Bluebird (Paul McCartney & Wings)

My days are aimless.  I start out with the best of intentions to Get. Sh*t. Done. and about this time in the evening, 9 p.m.-ish, I realize I have Gotten. Nothing. Done.  Well, that's not totally true.  We have accomplished much but, since yesterday was four weeks and tomorrow will be one month, I am more consumed by the landmarks than the benchmarks.  I am trying to write two or three thank-you notes a day, in addition to putting one foot in front of the other, but I am weary and sad and unaccepting of my circumstances.  

It seems that neither side of my brain is working:  the analytical (left) nor the creative (right).  I am forgetting words... I haven't read anything of import since Eric died (not even the NYT e-newsletter, once my Gospel)... I have lost my drive and focus.  I have regained my appetite, but for crappy foods.  I am certainly sleeping better, but morning is still my enemy, and I am napping again in the early-afternoon as avoidance therapy.  Floundering, Listless, Wallowing.  What is the f*cking point?

Melanie sent me a link to what looks like a gorgeous grief sanctuary (imagine that!) in New Mexico.  Tomorrow I will use the Google to see if there's anything similar in South Florida and, if I can't find something local, I will create it for myself, maybe starting Monday:  stretching, meditation, yoga, walking, grief support groups, therapy, massage, AquaFit classes, healthy eating, music, blogging/journaling, etc. (you know, like *normal* people do).  Maybe by going inward, I can use external means to heal.  Boot Camp for Lost Souls (that would be me).  Thank you for the idea, sweet friend... 💗 

I am attending a Reiki Circle this Friday night and, since it's in a New Age store, I might even look into having a private reading done in the near future.  I was experiencing so many signs in the first few weeks (rainbows, an owl, songs) and, although I am still paying attention, it seems as if the visitations have stopped for a while.  I miss him and I want him to come back and reassure me that he's there, even if he's not here.

SONG:  Bluebird by Paul McCartney & Wings

BOOK:  The Comfort of Crows: A Backyard Year by Margaret Renkl

POEM(S):  The Wild Iris by Louise Gluck

At the end of my suffering

there was a door.

Hear me out: that which you call death

I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.

Then nothing. The weak sun

flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive

as consciousness

buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being

a soul and unable

to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth

bending a little. And what I took to be

birds darting in low shrubs.

You who do not remember

passage from the other world

I tell you I could speak again: whatever

returns from oblivion returns

to find a voice:

from the center of my life came

a great fountain, deep blue

shadows on azure seawater.

Some Days by Philip Terman

Some days you have to turn off the news

and listen to the bird or truck

or the neighbor screaming out her life.

You have to close all the books and open

all the windows so that whatever swirls

inside can leave and whatever flutters

against the glass can enter. Some days

you have to unplug the phone and step

out to the porch and rock all afternoon

and allow the sun to tell you what to do.

The whole day has to lie ahead of you

like railroad tracks that drift off into gravel.

Some days you have to walk down the wooden

staircase through the evening fog to the river,

where the peach roses are closing,

sit on the grassy bank and wait for the two geese.

Invitation by Mary Oliver

Oh do you have time

to linger

for just a little while

out of your busy

and very important day

for the goldfinches

that have gathered

in a field of thistles

for a musical battle,

to see who can sing

the highest note,

or the lowest,

or the most expressive of mirth,

or the most tender?

Their strong, blunt beaks

drink the air

as they strive

melodiously

not for your sake

and not for mine

and not for the sake of winning

but for sheer delight and gratitude –

believe us, they say,

it is a serious thing

just to be alive

on this fresh morning

in the broken world.

I beg of you,

do not walk by

without pausing

to attend to this

rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.

It could mean everything.

It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:

You must change your life.

QUOTE:  “I will cut adrift—I will sit on pavements and drink coffee—I will dream; I will take my mind out of its iron cage and let it swim—this fine October.” ~ Virginia Woolf