt your arms go around me in a warm embrace. It felt as though you moved into my body. It was disturbing, but comforting. You whispered into my left ear that you would always be with me. It seemed I was awake and yet dreaming at the same time. I couldn't differentiate between what was real and what was the dream, but it absolutely felt safe and good. Physically, it was an odd sensation which woke me up.
I stayed still for several minutes thinking about the dream, but the feeling was one of contentment, not sadness or fear.
I don't know what the dream meant. All I know it that for the first time in many months of wishing I just had a minute of having you back, I did.
I don't know much about how the mind works with the heart and what it all means. I'm thinking I'm not supposed to. I'm thinking the cat knows, but she's not telling me. I'm thinking the sun has just come out and a bike ride around the park sounds good.
Thanks for the visit.
I love you,
cathy
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Perspectives
Dear Ellen
I think not having the stress of a house in Orlando has been good for me. I seem to have more time and energy to focus elsewhere. I feel more relaxed inside my skin.
In the studio, I'm finding more of my creative self coming back, which is a welcome change. I knew this would come back, I knew my emotional self would work it's way through my art, but I wasn't expecting such an avalanche of new ideas coming into my head. The hard part is now patiently working my way through the process of making them into sculptures. Or maybe this is really the fun part. I do know I feel excited about my work again and this is a good thing.
I've started going through some of your things. Just a little bit at a time. Sort of testing the waters with crates of medical records and insurance papers before I move on to more scary places. I threw away every last piece of paper related to your illness. I didn't realize how angry I was until I started stuffing them in a trash bag. Damn, damn cancer and all we have lost to it. It was easy to let go of a pile of papers that represented a nightmare. However,going through your clothes and personal papers may require a sturdy heart and a long afternoon. I don't think I'm there quite yet, but maybe I'm getting closer. At least I don't get such a stabbing feeling when I open the wrong drawer and see your pajamas in a neat little pile. It's more of a dull thud and an small smile to remember you in pink pajamas.
It's small, but it's progress. Grief is an incredibly exhausting process of very small steps, but I do see a small ray of light at the very end of the tunnel.
I miss you
love,
cathy
I think not having the stress of a house in Orlando has been good for me. I seem to have more time and energy to focus elsewhere. I feel more relaxed inside my skin.
In the studio, I'm finding more of my creative self coming back, which is a welcome change. I knew this would come back, I knew my emotional self would work it's way through my art, but I wasn't expecting such an avalanche of new ideas coming into my head. The hard part is now patiently working my way through the process of making them into sculptures. Or maybe this is really the fun part. I do know I feel excited about my work again and this is a good thing.
I've started going through some of your things. Just a little bit at a time. Sort of testing the waters with crates of medical records and insurance papers before I move on to more scary places. I threw away every last piece of paper related to your illness. I didn't realize how angry I was until I started stuffing them in a trash bag. Damn, damn cancer and all we have lost to it. It was easy to let go of a pile of papers that represented a nightmare. However,going through your clothes and personal papers may require a sturdy heart and a long afternoon. I don't think I'm there quite yet, but maybe I'm getting closer. At least I don't get such a stabbing feeling when I open the wrong drawer and see your pajamas in a neat little pile. It's more of a dull thud and an small smile to remember you in pink pajamas.
It's small, but it's progress. Grief is an incredibly exhausting process of very small steps, but I do see a small ray of light at the very end of the tunnel.
I miss you
love,
cathy
Sunday, July 4, 2010
July 4th
Dear Ellen
I've been riding my bike every morning. Up early to beat the heat, I ride down the newly paved streets and around the park. It feels good to get up and start my morning this way and the routine of some exercise feels comfortable again. The rides have become my time for reflection and morning conversation with you. A time for clearing my mind and figuring out my directions for the day. I know it sounds odd, but I swear I can hear your voice in my head, reminding me, guiding me. On Tuesday, halfway around the park, it began to rain. A nice, soft warm rain. I knew it was you. It was such a comforting feeling to have the rain surround me as a I rode home. It's small things, subtle gestures which remind me you are still with me in many ways. It can be sunlight coming through the window, the memory a photograph brings, a song I hear, or a soft summer rain. I know you're not here, but the quiet thoughts, the awareness of them, keep you with me and bring me comfort.
Our house in Orlando finally went to closing this week. It created a strange mixture of emotions for me, but I know it was the right thing to do. Many thoughts and memories of our time there came back to me. It was a house where much sadness related to your illness happened, but it was a home where we both felt safe too. Most clearly I can remember you, wrapped in your red bathrobe, sliding into the breakfast nook each morning. I remember long Spring evenings on the front porch, watching the world pass by. A cozy bedroom where you would be found reading or taking naps. A home where our relationship, though stressed by illness, became stronger and deeper. Those are the memories I want to bring with me now. It's a relief to let go of the house, but I'll hold on to the memories of home.
I guess it's been a mixture of many thoughts and emotions this past week. I'm reminded by the strength of your presence, I'm reminded by the power in letting go. It's been six months today since you left here. I wish I could say it's getting easier, but mostly I can say it's getting different. I'm slowly healing, slowly becoming more aware of the world around me, slowly crawling back into my own skin. I know you were worried about me, afraid for me, but sweet Ellen I'm slowly finding my way.
I think it's still cool enough for me to take a morning ride.
much love,
cathy
I've been riding my bike every morning. Up early to beat the heat, I ride down the newly paved streets and around the park. It feels good to get up and start my morning this way and the routine of some exercise feels comfortable again. The rides have become my time for reflection and morning conversation with you. A time for clearing my mind and figuring out my directions for the day. I know it sounds odd, but I swear I can hear your voice in my head, reminding me, guiding me. On Tuesday, halfway around the park, it began to rain. A nice, soft warm rain. I knew it was you. It was such a comforting feeling to have the rain surround me as a I rode home. It's small things, subtle gestures which remind me you are still with me in many ways. It can be sunlight coming through the window, the memory a photograph brings, a song I hear, or a soft summer rain. I know you're not here, but the quiet thoughts, the awareness of them, keep you with me and bring me comfort.
Our house in Orlando finally went to closing this week. It created a strange mixture of emotions for me, but I know it was the right thing to do. Many thoughts and memories of our time there came back to me. It was a house where much sadness related to your illness happened, but it was a home where we both felt safe too. Most clearly I can remember you, wrapped in your red bathrobe, sliding into the breakfast nook each morning. I remember long Spring evenings on the front porch, watching the world pass by. A cozy bedroom where you would be found reading or taking naps. A home where our relationship, though stressed by illness, became stronger and deeper. Those are the memories I want to bring with me now. It's a relief to let go of the house, but I'll hold on to the memories of home.
I guess it's been a mixture of many thoughts and emotions this past week. I'm reminded by the strength of your presence, I'm reminded by the power in letting go. It's been six months today since you left here. I wish I could say it's getting easier, but mostly I can say it's getting different. I'm slowly healing, slowly becoming more aware of the world around me, slowly crawling back into my own skin. I know you were worried about me, afraid for me, but sweet Ellen I'm slowly finding my way.
I think it's still cool enough for me to take a morning ride.
much love,
cathy
Sunday, June 20, 2010
A Journey
Dear Ellen
I went to Chicago last weekend, city of big memories. It was. as all these "firsts" are, a bittersweet time. I spent our anniversary at the art show and no, it wasn't the same without you. I was surrounded by wonderful, sweet friends, my art family who took good care of me, but all of us missed you. Betsy, Danielle and I spent the evening over an impromptu dinner and a lovely bottle of wine, trying to make sense of the world with our "therapy". It helped, but I don't think we figured out the point of our existance on this planet, which is what I was really hoping for...
I suppose it's common for people who have experienced a loss to question the laws of the universe. Maybe it's because we have plenty of time to think about it now. Plenty of time to wonder about purpose. Plenty of time to ponder the definition of God. Plenty of time in a 16 hour drive from Chicago to New Orleans. Do you think it's because we want to make sense of it out of curiosity or fear? Will I understand it all when I leave this world? What's the point? I've always had this notion we are here to conquer our fears, to learn a particular lesson and when we have the puzzle solved we are whisked away somewhere to enjoy our success. I think I witnessed this in you during the course of your illness. No, I don't know what your lesson was, but I do believe it culminated in knowing what deep love is. I could see it in your eyes as you came closer to dying. There was an acceptance, a knowing, as though you had found the answer to your own questions. One of the last times I think you recognized me, it was only for short moments, you held my hand tightly, you looked at me clearly and smiled with such love. It said everything. Not so much about me, although I felt it too, but it said everything about your own peace. It did affirm my belief in something beyond this existance.
That's all I know for sure. The rest is still a mystery. No matter how many miles I drive, no matter how many impromtu therapy sessions I have. I'm not supposed to know the answers yet. I am hoping, when I get whisked away myself, we can get together and talk about all these things. Maybe clean up some unresolved corners. Maybe enjoy some long, rich, and all knowing laughter.
I'm looking forward to it.
Much love,
cathy
I went to Chicago last weekend, city of big memories. It was. as all these "firsts" are, a bittersweet time. I spent our anniversary at the art show and no, it wasn't the same without you. I was surrounded by wonderful, sweet friends, my art family who took good care of me, but all of us missed you. Betsy, Danielle and I spent the evening over an impromptu dinner and a lovely bottle of wine, trying to make sense of the world with our "therapy". It helped, but I don't think we figured out the point of our existance on this planet, which is what I was really hoping for...
I suppose it's common for people who have experienced a loss to question the laws of the universe. Maybe it's because we have plenty of time to think about it now. Plenty of time to wonder about purpose. Plenty of time to ponder the definition of God. Plenty of time in a 16 hour drive from Chicago to New Orleans. Do you think it's because we want to make sense of it out of curiosity or fear? Will I understand it all when I leave this world? What's the point? I've always had this notion we are here to conquer our fears, to learn a particular lesson and when we have the puzzle solved we are whisked away somewhere to enjoy our success. I think I witnessed this in you during the course of your illness. No, I don't know what your lesson was, but I do believe it culminated in knowing what deep love is. I could see it in your eyes as you came closer to dying. There was an acceptance, a knowing, as though you had found the answer to your own questions. One of the last times I think you recognized me, it was only for short moments, you held my hand tightly, you looked at me clearly and smiled with such love. It said everything. Not so much about me, although I felt it too, but it said everything about your own peace. It did affirm my belief in something beyond this existance.
That's all I know for sure. The rest is still a mystery. No matter how many miles I drive, no matter how many impromtu therapy sessions I have. I'm not supposed to know the answers yet. I am hoping, when I get whisked away myself, we can get together and talk about all these things. Maybe clean up some unresolved corners. Maybe enjoy some long, rich, and all knowing laughter.
I'm looking forward to it.
Much love,
cathy
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Gifts
Dear Ellen
I've been thinking about you a lot these past couple of weeks. It's been five months now. I know it doesn't seem like a long period of time, but it feels like forever since I've seen you or heard your voice. I think I would give everything I own just to hear your laughter again. I'm afraid I will forget it, forget the sound of it, forget how much it was a part of who you were.
Susan came by the gallery last week and we had therapy. The kind you have when grief is taking up too much of your life. We are both sad and somehow comforted by voicing it with each other. Grief is such an odd thing. I can be caught up in such a small world, deep in despair over haunting memories of your illness. They are so vivid to me, so toxic and yet I am so unaware I am drowning in them. Susan reminded me there is more of you to remember than just two months of sadness. She also reminded me you would never want to be remembered that way. She is so right. You would want me to remember the good, only the good. The Ellen who was happy, healthy and very much alive.
So. I'm working on it. Next week is our anniversary of eight years. This is what I choose to remember. Not the loss, but the blessings. The memory of our first days together, the cards filled with messages of devotion, the celebration of times and years spent with each other. The joy, the love and yes, above all, the laughter. That is my gift to you this year. I promise to remember your laughter. You deserve nothing less.
Happy Anniversary my love.
cathy
I've been thinking about you a lot these past couple of weeks. It's been five months now. I know it doesn't seem like a long period of time, but it feels like forever since I've seen you or heard your voice. I think I would give everything I own just to hear your laughter again. I'm afraid I will forget it, forget the sound of it, forget how much it was a part of who you were.
Susan came by the gallery last week and we had therapy. The kind you have when grief is taking up too much of your life. We are both sad and somehow comforted by voicing it with each other. Grief is such an odd thing. I can be caught up in such a small world, deep in despair over haunting memories of your illness. They are so vivid to me, so toxic and yet I am so unaware I am drowning in them. Susan reminded me there is more of you to remember than just two months of sadness. She also reminded me you would never want to be remembered that way. She is so right. You would want me to remember the good, only the good. The Ellen who was happy, healthy and very much alive.
So. I'm working on it. Next week is our anniversary of eight years. This is what I choose to remember. Not the loss, but the blessings. The memory of our first days together, the cards filled with messages of devotion, the celebration of times and years spent with each other. The joy, the love and yes, above all, the laughter. That is my gift to you this year. I promise to remember your laughter. You deserve nothing less.
Happy Anniversary my love.
cathy
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