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
Sunday, August 8, 2010
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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