HAP

Dear friends, I saw the first humming bird of the year tonight sitting on the garden fence. Time to get the feeders out. Harry

Dear Kay, Exactly. We have to feel right about what we do. I felt an early draft of this piece came across too much as saying, "This is what you should do." That's not what I wanted--not what I was trying to say. Eventually, I threw that away and started over again from scratch. I wanted to tell my story, but tell it in a way that said, "This is what was right for me and how I got there, but it is my story, not yours. What you decide may be entirely different because we are different people with different experiences, needs and beliefs." I've struggled for 52 months to find a way to reconcile Jane's last wishes on this subject with the things that were my needs. I finally got there this week. But no one should read this as any kind of edict on the subject. It was my answer--and this is how i got there. People may find it useful who are experiencing similar turmoil--at least I hope so--if only to understand they are not weird for feeling conflicted by it. Peace, Harry

Dear Friends, I walked off a cliff yesterday afternoon--and I didn't fall. Jane didn't want to be buried with her wedding or engagement rings. She insisted I take them off when she died. And I did that. I told her that when she died, I would move my own wedding ring from my left hand to my right after I took her wedding ring off her finger. I didn't do that--until yesterday, the 52 month anniversary of her death. I've felt that moment coming for a few months now. In February, I listened to a story on the radio in which a woman talked about the decision to take off her wedding ring after her husband's death. Like me, she had not done it immediately. But, eventually, she realized she was no longer the person she had been--and that her ring no longer defined, or even symbolized, who she was. It was time. The day Jane died I fully intended to move my ring to my right hand. But I got caught up in the notifications and the paperwork--and besides, I told myself, the ring was too small to fit on my right hand; it would need to be resized first. The truth, of course, was I was not ready to stop being married--I was not ready to be a widower. So the ring stayed where it was for the wake and the funeral--I would make the switch at the cemetery when we left the grave. It didn't happen then either--there had been no time to get the ring resized. At least that is what I told myself. The fact I wore Jane's wedding ring and engagement ring on a chain around my neck for the next several months should tell you all you need to know about the emotional state I was in and why my own ring stayed right where it was. The only reason I stopped wearing her rings was I was terrified I would break them. Every time I picked up something heavy it crushed the rings into my chest. They live in my safe deposit box now. I know no one will ever wear them again while I am alive. My executor will have to figure out what to do with them--and the rest of Jane's jewelry. I thought about taking the ring off on our anniversary, on Jane's birthday, on the first anniversary of her death. On the third anniversary of her death, I even went so far as to talk with a jeweler about how long it would take to get the ring resized. Periodically, I would wear the ring on my right pinky, where it fit loosely, just to see if I could bear it. Then it fell off in the back of the car when I was putting some plants in. I thought I had lost it--and realized how unprepared I was for that. September 2 of last year was our 25th anniversary--the anniversary Jane had always joked we would never get to unless we counted in dog years. I thought, briefly, about making the switch then. But even the month leading up to that date told me what an emotional tsunami the actual day would be. I took a single-serve bottle of champagne to her grave that day. I drank half and poured the rest above where her casket is buried. Fifty-two is an important number for me for many reasons. It is the number of months between death and rebirth in my religious practice. It is the day of the last readings for the dead because on that day one leaves the garden to become a child again in the physical world. An earthly marriage may survive death, but it should not survive rebirth. That thought came to me on Monday when I woke up. Perhaps I dreamed it. Perhaps Jane said it to my soul in the night. But I knew wherever it came from, it was true. It made this week, which I already knew was going to be hard, much harder. On Thursday, I took my ring to the jeweler and left it there. That afternoon, they called me to say my ring was ready. It slid on easily but did not want to come off. I knew then it was the right decision. Eventually, I got it back on my left hand for one final day. Friday was a dismal day of rain and fog and raw cold. I collected three stones from the yard, placed them in the car with the books for the final readings, my walking stick and my prayer shawl. I picked up the flowers I place on her grave each month. I drove to the cemetery. In the slow drizzle, I rearranged the Easter flowers, put the new flowers in the cemetery vase I had brought with me, and placed the stones. I donned my shawl and placed my walking stick against the gravestone. I did the formal readings. The pages curled in the dampness. I set the books aside. I moved my ring from my left ring-finger to my right ring-finger. The drizzle diminished to a mist. I talked with Jane for a few minutes, then left three kisses on the stone above her grave with four "I love you"s. As I turned to leave, a sudden wind came up and slid the shawl gently from my shoulders as Jane said good-bye. I laughed then. It was so like Jane. She always lightened even the most solemn or difficult moments. I came home. I worked on some Walking with Jane things, did some reading, watched Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor in Silver Streak. My left hand feels funny where my wedding ring lived for 25 years, seven months and eight days. My right hand feels funny because of the unaccustomed weight of that ring. Both hands look funny. Until yesterday, I was still a husband, for all that Jane was 52 months dead. Today, I am a widower--and the world feels different. This is not to say that taking off a wedding ring is a magical act that immediately alleviates grief and ends all the emotional difficulties that go with the death of a loved one. I've had to stop several times in writing this because I could no longer see the keyboard or the screen through the tears. I've had to stop other times because the emotions became too strong for words. I know several people here who have worn their wedding rings far longer than I have and have accepted their widowhood in ways I still haven't. For me, this morning, I see my refusal to move my ring as the symbolic denial of Jane's death that it was. But my life is defined by symbols. I imbue things with symbolic power far beyond human norms. Not everyone does that. For most people, I think, a ring is a ring and a grave is a grave. For me, Jane's grave is an anchor for my grief. That anchor allows me to function more or less normally in the outside world. When grief threatens to overwhelm me, I can go there in my mind. And when I stand there I can let myself feel the torrent of its soul-shattering force without being shattered by it. Like the Japanese characters in Shogun, Jane's grave became, for a time, a box I could place my grief in when a situation demanded my focussed attention. I don't deal well with strong emotions, either in myself or others. But I am a very emotional person. I can either find a way to control the release of my emotions or give them full sway and let them destroy me and everyone and everything around me. The result is that I can come across, on first encounter, as cold and distant--almost heartless. Eventually, people begin to understand that cool logic is a coping strategy that makes it possible for me to function. I surround myself with symbols. In fact, nothing that remains in my life, other than people, escapes evolution into some kind of archetypal symbol with its own purpose. A hat and coat are more than mere protections against sun or cold. My dress coat, for example, is a representation of Jane and my grandfather, both of whom protected me from cold far worse than any winter wind can conjure. When I put it on, I feel their arms embracing me with a different kind of warmth. Each house plant, each wreath, has a story and a meaning. Its placement in the room or on the door has a purpose that goes beyond the decorative. Giving away even the least used of Jane's clothes was difficult because each was a part of her story--and of our story together. But a blouse, a plant, a piece of furniture, is not a wedding ring. Over the course of our marriage, my wedding ring never left the finger Jane put it on. Until the morning of her heart surgery, when she had to take it off against the possibility of her hand swelling during surgery, Jane's had never left her finger either. She insisted no one but me would ever take it off--and that morning, I did. My ring is a simple circle of gold. There is nothing physically fancy or remarkable about it. But Jane put it on my finger, just as I had put hers on her finger. Only she should have taken it off my finger. In her absence, it took me 52 months to figure out how and when and why to do so. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, Jane's dad continues to improve. The pneumonia is gone and the hacking cough that hangs on for weeks after this flu is vanishing. His rehab is going well--but he just can't shake the C-Diff. Still, he seems far more into the world again. He is reading the newspaper again each day--something he stopped doing last fall. He seems in a better place mentally. But he is stuck in the rehab facility until he gets rid of the C-Diff. He wants to be home. His daughter Gail wants him to be home. But he is stuck there until he gets a clean bill of health. I had a quiet and restful birthday. Gail came over for Easter dinner and brought a cake with her. We ate and talked about things other than her Dad's health. She spends four days a week all day at the rehab place--and parts of the other three days. It was a good break for both of us. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, Hank is recovering fairly well. He is in rehab for the next week or two. The pneumonia and C-diff are improving and he looks much stronger. None of which solves the underlying issues of the cancer and the kidney issues. We'll take the time we have, but I am completely aware that his time is far more limited than either he or Gail are ready to admit. I am being very careful and staying very aware of how easy it is to get C-Diff. I've been here before when Dwayne had it. Nasty stuff. I am more worried about Gail getting it since she works more closely with him than I do. Peace, Harry

Dear Kay, Amen. Unfortunately, life just doesn't let up. Harry

Thank you all for your kind words and thoughts. A quick update: Gail called about 1:15 a.m. Hank has C-Diff, a bacterial infection you sometimes get as the result of a heavy course of antibiotics. They have him on new antibiotics for that, as well as a recurrence of the pneumonia that sent him to the hospital in the first place. He is back at rehab where, apparently, they will be able to keep a closer eye on him. His fever was back to 98.2 by the time all was said and done after being over 102F to begin with. I told Gail to get some sleep. She sounded about done in. Hopefully, she listened. I'll keep you posted as I hear more. As for me, the flu is gone, though the cough and sniffles will persist for a while yet. I'm at least functional, which is more than I could say a week ago. I take the last of my pills today. Pax et lux, Harry

Dear friends, I just got off the phone with Jane's sister, Gail. Her dad has been in rehab for a about a week after being diagnosed and hospitalized with the flu. They are taking him back into the hospital tonight. He has developed a high temperature and diarrhea. Gail is going to call me when they get him settled and she has a clearer idea what is going on, but he is clearly in significant trouble as I write this. Please keep both Gail and Hank in your thoughts tonight. Peace, Harry

Thanks, Kay.

Kay, thanks for putting so well my reaction to that article. It is one thing to accept death. It is entirely something else to surrender to it sooner than we have to or to set up conditions that bring about an early death rather than trying to do that which will keep us healthy and give us a longer period of high quality life.

Dear friends, If I had a family motto to hand down to my children it would be drawn from two literary sources: All men die; the question is what will you do with the time you are given." It would not fit on a shield very well. Jane always said I was a bit long-winded. By the time I was 14 I understood, in no uncertain terms, just how fragile human life in general, and my life in particular, was. We are all bags of water; put a hole in us in the right place and that precious liquid leaks out at an ungodly and unsustainable rate. I knew this from firsthand experience. I still wear the scar that reminds me of that on my left arm. I knew it from secondhand experience, as well. We had all seen the assassination of John Kennedy on television when I was 11. I remember the killing shot vividly. I've had firsthand and secondhand experiences that have served as booster shots several times since, seemingly at regular intervals. I understand, as the poet says, that "I have a rendezvous with death." I hope that death will be quiet and peaceful and painless when it comes. It probably won't be. Most of the deaths I have witnessed have been drawn out affairs that were anything but pleasant. And I am more a disciple of Dylan Thomas (Do not go quietly into that good night...rage, rage against the dying of the light.) than I am of anyone else. I will not go quietly--I will fight dirty, as one character says in Red Noses, a musical comedy about the Black Death in Europe. As my mother-in-law once said, "I wasn't invited to this party, but I am in no hurry to leave." But I'm not particularly obsessive about my death, either. It will come, eventually. I'll deal with that piece when it arrives--and not before, other than making sure my will is in order. Buddha says, "Life is suffering." That's as far as most people go in trying to understand Buddhism. The Tao says, "Do nothing." That is as far as most people go in trying to understand Taoism. The Koran says, "There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet." That is as far as most people go in trying to understand Muslim belief. Depending on the type of Christian, most reduce that religion to a similar phrase that pretends to be all they want or need to know. Those phrases leave out all of the nuances that are the real foundation of each of those faiths. Context matters. Our lives each create the context of who we are and what we think and do. Each of us sees the world through our individual lens. Our experiences shape what we believe and how we apply those beliefs to our daily lives. They inform how we respond to other people. That context often determines how we use the time we are given. Most people have children. They achieve a kind of immortality through that. Their children carry not only their genetics into the future but also their values. Jane and I were childless. It gave us a different perspective than most people have. It is a fact that colored our actions and beliefs--and that still colors my actions and beliefs today. What I say--and especially what I say in writing--is the only certain immortality I can have. Everything I do takes place in that context. But there are other things that provide context as well. This is just one example of it. We are further hamstrung by the fact we have only words with which to communicate with each other. People talked to Jane and I frequently about the idea of balance in life--that we worked too hard and gave too much. But we loved what we did--and within the context of our lives we were in perfect balance in everything that we did. Where others saw imbalance, we saw the union of vocation and avocation in harmony. We were happy. Losing Jane has thrown me entirely out of balance in many aspects of my life. Leaving teaching further unbalanced things. Had I been wiser, I might have passed on retirement for another year or two. But I also know that it was time for that piece of my life to end. That wind had been rising long before Jane got sick. I ignore what the wind tells me at my peril. The required paperwork that had nothing to do with teaching--and that I have seen destroy many otherwise fine teachers--would have made everything I was doing as a teacher physically impossible. And there was new work that needs doing. That work is not keeping me from mourning. In some respects, it does just the opposite. It brings me in daily, constructive contact with pieces of Jane's death part of me would like to avoid. But it also takes me out of myself in ways that are useful as well. Otherwise, I could spend too much time looking at Jane's death in ways that would not be healthy. Yes, there has to be some balance between work and play; but there also has to be balance between grief and everything else. I understand that grief is a total focus after the shock wears off--but it can't stay that way without serious health consequences of its own. We have to honor our need to grieve and give ourselves space and time to do so. But it cannot be the total focus of our lives forever, either. Part of my crisis has been brought on by the realization that I am too often on the edge of becoming one who is merely waiting for death. All my life I have tried to be a liver. I am not just passing through, I am not following life or death or waiting for death to pick me up like a package at the baggage counter. But since Jane's death, living, as I mean the word, has been very difficult. I've always worked to understand the past so i could learn from it; I've always planned for the future because it works better than not planning for the future; but I've simultaneously lived in the moment, fully conscious of what I am doing and fully focussed on that. Doing so now is very difficult--and extremely frustrating. I understand that you are all concerned for my physical and mental well-being. I am, too. And these three long posts, as well as your responses, have helped me figure some things out to try over the next several days. They've also helped me put some things in better perspective than when I started. I feel better than I did this morning. Some of the weight has come off my shoulders--and that is a big help. It's 2:30 a.m. I think the next order of business is some sleep. Thank you all for listening and saying what you've said. It really has helped. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, Jane was as driven as I am. It was part of the reason we got along so well. But it also is part and parcel to why she died when she did. Still, I know she would simply say--and I can hear her saying it--"Suck it up, buttercup. This is a First World problem." And to some extent, she'd be right. That said, I have cut way back on what I've been doing. It feels uncomfortable, in part, because this is not generally how I have lived for any extended time in my entire life. Eighteen hour days of focussed effort are my "normal" going back as far as I can remember. It is only since Jane's death that I've not been able to do that. And it is supremely frustrating. I feel like a long distance runner who has lost, temporarily, the use of his legs and begins to wonder if they are ever coming back. But I am a farmer, as well. I know I have to be patient--that pulling on the carrots won't make them grow any faster and, in fact, will kill them if I do so. So I have let myself read and sit and be mindful. I have meditated and done my breathing and voice exercises. I've been gentle with my knee, gentle with my body, gentle with my emotions and my mind. When things have hurt, I've backed off them--I haven't really touched the grief book since just before Christmas. I want to get it done because I think the process of writing it will be good for me. But when it hurt too much, I set it aside while I process what it churned up. And I've been very patient, until today, with not getting to the things I want to do each day. I know, most of the time, that I am resting and recovering and grieving and that what is happening is both normal and necessary. My mind and body will let me know when I can pick up the full load again. But this weather has me on edge. At first, I was perfectly happy to see those "snow days." But every snowstorm has brought Jane's absence to the forefront. We would shovel together, then come in to hot chocolate and snuggles. The weather keeps reminding me of how much I've lost and how much I miss her. It reminds me of how bitter losing her at that precise moment--six months from retirement--was and is. We had planned to put our burdens down and do only what we wanted to do. That meant reading and writing and watching guilt-free movies and television. It meant playing in the garden and designing new beds to build together. It meant hiking and climbing and sitting by our favorite lake. My plan was also to go back to the woodworking I'd enjoyed in my youth. Jane was looking forward to playing tennis whenever she wanted. Instead...well, you all know what being a widow or widower is like. You all know what the loneliness is like, know what it is like to be in a roomful of people who have no idea what you are feeling or thinking. You all know what it is like to have every dream you once owned shattered in front of you. You don't need me to describe any of it stretching on in front of you like the steppes of Russia. We all have days, weeks, months when it hurts so badly and all you can do is smile like "Patience on a monument" because you have to put a brave face on to deal with the world that does not get any of it. Today, I went over the edge. I hate feeling this way. I hate feeling impotent and useless. Two more people I knew in NET cancer support groups died today. Two others are in the hospital and a third went into hospice care yesterday. Another had her latest brain radiation treatment this week. One member of my walk team told me the treatment that had held her tumors in check for the last four years has stopped working. Another team member underwent liver ablation two weeks ago. They all feel like family. Part of me is angry that I let myself care about them so much that their deaths matter to me. But if I didn't care about them that way I would cease to be the person I am that I like. I can't stop caring about people--even people I don't know. And if I care... I don't know how to back away when I see someone hurting that I don't know; I've no way to back away from someone I do. And I refuse to become a hermit. I spend too much time in this cave as it is. But I do understand the need to rest. I'll be in no position to do anyone any good from a hospital bed--or a grave. So I'll leave things throttled down a while longer. I'll do what absolutely needs to be done and try not to feel overly guilty about the things I don't get to as quickly as I'd like to. But I've read sixteen 600-page novels since Christmas and I really do need to find something that feels at least marginally productive to do at some point. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, Time for some honesty: I haven't been right since my father and niece died in August and I have been in an existential mental crisis since the end of November. No. I am not suicidal. I just find it very difficult to get myself to do anything that does not absolutely have to be done: clearing the snow from the driveway, fixing meals, buying, cooking and eating food. I keep whatever appointments I have with doctors and dentists. But even things I truly enjoy doing just don't get done if they don't rise to the level of a must do with immediate impact personally if I don't do them. The deaths of my father and niece called up Jane's death all over again. It was like going back to square one, in some respects. Holding the evidence of my conception being the reason my parents got married also called up some emotional baggage I'd thought I'd buried a long time ago. Two weeks late, I injured my knee. My doctor says rest will heal it--and it is better than it was in September, but it periodically gives me a scary twinge when it is under no strain at all that forces me to cut back on even the minimal walking I am doing now. The ongoing situation with my teeth and gums is not helping much. I had my dental cleaning yesterday and everything is healing the way it should be. But the limits on my diet remain largely in place. I'm tired of endless bland food with no real kick to it. In my mind, I am still a young man. But my body is beginning to argue otherwise--and I'm not happy about it. Perhaps this is just my mid-life crisis showing up 20 years after everyone else I know has already been through it. What I do know is that I get up every day with a list of things to do both in my head and on paper. I have breakfast, do the bed-making and showering and shaving. And suddenly it's noon and nothing on my list has even been started. I've frittered away the morning reading or doing some other project that was not on the to-do list but that distracted me from what I had planned. It's avoidance behavior, plain and simple. What am I avoiding? Last weekend, I was supposed to design the new garden beds and the orchard I want to build this summer. Why avoid that? Because those changes will make for a dramatically different yard than what Jane and I created together. It is also precisely the kind of project we would have done together and it is going to take me back into that morass the same way shoveling out the driveway has brought back all those memories the last few weeks. It's a double whammy of grief that makes everything more difficult. I need to write three things for walkingwithjane.org and the foundation. One requires research into how the immune system works--the kind of biology research Jane was good at. But she isn't here to make sure I get the facts straight. More importantly, emotionally, it is exactly the kind of thing we would spend a night talking about and learning about together. I've got about half the research done, but every bit of it is emotionally hard to confront. I have a fundraising letter to write. I can't write it without writing about Jane. Worse, I can't write it without thinking about how what we have learned might have held off her death a bit longer--how it might have improved the quality of her life. And it hurts. Finally, i have to write people to set up our annual meeting. I know how much we've accomplished this year--but I also know how we've come up short--which means I have to honestly confront the things I've failed to do last year. And psychologically--that means admitting the ways in which I've failed to fully keep my promise to Jane to kill this thing. And the grief book is coming very slowly. It is on a break just now because it opens up every wound all over again as though it just happened. But, again, the point is it needs to get done because it can help others. Every day I feel guilty that I haven't gotten further with it. Logically, I know I have done all that I possibly could. Logically, I know Jane would be happy with how far I've moved the ball forward in so many areas. But I can't convince my heart to listen. It only knows a fully functional me can do better. Four years after her death I'm still not working right on the really important work in front of me. And I know it is going to take whatever time it takes--but people are hurting and my personality says the needs of the many come first--that I have to put my own issues on the shelf to help those who really need my help. It's not just what I do--it's how I'm made--it's who I am. Think Charlie Brown with the stupid football: I am going to kick that thing. And it doesn't matter that Lucy has always pulled it away at the last second because this time--like every other time--she isn't going to do that. People die. I can't change that. Intellectually, I know that. People do evil things. I can't change that either. Intellectually, I know that, too. But I have to try because a part of me knows I can change those things. I can't count the number of times I should have died in the last 63 years. My birth nearly killed my mother--and could have killed me in two different ways--one physical and one, something else. If my mother had died my life would have been very different than it was. Who knows where I would have gone or what I would have done? In the late 1950s, the furnace in our house started putting out carbon monoxide one night while we were all sleeping. When my father didn't show up for work, one of his coworkers called the house. The phone rang for 10 minutes before my father heard it and woke up enough to realize something was very wrong. The guy could have hung up--by all logic, should have. I'm still alive because he was stubborn. I've nearly drowned, nearly bled to death, been surrounded by a gang intent on killing me for my bike... Every time, some random individual has done something that kept me alive--essentially said to Death, "Yes, everybody dies. But not this one, not on this day, in this time and in this place." More than once, someone has put themselves at considerable risk to keep me alive and functional. That has not made me think I am immortal or special in any way; rather, it has reminded me that while life is uncertain, so is death. I don't buy the idea that "when your number is up, your number is up." Someone can, indeed, step up and change the numbers. As someone who has had the numbers changed multiple times, I try not to hesitate when the opportunity to do so for someone else occurs. But lately, that's been increasingly hard to do. I have seen too many deaths these past years that I could do nothing to change, starting with Jane's mother. The worst was Jane. I hate feeling impotent to do more than hold someone's hand at the end but there are times that is all any of us can do. It is all the harder when it is someone we love. Here I am trying to save the lives of strangers when there was ultimately nothing I could do for the woman I loved but hold her hand and tell her she was dying. And if we find a cure for the cancer that killed Jane, save a 112,000 lives or three million lives, how will that matter if all of us die in the extinction event that races toward us like a freight train? How do we change those numbers? I'm sitting here with 60+ inches of snow on my front yard. It will rain tonight and tomorrow, then flash freeze Sunday night into Monday morning as temperatures plunge back into single digits for most of next week. In Washington, the House and Senate committees on science are chaired by men ruled by a hatred of science. In North Africa and the Middle East religious lunatics behead others for the simple crime of not believing what they believe. China races to build more coal-fired power plants; American oil and natural gas companies try to restrict the growth of wind and solar power while pushing for more subsidies for fossil fuels of every kind; Russian bombers play chicken with NATO jets off the coast of England; the Doomsday Clock moves to three minutes before midnight. I grew up in the early days of the Cold War. I've hidden under desks and trembled through unannounced air raid drills. I've had neighbors with fully stocked air raid shelters. I know what fear is and I know what it is to live in the shadow of total thermonuclear annihilation. But in that entire time, even in the Cuban Missile Crisis when I sat in the middle of a prime target area, I never felt helpless, and I never felt hopeless. I've endured weeks and months of emotional depression in my life. I have fought through each of them, knowing that somehow I would see better days. But four years is a long time. Four years two months and eleven days is even longer. Still, I know I will get through this time of personal grief and hurt. The snows in my heart will melt as surely as the snow in my yard will do so. And flowers will bloom and bees will answer their call. But it needs to happen soon. I am tired of paralysis--and I can't afford it anymore. There are lives at stake. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, I've been named the Jimmy Fund Walk Participant of the Month for February. I've known since early in the month but was not allowed to say anything until the official announcement, which happened yesterday. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, I have to admit to struggling the last few days. The snow is really getting me down. It feels like I have no time for anything beyond moving snow and dealing with the ongoing cold. I cleared the end of the driveway yesterday, filled the bird feeders, shoveled off the deck--and was pretty much done in for the rest of the day. Wind chills here the entire time I was out were about zero. The house struggled all day to get to 67F, though my study stays warmer if I keep the door closed. It is marginally warmer today and the furnace has got the house to 70 at last. But it started snowing again about 7:30 a.m. and has not let up since. They said we would get four inches tops, but I already had that by noon and the snow is supposed to continue into the early evening. I'm betting six before it's all said and done--and maybe more. Before all this lunacy, six inches was a big deal here. Now, it's a small storm--or would be if we were not all running out of places to put it. That we are talking about a potentially bigger storm again this weekend is about enough to push all of us to the edge. I've lived in New England since I was nine--and lived in central New Hampshire in snow country for seven years--and I have never seen a stretch like this. I've seen bigger individual storms and more snow over the course of an entire winter--though that may not be the case when all is said and done--but I have never seen anything like this in this short a period of time. I begin to feel like I am living in a snow globe. I sorted seeds yesterday for the various garden projects this spring--assuming we ever get to the bottom of this snowpack. I need to start some of them this weekend, though how I'll get any of them to sprout in this cool and very dry environment is anyone's guess. But one of the amaryllis is sending up a flower shoot this morning--so maybe... Hope the rest of you are staying warm. Mary, I know what a big deal 3.5 inches of snow can be in your part of the world. Be safe out there. Peace, Harry

Dear Kay, Actually, I have no plow. The city plow did the street last night and snowed me back in. Sigh. The snowblower makes short work of most of the job, though. I have taken to clearing the deck by hand. That was my big worry previous to this last storm. I have a neighbor with a six foot drift on theirs that would scare me to death if it were on mine. Mine got to about three feet and made me nervous. The science of this winter is really fascinating. I read what I wrote about above this weekend. I couldn't resist writing about it given the excuse, even though I suspected you were kidding. Sorry. I really have had enough of this white stuff. And the cold doesn't do much for me either. It's just wearing me out--snowblower or no snowblower. I'll pass along about shoveling off the roof--though if their situation is like mine I don't know how they'll get up there. Peace, Harry

Dear Friends, Actually, I'm told the melting of the polar ice cap has created more open cold water, resulting in an increase in cold moisture heading south and east, coming into contact with the warm moist air of the Gulf Stream--warmer than usual this year. The combination creates huge coastal storms--this last one even had an eye like a hurricane. Those storms do what hurricanes do--pull cooler Canadian and polar air down into New England as they leave. That's pleasant in the summer, but in winter the air is significantly colder, so the days immediately following the storm are significantly colder than normal. That means cold air is in place to make sure the next storm is snow rather than the rain we most often get this time of year in southern New England when the North Country gets snow. It's about 1F here this morning with a wind chill of -13F. Houses here are not really built for that level of cold for an extended period of time. My thermostat is set for 65 at night--normally I go for 63, but this winter has made getting the house warm from there in the morning really difficult. This morning the indoor temp was 60F. My heating system is fine--but it just can't keep up. The basement is 48F and the garage is below freezing. The plow came through again overnight so eventually I have to go out and clear the end of the driveway--again. I can't complain, though. I have friends who are hearing unpleasant sounds from their roofs. That's not a problem for me--at least not yet. The good news is the latest forecast shows the storm for Tuesday taking a slightly more southerly track, so we are looking at only 1-3 locally with lesser amounts inland and further north. Last night, that was 6+. Global warming doesn't always result in locally higher temperatures. Sometimes it means more and larger storms. We are certainly seeing those here this winter. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, I'm shoveled out--and it wasn't too bad. Just really cold. And windy. And there was a lot of snow. Did I mention it was cold and windy? Mary, I know it's colder in Wisconsin, but for here, this is outlandish. And we may be looking at another 6+ on Tuesday. About all I can do is laugh. And be thankful I bought this snowblower four years ago that I have had second thoughts about every year since. Not this year--that's for sure. Feels like one of the smartest moves I've made in the last four years. I've put a couple of pictures below for those of you in warmer climates--Anne and Marty--just in case you want to see some snow without getting too cold. Peace, Harry

Dear Marty, It's beginning to feel that way. Time to move the snow again. More later. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, Here is Jane's poem for this year. Peace, Harry For Jane, Valentine’s Day 2015 I weep. The snow encases grief in silent white Cement that crumbles. Cold ignites the frozen tears That dry the rotting purpose of silent noisome light. My words are paper matches flung against the starless night And sunless days of deepest space when all is gone To less than nothing. Nothing moves and nothing sings. My soul aches silence none can hear or feel or see; That none can taste or smell or sense. The maggots chew The sounding strings and chew the echoed body’s boards. Five times this day has come. Five times this day has passed. For fifty months this salt has seared my days and nights And tried to cleanse my heart and tried to scald my mind. The snow may fall, the wind may rise, the cold may pierce And shriek the void; still, dawn will come and I will rise And sing the song and dance the dance 'til time and space both end. All my love, always and all ways, Hubby

Dear friends, I've spent the day researching the immune system for a series of pieces on immunotherapy I hope to get well-started this weekend, writing Jane's poem for tomorrow, and fixing a major air leak I discovered around the slider this morning. I've always been struck by the amount of cold air that comes off that backdoor when I open the curtains in the morning. Today I went looking for it and found it very quickly. I read a trick about Velcroing the outside edges of the the drapes the other day and tried that in conjunction with a draft blocker. The draft is gone. Getting Jane's poem written was very difficult this year. The cold and snow have worn me out, with more snow coming tomorrow and well below normal temperatures through the middle of next week. But it's done--I just need to print it out tomorrow and get to the cemetery before the blizzard begins tomorrow afternoon. I came across a great video today of a cytotoxic T-call killing cancer cells. Getting these cells to be more aggressive about cancer cells is one of the things immunotherapies try to do. It's a neat video even if cancer is not something you have an interest in. https://www.youtube.com/embed/cJU7ZaWe5-o?feature=plcp&rel=0&showinfo=0&autoplay=1 I'm as ready for this next round of weather as I can be. But I've really had about enough. Peace, Harry

Dear Karen, I wish there were something I could add to what others have said, but their suggestions all cover what I would tell you. My thoughts are with you as you deal with this. Peace, Harry

Dear friends, We are expecting 8-13 inches more snow this weekend. I shoveled about three feet of snow off the deck this morning as another foot would certainly have made getting out the back door impossible--and might have proven too much for the deck to handle if we ever get rain added to the snowpack. I discovered the beginnings of an ice dam over the deck door that has nor created a problem yet, but needs to be addressed before it does. I pulled the snow down off that section of the roof to expose it to whatever sun we get the next two days. Yesterday, I went to Westport to sign checks for the scholarship I set up in Jane's memory. The first three recipients are doing quite well. One got his nursing white coat this week. Another already has hers, and the third has a 3.91 cum. He has one B on his transcript in four years--in English. He's going into research. On the remaining two, I'm still waiting on transcripts. I had a long talk with the folks who run golf tournaments for the Jimmy Fund yesterday afternoon as well. I feel better about it after talking to them but I am concerned that I just don't have as many people as I need to keep all those balls in the air. I think and plan for Walking with Jane like it is a multi-million dollar foundation with a full-time staff of a dozen. The truth is something very different. While we generated over $100,000 in donations last year, maybe $15,000 of that ran through our bank account. The rest went directly to other groups. I'm as close to full time staff as we have--and I just can't do everything I see that needs doing. It's frustrating sometimes. I know I am making a difference. I know we've raised a lot of money, comparatively. I know we've raised awareness beyond where it was a when we started. But I also see how much more needs to be done. The positive in all this is I am ready for whatever storms--physical or emotional--arrive this weekend. The hatches are ready to batten down--and I have hatches to batten. Peace, Harry

Dear Marty, Happy birthday! Harry

Dear friends, I went to visit Jane's grave today. To get there, I had to climb over a three foot high drift the plow left behind when it cleared the narrow road through the cemetery. Then I trudged through the 10-12 inches of powder yesterday's storm dropped, tramping it down so that others can get to the headstones of their loved ones more easily. I should have brought a shovel. The snow has reached Jane's name on her family's stone. The snow is actually deeper than that but the wind has hollowed out a space around each grave in that section of the cemetery. It looks strange. The cemetery is at the top of a hill and the wind blows through there at a pretty good clip in the winter. I put some Valentine's Day decorations on her grave but I didn't stay too long. It's been colder there on other days, but on the best of winter days my body won't stay there long. I can hear both Jane and her mother chiding me for standing out in the cold. As these monthly anniversaries go, today was not bad. Last month, I had trouble getting out of bed; every minute of the day was a struggle. I spent yesterday shampooing the rug in the dining room and hall. This morning, I moved the plants and furniture back in place and decided I still don't have the living room set up in a way that works. Truth be told, the way Jane and I had it set up originally was just about perfect. Unfortunately, I discovered very early on that I couldn't live with it set up that way. In fact, I've redone every room in the house in terms of how the furniture is arranged--and in some cases have changed the purpose of the room as well. What was our study is now my bedroom. The room Jane used for her crafts is now a combination library and home office. The bedroom has become a TV room that doubles as a guest room and a place to keep Walking with Jane items we use for various events. And I've been gradually repainting all the rooms in the house, changing the colors from the careful neutrals Jane and I chose when we built the house to warmer, darker tones. It's not that I am trying to expunge her presence--I have photographs of Jane scattered throughout the house, as well as her cross-stitch and other craft projects. The houseplants we both loved still dominate the living room and dining room as they always have, though I have rearranged them as they've grown. And though I've replaced the mattress in the bedroom, all the furniture we bought when we first married is still part of my bedroom--and I still sleep in our bed every night, though never on her side of the bed. I know people whose houses have not changed in any way since their spouse died. I know others who sleep on a couch or in a chair at night because they cannot face sleeping in the bed they once shared with their husband or wife. I know others who gave away every stick of furniture they had purchased together because living with those constant reminders was more than they could handle. I know people who sold their house for much the same reason--and others who were forced to sell because with a single income they could not afford to live there no matter how much they wanted to hold onto those memories. There is no magic formula to dealing with grief--no right answer. There is only the answer that works for you--and that answer is different for every person who grieves. There are times I think about moving. This house and it's yard are too big for me to handle by myself sometimes. And it has too many stairs for me to deal with when I get old. But we spread the soil on this land, planted the grass and the shrubs and the trees. We installed the suspended ceiling in the basement and hung the sheetrock on its walls. We spent hours looking at chandeliers and light fixtures and deciding on countertops and cabinets. I am not ready to abandon those memories--and I am not sure I ever will be. But I can't live in some kind of unchanging shrine either--a place where everything is precisely as Jane left it. I want my memories but I don't want to be overwhelmed by them every day. For fifty months now I've tried to reestablish a sense of balance in all areas of my life. Part of me thinks I haven't been very successful at that. But then I realize that Jane and I spent 23 years together, growing closer and closer every day, until at the end we truly were Aristotle's single soul in two bodies. And then she was gone--and everything was different. Fifty months is no time at all compared to the years we spent together as a singular entity. We made every decision together, did every chore together--lived our lives as together as two people can be. When Jane died, I suddenly did not know who I was anymore. I'm still trying to figure that out. But change is the nature of life. The carpet and linoleum are beginning to show their age. I replaced the faucets in the bathroom and the kitchen over the last year. I've expanded the vegetable garden and enlarged a flower bed. I reworked the sitting area under our deck, digging out the sod and replacing it with stone. I'm thinking about setting up a bee hive, planting some fruit trees and creating a large bed of wild flowers. People talk about moving on after someone dies. The truth is, often we don't move on. The further I get from Jane's death, the more I am convinced I will not "get over it" in the way that most people mean that phrase. But we can move forward--which is very different from "moving on" or "getting over it." In fact, we have very little choice about moving forward. Life forces us to do that by its very nature. Faucets do wear out. Lawns do have to be mowed. Driveways do have to be resealed. Our bodies do have to be fed and cared for. We have to cook and clean and do the routine little things that in the depth of grief we do not want to do--but that we do anyway. My muscles ache tonight. I've moved over four feet of snow in the last two weeks. I've moved every plant and piece of furniture in the living room and dining room at least twice in the last two days. I've run the rug machine until my arms hurt and my hands have blistered. There is more snow in the forecast for Thursday and again for Sunday. But for now, the snow is shoveled and half the living room looks and feels right to me. For 50 months after Jane died, that feels like moving forward. Peace, Harry