This morning as I was checking out of the motel I saw that today is the 12th, not yesterday as I thought. The travel got me discombobulated. So. . .I get to do it all over again. It is fitting that it is a Friday night, as it was on a Friday night that Gwen died.
I'm holed up in a motel in a little town called Beach, on the North Dakota/Montana border. It's a small room in a lower level, but it's clean, has a refrigerator and microwave, Internet, and pretty pictures on the wall. Gwen may not have approved.
My trip today was through the prairies and then the Badlands. As I was leaving Minnesota this morning, there was a humorous moment: driving past a Christmas Tree farm, I noted that the brightly painted sign was still up "Cut your own tree. $32.86." Interesting price. Tomorrow I'll be in Montana, and maybe Idaho. On Sunday I hope to make it to my friend's home in Tacoma. I've begun to feel like I'm on a timeline, and I don't like that feeling. Looking back, I am thankful that I was with family last night, but today it felt good to be alone; totally alone, out of the house, on my own, just like I was before Gwen and I discovered the miracle of our love. Maybe it was the vastness of the prairie landscape the reinforced that sense of being just me by myself. (A couple days at the beach in Oregon is beginning to look more and more tempting.) I got a lot of thinking done, and am beginning to feel comfortable with this process of re-discovering who I am. I'm reminded of an old story that I first heard from my nephew, Joe, and later found in a book of poetry:
The old man said that there are two kinds of people,
your cloud people and your sun people.
I'm not sure which one I am," I said to him.
"Clouds will do that to you," he replied.
There were clouds during my drive today; big, dark storm clouds. For a while I drove through hail the size of marbles; then it rained so hard I could barely see out the window. It all concluded with gusty winds, but the sun is once again shining brightly.
My mind and heart keep going back to that last night with you, Dear. It's been nine months now, but I still wake up every morning and go to bed each night with a great big hole in my heart. . .missing you.
I'm holed up in a motel in a little town called Beach, on the North Dakota/Montana border. It's a small room in a lower level, but it's clean, has a refrigerator and microwave, Internet, and pretty pictures on the wall. Gwen may not have approved.
My trip today was through the prairies and then the Badlands. As I was leaving Minnesota this morning, there was a humorous moment: driving past a Christmas Tree farm, I noted that the brightly painted sign was still up "Cut your own tree. $32.86." Interesting price. Tomorrow I'll be in Montana, and maybe Idaho. On Sunday I hope to make it to my friend's home in Tacoma. I've begun to feel like I'm on a timeline, and I don't like that feeling. Looking back, I am thankful that I was with family last night, but today it felt good to be alone; totally alone, out of the house, on my own, just like I was before Gwen and I discovered the miracle of our love. Maybe it was the vastness of the prairie landscape the reinforced that sense of being just me by myself. (A couple days at the beach in Oregon is beginning to look more and more tempting.) I got a lot of thinking done, and am beginning to feel comfortable with this process of re-discovering who I am. I'm reminded of an old story that I first heard from my nephew, Joe, and later found in a book of poetry:
The old man said that there are two kinds of people,
your cloud people and your sun people.
I'm not sure which one I am," I said to him.
"Clouds will do that to you," he replied.
There were clouds during my drive today; big, dark storm clouds. For a while I drove through hail the size of marbles; then it rained so hard I could barely see out the window. It all concluded with gusty winds, but the sun is once again shining brightly.
My mind and heart keep going back to that last night with you, Dear. It's been nine months now, but I still wake up every morning and go to bed each night with a great big hole in my heart. . .missing you.
1 comment:
"Rediscovering who I am ..." How significant is this quest at this time in your grief. Might I suggest that you are you and will always be you; made richer for knowing Gwen's love. You are still one in love - you are still part of her and she part of you. This will always remain, regardless of the changing scenery of your life.
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