February 1: Cardinal in the Backyard

Years ago, my taught me that the sight of a cardinal was a visit from a loved one who had passed; a sign that all was well in the great beyond.  When I saw this cardinal on the fencepost in my yard a few weeks ago, I was glad.  

Tomorrow will be a year since my Dad’s passing.  I miss him.  I miss his voice on the phone; I miss his to-the-point e-mails; I miss his jokes and his laugh.  It’s hard to believe that we’ve been a full season of life without him in this world.   I can hear his political commentary in my mind, see him in my growing plants and garden plans, think of his outsized joy in his grandsons. I remember him by telling stories about him or using a patented dad-phrase.  It’s not enough - it never will be - but the memories are of a  man who loved and was loved; who had a good life.  That’s happy.

A Rough Patch

As I restructure my life and move through this first year without a partner and without my Dad, I’m learning that rough patches will appear without warning.   I do my best to predict and prepare for them, but it’s often an imperfect balance.  The two losses are vastly different and separate but that they are happening within just a few months of one another combines them in my mind.  

For reasons I can’t completely sort out, grocery shopping remains a challenge.  I don’t quite know why, but it’s hard and I often cry on my drive home.  Contemplating my Summer garden is happy right up until the moment I want to ask my Dad a gardening question and then I feel sad that I won’t hear from him that the tomatoes are looking splendid this year.  I’m not fragile or even brittle but I am sometimes sad and I feel tender, as if there is a deeper hurt just under the surface bruise.  

I have this vivid memory of my Dad telling me I was beautiful - it happened years ago, at a moment when I desperately needed the reminder - and though I’ve never forgotten it, it’s not been a memory that resurfaces often.  But it has appeared in my dreams of late and it feels intentional, a message from my sub-conscious,  While it brought me comfort all those years ago when he said it to me, now it stings and I’m not sure why.  

I am gentle and try to be kind to myself but even that is rather a double-edged sword as it reminds me that I am truly on my own.  In my weaker moments, my internal dialogue repeats that I am alone because I am too difficult to be loved and cherished.  I shut down that voice when it speaks, but I can’t quite seem to disable it.

I maintain a pretty blistering pace at work and a lengthy to-do list for the weekends in order to dodge unsettling feelings.  Being busy feels useful.  I enjoy time by myself without feeling lonely - that has always been true for me - but I now I seem to worry this won’t always be the case.  Again, that’s a strange development, since I have always been a loner of sorts.  I would like some easy weeks without an abrupt reminder of what I have lost but I feel like it will be a while before that happens.  Right now I am grateful for a peaceful day.  Loss and grief are like that, I think.  And so I move forward and even when I stumble, I keep my chin up.