feralfae

Shannon, I am so happy to hear that things are going well. And I hope you are recovering from the bug. Now, first take care of you, then Leo. I am glad he is home where you can hear his breath, see his smile, and be with him. Now, I hope you will relax even a little bit more, bring in all the help you can, give yourself little naps, take breaks very often, even if only ten minutes, eat healthy foods, and find time for YOU to restore and take care of YOU. As Mary said, this is super important. Please take time each day, at last 15 minutes, to sit with yourself, see how YOU are feeling, find out what YOU need, and be a very good caregiver to YOU. I hold you and Leo in my prayers and heart. Much Love and Blessings, *<twinkles>* feralfae

Thank you Kay. I do find this a wonderful place of solace to come read, write, share, and mostly, just read what others are going through and nod my head several times, then feel not so alone. My grief counselor was very helpful, reminding me that I have had a lot more to deal with than Doug leaving—but I think most of us here have had more than our husbands leaving, or our wives. We find all the usual life activities are now our sole responsibility—all the things we once shared and divided the burdens in two. Now, I must look after so many things, and many of them were put off while Doug was in his last months. The septic is pumped and cleaned. The puddle of ice in the drive is filled in. The storm door is repaired. I fixed two doorknobs that were not properly tightened. I have fixed the garage door. So many little things that usually went on the "honey do" list are now done, by me. This evening a year ago, Doug asked for a glass of our best bottle of wine, his beautiful cane he made from a juniper root, his top hat that he often wore to parties and even out to dinner—alpinists do things like this, being such free and independent spirits—and asked me to crawl back into bed with him. It was then he told me he was leaving very soon. He told me again and again how much he loved me, how very much he loved me. He told me he would see me soon. He told me that I was his personal angel. We talked until he was too weak to talk much more, and he had removed the feeding tube and oxygen. Later, he wanted the oxygen back. He was still entirely lucid and aware. He left the next night, after a long day of slowly sinking further and further away from me. But he is still here in my heart, and I still feel his spirit when I need to sort out my frequent confusions. Today was a blessing of a day, though, in many ways. My grief counselor was helpful, and affirmed that I am not crazy. My darling mother-in-law from my first marriage passed away recently, and today, her trustee called to tell me that the very old, family heirloom necklace she had left to me has been found, and will be here tomorrow. To me, this is a gift from both her and Doug. It is the last bit of the "ticket stones" her family ancestors used to escape from extermination. They were Jews. She and her first husband later became Christians, and he (Jim) returned to earn his DD, and they went to serve in places where ministers were needed who did not need a salary. Later, Jim passed away, my mother-in-law passed away, and Dad and second Mom-in-law met at church. I think it was love at first sight, and they had many happy years together before Dad left at 98. She lived on to 98, and we talked almost every day. She loved Doug, and often sent little gifts to him. Now, on this first anniversary, I will have her token of love for me to put on and wear while I look through photos, listen to and watch videos, and celebrate my wonderful Doug and wonderful Estelle. I fell very fortunate, although sad, to have had such loving and wonderful people to share a part of my life with me. I have no idea why I have been so remarkably blessed. But I am glad I am. The trial balances are done, and of course all the tax statements were mailed last month, so we are up to date on things. I am told we will not need to do an extension, but thank you for that thought, and if it gets too rough to do now, I will certainly keep that in mind. Several people have called today to share love and kindnesses. My counselor was loving and kind, and suggested that I not strive at all for a few days, just lay low, allow myself to feel the grief and loss, knowing that it will move through and out of me soon. I was just crying, so I went for a short walk on this exceptionally warm evening, out among our trees and gardens. Yes, Kay, I am glad I have this place to pour my grief, because it really helps to have a place to pour where I do not feel I am overburdening people with all of this sadness. Much Love, feralfae

Oh, Marty, thank you so much! I just came from seeing my grief therapist, who is a wonderful person, and trying to communicate to here the sense of halfness I am still feeling one year later. Your shared piece by Pat reminded me of the three years of loving through everything, of holding on when all we could do was lie next to each other and hold hands, of the days when even the feeding tube was no longer helpful, and when the last days came—which I am walking again now—and how we held on to our love, even to the last breath. The sadness does not really matter. The grief does not really matter. The emptiness does not really matter. All that really matters is that love grew and thrived in us, and that love was strong enough to carry us over very rough times, and endure, and keep us going, and fill us with thanksgiving on those days when there was no hope left, but only acceptance, and our faith in knowing we would meet again. Yes, Anne, you are right, that the name does not matter. All of the names are symbols of love. And, yes, as I sit here typing this, very damp , and moving again through these last days and hours of last year, I do know that the most important gift—the most gracious of gifts—has been to feel Doug's love, to know my own love endures, and to feel that with that assurance, I can go on, and get through anything. I am going to get out some albums, pull out a few special things, and let myself celebrate our love and the wonderful gift of each other and the grace we had for those last years, when we lived each day in our love, no matter what. Thank you Marty. Blessings, Much Love and *<twinkles>* feralfae

Dear Kay, The mountains of Oregon must be a most beautiful place to live! I went back to work at the office for a couple of days, and discovered that I have almost no energy for the busy office days. Then, I tried to work until 8:00 last night to catch up, since the accountant was there to work on tax things, and barely made it home to bed before I collapsed. I am not over the flu, obviously, although the fever is gone. I just don't have any energy, and feel very weak. But I don't want to fall into further collapse, so I try to get up and do things, and can do so for maybe half an hour, before I sort of collapse into a chair or our bed. Our bed... yes, I am still having trouble seeing things as Mine. Our home, Our office, our foundation, our life, our dreams, our hopes, our future. Although I got new sheets, and have rearranged lots of things, this is still our home, our place, our chairs, our bed. It has been a year, tomorrow, since Doug left, and yet I still keep feeling very married and although Doug is not here, I don't feel alone some times, so much as that he is here, and if I am still and listen, I can hear him talking to me quietly the way he did those last months, when we would sit with our heads together to talk. Part of it is probably this turning of the days, this first anniversary, but, oh, I hope it gets easier soon. But I do hear his voice, always with good and loving advice. And although I am sometimes working again, my mind is still fuzzy, and I am not thinking as well, nor able to do a lot of work that requires complete concentration, so I am most impressed with and given hope by the wonderful accomplishments of so many friends here. I hope to get back to being able to concentrate more soon. Monday I had three "scrapings" of places on my face, and one stitch where one deep 'scraping" tissue sample was taken. I think part of the spots are due to age, and part of it is spending a lot of time up at high altitudes. I don't think it is anything serious, but the doc wanted to check out the spots, and, since he is a cousin, he wanted to have good samples to investigate in his lab, since he is also the lab guy, and he did not want me to need to come back for more scrapings and tests. The shots were the worst part, but I made it without screaming, because I hate shots, and now sport three little bandaids. He'll call when he knows. I miss having Doug here to share concerns and bring a cup of tea, sit down, and ask, "So, how did it go? How is it going? Anything you want to talk about?" which we did for each other, as it is one of my family's rituals to invite discussions. There is no one here to talk about my day, my hopes, my fears, or my projects. No one to share this life. Today I see my grief counselor. I need to find out if I am doing okay. I look around me at other women who have lost their husbands here in Montana, many since Doug left, and who are really getting back to their lives very fast, sometimes just a few months, and even dating. They are encouraging me to go out more, at least to have coffee with someone, but I don't want to. It does not feel right. And I ask myself if there is something wrong with me, because I don't feel that I have moved very far along yet, and while I a not entirely impatient, I sometimes wonder if I am stuck or not doing this "right" because I still feel married to my darling Doug. I know that we each do this our own way, but I see so many people starting new lives, some talking about getting married again, or falling in love, and right now, the idea of any such thing just scares me. I barely seem to have enough energy to hold myself together most of the time, much less working on new relationships. But my girlfriend who lost her husband in July is talking about dating again already, and while I know she and her husband were not very close any longer, it just feels too soon for me to even think about it this for me. I want time to sort myself out. Mostly, I want what I cannot have, and that is Doug back to be here with me, to share our life, and to help me sort things out, which we did for each other. I know that is not going to happen. I am trying to find ways and means to go forward, but it all seems totally beyond my present state of being. Maybe when this flu is finally licked, I will feel better. Right now, I just feel alone, vulnerable, and confused. And I guess that is normal, or what is normal for me. I hope it stops hurting so much sometime soon. I know everyone here is on this same journey, and I just hope we are all headed toward more happiness, joy, love, sharing, optimism, and adventures. Thank you for letting me whine for a while. I know it is okay here in this place, and no one will think I am losing my mind. But some days, it surely does feel that way. I most definitely am not who I was with Doug here. I hope the new me shows up soon, at least enough to recognize. I am still feeling only half, and very alone and raw. I hope I heal more soon. Much Love and Blessings, *<twinkles>* feralfae

Dear Nichole, I cannot add much to what Mary has said above, and what so many others have said. This is a unique journey for each of us, but I have found that having a place where we are not judged for our feelings and thoughts, and where we can come to unburden our sadness, fears, anger, and profound sense of loss with others who teach us how to better be compassionate, understanding, patient, and empathetic to ourselves at this time is a wonderful blessings, and I am so glad you found this place to share with us on this journey. One of the best things someone told me was that I needed to become my own caregiver now, and treat myself with the love and compassion the most loving and tender Mother would give to her healing and recovering child. She said to become the best mother I could be to myself for at least a full turn of the seasons, and I think that has been a wonderful path for me to follow so far. I am so glad you are where with us. I have found that this is a great sanctuary for me for slowly sorting myself out. I pray for love to fill and heal all of you broken places, for your heart to heal and open when it is time, and for your tears to be a cleansing shower for your spirit. Blessings, *<twinkles>* feralfae

Dear Trishia, I cannot imagine the grief you must feel at such an unexpected and terrible loss. I am so sorry you have lost Jonathan. Yes, I think you will find others here who are on the same journey, so please do check in and share here often. Have you considered a grief counselor? I don't know where you are, or if it is feasible, but it might help. I know others will have more help to offer. I wish you were here, because I would give you a hug and some tea or coffee, and just sit with you, hold your hand, and give you a box of tissues, so you could share what your heart needs to speak today. Each day, I have found, is another day of sorrow, healing, loss, and hope. It all gets very mixed up. I do know tears are healing, and that talking about the loss and shock, the grief and loneliness really helps. This is the best place I have found for emotional support, validation, and compassion. I send you condolences, much sympathy, a lot of caring, and lots of love, and some {{{hugs}}} too. I guess it is good you are not here, since I have flu, but at least I can send love, sympathy, and caring, and let you know that here, in this place, I think you will find some healing for your heart. This is a wonderful place of much compassion and love. I lost my wonderful and magnificent husband Doug almost a year ago, and I find each day filled with such a chaos of emotions that I have learned to simply dive in and swim through them, rather than trying to cram them back into some place where I don't need to deal with them. I think learning to dive in has saved me from a lot more pain, actually. A babel of thoughts swirl through my mind, and I try to stand back and observe, rather than trying to fight or understand it all. I've learned not to take my confusion too seriously, but just to watch it, knowing it will settle down after the emotions are released. It helps. Please know that I will hold you in my heart, and I hope you can make it through this day with at last one good thing to cherish and celebrate, even if only a beautiful leaf or the flight of a bird. Come back often, and let us know how you are doing. This is not an easy journey we are on, but it is easier when we share it with each other. And you are so right that this is a journey. I am so glad you have found this place and the wonderful people who are here, caring and sharing. I hope you find the support and companionship we all cherish and share here. Blessings, Much Love, and *<twinkles>* and more {{{hugs}}} feralfae

Dear Kay, You wrote: "I am curious why you were moving to Alaska and then decided to move back to Montana? I don't mean to pry, if you don't care to answer, just ignore my question." We have long had homes in both Fairbanks Alaska and here in Montana. Both very simple homes, and the one here, we heat with wood, although we do have back-up heat. We raised our gardens here, our fruit trees are here, and we spent some winters here, as well as some summers. Our home is above the Missouri, with wonderful fishing and of course the mountains. After Doug got sick, we were here most of the time, because the cancer clinic is here that Doug needed, and his friend and fellow climber is the head oncologist. We lived both places. Our long-term plans were to move to Southeast Alaska, and maybe sell this place, but probably keep our tiny, simple place in Fairbanks, at least for a while. We just did not get around to moving before Doug got really sick the last time. So, it is a question of where I need to be now, and I have our church group, many artist friends, the Bray Foundation for the ceramic arts, and lots of loved ones including our Godchildren, here. But our plans were to move to an island in Southeast, have our main home there where we could have a huge garden, eat lots of fish, and also live simply. It was our dream together, and I knew I could not take on the load of finishing the interior of the new house, moving, and setting up in a new place without Doug. So I am staying put for now, but not up yet to unpacking all the boxes. Yes, I am slowly (emphasis on slowly) beginning to rebuild from the cauda equina and the years of caring full time for Doug. Financially, things are tight, which is why I am so glad I have wood heat, since the wood from our land is free. I am slowly being able to walk a straight line again, as my muscles and nerves begin to carry on conversations. I can stand up straight again. I am not in constant pain. Yes, I am trying to eat well, stay healthy, and get lots healthier. Yes, I have lost a lot of married couple friends, but have also discovered some wonderful people who came forward and have truly been here for me, especially right after Doug left and I was dealing with so much. And the married friends may be back—I think my loss brings to light the reality of their own inevitable loss of one or the other of them. We all need to work through things in our own time. I was angry at first, then I remembered how I felt when another friend lost his wife, and how it scared Doug to think about me leaving him alone. It just takes time to work through and find acceptance of mortality and loss, I think. Thank you for your caring note. You sound as though you are in a good place with yourself, and being open to the wailing as well as the smiles. I am working on being the same, and meanwhile, just healing. Thank you. Blessings and *<twinkles>* feralfae

Anne, Oh, thank you! Well, you have just given me my positive for this flu-recovery Sunday when I am not going church! Benji is just such an alert, smart, cute, and slightly elfish fellow, with those great expressions and superb eyes! I am smiling and smiling to see his perky, alert face and stance. What a gift! Our dear friend who lost her husband recently has two excellent dog-kids, as we call them, and they make me smile, too. But your Benji reminds me of my Scottie I had as a child, Wallace. What a great dog you have! And smart! I can see he is ready for any and all adventures, and he has such a great personality! Thank you for sharing these super photos! I am just smiling, and so happy for you to have such a great companion with you. And Benji looks totally happy and at home. It looks like a perfect match to me! Wonderful! *<twinkles>* and Much Love, feralfae

Dear Anne, Thank you for your reply. Thank you for welcoming me to the club! This is such a wonderful place of truly wonderful people. Thank you for the special bond—I had several friends at the Field, of course. And I will never, ever forget when, as a special gift, one of our dear friends arranged for me to have an early morning private showing of the Monet exhibit at AIC, because I am not comfortable in crowded rooms (hence, Montana!) and I was in heaven. It was one of my best days ever, and so I know you will smile. That was many years ago. Thank you for reminding me of that time. I lived on Eastwood in Evanston, a few blocks east of the tracks, just west of the stadium, one block south of Wilmette, there by the little park, if you know where I mean. I could easily walk/run to my dusty old building on Ridge, which was the old Pierce Arrow building, and the name was still in the lintel above our front door. I think there are shops now. It was off campus, but great for archaeologists with dusty things and needing lots of shelving. And close enough to campus to walk over for lunch. They demolished our old, dusty, artifact-filled spot, but I loved that old building, of course. And we are scattered, those of us who were there. I still get to Kampsville occasionally to visit everyone still doing research there, too. I enjoy going across the river on the ferry. I enjoy Montana for its splendor and magnificent mountains, which I have thoroughly enjoyed visiting. We were moving to Southeast Alaska, but we had not decided whether or not to sell our home here. I don't have a clue right now about the future, but I am doing a bit of redecorating, such as recovering pillows, and working on new needlepoint pillows, too. A bit of painting. I asked a girlfriend in real estate what I needed to do the house if I wanted to sell it, just in case, and so I am enjoying a new kitchen floor and will be putting up new trim in the huge living room, but that was about it. We were always doing things here or in Fairbanks. I have wonderful friends here, and also in Fairbanks. I just am not ready to figure this stuff out yet, and I still work, although I went to minimal work these past few years, and need to build up clients again if I want to go back to my consulting. I don't know yet. All (or, I hope, at least most!) of my clients would love to have me back, but I am not ready, I know. My brain is too fuzzy for multi-vector calculus right now. So I am sewing, painting, doing things that make me smile, mostly, and bringing some little bits of new beauty into this place. I just take it a day at a time. Yes, this is a new journey, and I know we will learn and shift, grow and transform, and that is what life is supposed to be about. My Grandmother often told us when we were small that: We could not change the past, but we could shape the future. It was one of her favorite comforts after we would goof up during our summers on her huge ranch. Her words and love still comfort me today. I try to remember that I am still the creator of my life as I look out through these tears, knowing Doug left right on time. Just not my time. Okay, we carry on, learning and transforming. Thank you. *<twinkles>* Much Love, feralfae

Thank you, MartyT, for this place of healing and solace. I've been responding on some topics, and thought that it was time to start a topic and introduce myself. I am becoming more aware of myself going through a deep and intense transformation in my feelings, my faith, and my awareness of not only life, but of love. I see myself walking through a shadowed valley, but I know I am on my way Somewhere, and that this journey, as with others, has light and happiness somewhere in the future. When I lost my Dad, who was my best friend, I thought I would never recover, and yet, that was mild compared to this. Then, I took off a semester from my work, and walked the beaches of Lake Michigan, and spent most of my time in my studio just off campus, and walked for hours and hours, and sailed more, from the beaches in Evanston where I lived. I was head of the Center for American Archaeology at Northwestern University. I lectured at various universities, mostly in maths, but had always been involved in archaeology and anthropology. I am also an artist. I am a published archaeologist, have had too many art shows to count, and right now, I am slowly recovering from a visiting virus, while also sorting out my new life. My own company, started in 1979, does consulting on applied mathematical algorithms mostly for non-governmental charities and trusts. In the world, I now live in Montana. I have my own art studio, where I do everything from high-fired translucent porcelain vessels to silk screens and oils. I've been an artist since I was five, I think, and had my first watercolor show at 13. I studied at Chicago Art Institute and with several artists when I was young (cleaning brushes and sweeping studio floors, and loved every minute of it!) who taught me a lot, and hope to be ready to get back to art soon, as I have a couple of galleries waiting for my works. My web site is down, but when I get it up again, it will be at makingmudpies.com, which is funny because my work is fairly formal and elegant, more than happy and casual, although I am good at japanese tea bowls, too. But that could all change. There have been so many changes this past year that I know I must keep myself open to little nudges from my Angels. My husband Doug was a climber (as am I), a brilliant epistemologist, with reading clubs for his works at, among other places, MIT, Chicago, CalTech and Princeton. He was a former regular Army Ranger officer and aviator, who flew two tours in VietNam, which left him very shaken and often deeply angry, but we healed him from that before he left. He was also a wonderfully creative artist, so we are much alike, although I write mostly on human rights and ethics. We worked together these last ten years, and were recognized internationally for our writings on human rights. Doug escaped his non-functioning body on February 7, 2012, so it has been almost a year. The first few weeks were pure numbness, as I took care of all the logistics, sorted through papers, and dealt with less than kind in-laws. Then, I had to gather all the papers to take to our trustee, and begin to figure out how to have breakfast alone, how to give Thanks alone, and how to find one small thing for which to be grateful every day—a great suggestion by our pastor, Dean Heidi, who is also a wonderful friend. An accident two weeks before Doug's initial diagnosis in December of 2008 injured my spine, but with his diagnosis, I just ignored the pains and began taking care of him, pretty much full time. His initial diagnosis was already Stage IV, and the prognosis was not good. We kept him going, with the help of a whole host of Angels, for three years. He was able to get a lot of things done, we had a lot of fun together, and we had time to say everything we wanted to say to each other. That was a total blessing. By the time he left, I was in a back brace and gobbling prescription pain medications well above the limits recommended. The back injury from the accident was making itself well known. I kept myself on going through Doug's Life Celebration in Fairbanks, Alaska on his birthday and our anniversary, which was May 19th-20th 2012. It was difficult staying in our home in Fairbanks without Doug. I did not get much sorting done. There were many horrid facts to face about his family. While there, by June, I began to lose feeling in my legs and feet, which, after the horrible pain, was sort of a blessing. Now I am back in Montana, had emergency surgery to resolve the cauda equina (I had no idea there was such a thing until after the surgery when they told me how fortunate I was to come through so very well!) in July, and am learning to walk and lift things and exercise again. Somehow, with all that has happened this last year, I had not had time to sit with myself, be compassionate with me, and allow myself to fully grieve this profound loss. I was pretty stoic and locked up inside. So, a while ago, I started going to a group, but found it not too helpful. Then I found and still have a wonderful grief counselor who lost her husband three years ago to ALZ after caring for him for several years. She is wonderful, caring, compassionate, and we can really relate. Her husband was a professor of comparative religions, so had the same sort of mind as Doug, and they come from an academic environment, so we can talk shorthand about some things, which is helpful. I just had my 66th birthday on 26 January, and am looking forward to another adventure, and a long life, since in my family we all wear out at about 100. I do plan to be back in the mountains. Doug and I had great fun together, as we were both outdoor people in excellent physical condition—until the cancer. Our minds worked well in tandem, and we won awards for our writing. I miss working with him, playing with him, creating with him, and loving with him. I miss the hugs in passing, the kisses on the top of my head when he would wander over to my desk. I miss going to sleep holding hands. I miss his voice, his touch, and his tender, loving humor. I miss everything he was to me, the other half of me, and our long, long talks while we listened to music by candlelight and sipped our glasses of wine. I am barely yet able to go into our wine cellar, which was one of Doug's hobbies. Now I have found this place with articulate, compassionate, and sharing others, and it is more of a blessing than I can say. Thank you all. I don't know what my life is going to become. When Doug's cancer returned in October of 2011, we had already begun packing (thinking he was all right by then after two rounds of chemo and having had a go-ahead from his oncologist) to move to Southeast Alaska to a new home we were negotiating to buy in Hoonah. My studio and much of our household things here in Montana are still packed, and while I want to unpack it all, I am not ready yet. It is too much to acknowledge quite yet that all those dreams are gone. The kind people returned our earnest money on the house, thank goodness. I am rambling a bit, because I am still working and feeling, thinking and meditating, to sort out all that has happened this past year and longer. After being Doug's medical advocate and caregiver for three years, I need to find myself again. I need to sort myself out, and that is taking time. Thank goodness for flu, and for the forced respite I have from it. G*d could not have given me a better gift than this time to mourn, share, meditate, and begin to find my way back to my own center of being. I have no idea who I will be when I emerge back into the light. But I do know it will be all right in the end. Thank you all for caring. The sharing and compassion here have allowed me to cry tears, wail, and to turn my compassion toward my own healing, finally. I can feel the sadness, the sense of emptiness, and the deep grief being replaced slowly, little by little, with love, faith, and glimmers of hope. Thank you. I feel that I have found a home for my grieving heart, and a sanctuary for my hopeful spirit. Thank you for sharing, caring, and compassion. Thank you for welcoming me to your community. *<twinkles>* feralfae

Dear Ones, I am so blessed to find you here with me in this shadowed valley. Thank you for this place to wail, shed tears, share love, give and receive compassion, and to find myself not on a solo adventure. {{{hugs}}} Here is a wonderful meditation Which is sung here: http://www.sikhnet.com/gurbani/audio/sa-ta-na-ma- And here is how to use it. http://healing.about.com/od/chanting/ht/kirtan_kriya.htm I do this meditation morning and evening, right after and before prayers. We usually said the "Refresh and Gladden" http://www.bahaiprayers.org/spiritual10.htm together a couple of times a day, as well as our usual impromptu prayers with all our meals. I still say "Refresh" morning and evening. Our dear friend/spirit sister, who is a Sikh, came to care for me after the surgery, and taught me the Kirtan Kryia meditation, and its practice. She is just now getting back from India where she was studying ayruvedic healing for three months. (She had been a teen-ager who learned from and climbed with the Alaskan Alpine Club when Doug had just resigned his commission and set out to heal his life after being a Ranger officer/aviator in Viet Nam for two full tours. Doug was the founder of the club.) Most of my healing has come from our spirit family/tribe of climbers & artists. She is both, as many of us are. Her gift of teaching this practice, as well as so many other Auryvedic and meditative practices, helped us get through those years of Doug's adventure, as he came to called it late in the game. I find this meditation, especially if begun with a statement of conscious intentionality, is especially healing. I think it helps to have listened to some guided, healing meditations on grief so that you have some healing, joyful, heart-opening phrases on which to meditate. Thank you, Mary, for the Joan Halifax meditation on Grief, which I am finding most healing. What a place of richness and love this is! *<twinkles>* I hope you all know that every tear you share through your words here, every hope, faith, and love, are helping me to add my own voice to this wonderful song of love and compassion and transformation which we are all singing together. Thank you all for this gathering place, and your presence. On our Caring Bridge site, I signed myself this way for the years we share there, so here's some fairy dust/photons, to send loving thoughts to each of you who are so giving of your time and hearts. Thank you! *<twinkles>*

Dear Mary, What a wonderful tribute to your shared love, and to Bill. I'm glad you were able to "roll with the day" and and that your studio remodel is going well, also. And the snow, well, sometimes, those are the best days to just snug in and remember, aren't they? You are doing so well and so much. I am happy to hear of all the love in your heart, and I know that, yes, Bill is there with you, both in your heart and as a loving Angel always by your side. I know you didn't have the fire, but you were warmed by the memories, the photos, the poems, and all the wonderful love that still fills your heart and life. I am coming up on the first anniversary of Doug leaving, and I thank you for the wonderful ideas of how to celebrate the day. You are a wonderful, loving spirit to share so many feelings and rituals with others. Thank you. Much Love, feralfae

Dear LindaKate, I am so sorry for your loss of your husband. I am truly happy that you have found this unique and loving sanctuary, where feelings are respected, shared, and acknowledged for each other. I remember being almost continually numb the first several months, and was sort of foundering in many ways until recently, when I realized I needed to find ways to help me on this journey and with taking care of myself. Kay and Mary made excellent points about taking care of yourself. It is good to be reminded of self care during these days of so much loss and walking through the shadows of grief. I am very new here. I lost my Doug almost one year ago on 7 February, 2012, and yes, it is easier to bear now than it was ten months ago. We were married only ten years, although we had lots of friends in common for more than twenty years, somehow, we did not meet until Doug found me through something I had written that was published in something he read. Then we had the most wonderful years either of us had ever enjoyed. I know you have wonderful memories, and that those will help to sustain you through this time. I am so glad you are here now. This is a good place to share and be heard, and to be understood as well. Some of the fog is lifting for me now, and I can smile and laugh sometimes now, and I know Doug is still watching and caring for me, which is my biggest comfort. Each day seemed so long and painful the first few months, that I often thought it would be easier to join Doug than to go on without him. Fortunately, a dear friend intervened at just the right moment and informed me that Doug had told her to tell me to stay in my body. No joke! She was pretty frantic about making sure I got the message, which was a very good thing. I can smile now about how vehement she was to make sure I "got it" about not leaving. I hope you have lots of loving support. I know you will find love and caring here. This is the best place I have found to learn to share, open up, feel free to grieve, and not to be given a lot of "shoulds" from others. I know you will find solace here, and amazing and loving concern and support. I feel as though I am sort of at a balance right now, but hope that somewhere among my words, you may find some loving support, although most days, I still feel that others' words are my life line hauling me along and keeping me from sinking into the abyss of grief and loss. I'm glad you are here, and I hope to share with you often. This is a good place to heal your heart, and to learn a lot of good coping—and thriving—skills for our futures. Much Love, feralfae