What doesn't kill you. . .

I’m in a reflective mood today although I also got a lot accomplished. Dad would have had only one word for today’s weather—unhealthy.  The day began with snow, light at first, then big feathery flakes.  Next there was sleet, then rain mixed with snow, then rain, and tonight it is again turning to snow. 

As I left the gym after my workout and was driving away in my car I experienced a feeling that I often get.  First there is a sense that I am alone, not only in the car,   but in the world.  Along with this there is the realization that I am free to do anything I choose.  Should I decide to do so, I could turn down the heat in the house, lock the doors, and go anywhere I like.  One way to describe this feeling is a paradoxical term I’ve invented—forced freedom.  For just an instant I have an almost euphoric feeling that I am without any responsibilities, maybe for the first time in my life.  This is quickly followed by the realization that, although I may feel all alone, in fact, I am important to my children, grandchildren, relatives and friends.

It’s interesting to me that I said I am important to others; not that I have a responsibility or obligation to be available for them.  Perhaps this is another gift that Gwen left for me.  For the duration of her illness, right up to the day she died, she never complained, became angry or made excessive demands.  She made it easy for me to care for and love her.  Caring for her was neither a responsibility nor an obligation; we talked about this, it was a chance to make our love for each other visible in a context we could never have imagined when we exchanged our wedding vows.  We knew that not everyone receives a gift such as the miraculous love we received,. and we nurtured and cared for it always. 

My son, Mike, has said to me; “what doesn’t kill you will make you stronger.”  With Gwen and me it was somewhat the opposite: what killed her made both of us stronger.  (I wish there were a better way to say that; it seems almost profane to say something as beautiful as that so bluntly.)

This evening, Dear, for just a little while I lay on the bed in the room downstairs where we were together to the end.  I breathed in sweet memories of lying close to you or simply holding your hand.   One of us would say, sometimes in a whisper, “I love you.”  The other always said, “I love you more.”  Then I had a good cry.

One of those day.

From the time I awoke this morning I felt Gwen's absence in the emptiness of the house, yet I felt her presence near me as I went about the day.  This was most obvious when I called Izzy and wished her a happy birthday.  Where were you, Gwen?  You loved to sing Happy Birthday on the phone, especially to the grandchildren.  That wasn't the only time I missed you to the bottom of my heart today.  I remembered to buy some snacks and bottled water for the Wellness Community, and, when I went to deliver them (I wasn't able to deliver them, the center is closed until January 3.) I drove past the home on Huron River Drive that was for sale and that you always thought we should buy,  In fact, on more than one occasion we stopped and took a look at it.  I always thought it was not much of a home, but you loved it, especially the fact that it was on a hill and overlooked Gallup Pond.

It's been a quiet day all in all.  I've done some reading and writing and then did some grocery shopping and a few other errands.  Now its' just quiet time at night, and I'm enjoying looking at our little Christmas Tree.  Also today, I sorted through cards I've received over the past year.  Some are Christmas Cards from this year, but others are sympathy cards received a year ago.  It was good to read them again--Gwen was so loved by everyone who knew her.  People comment on how loving and kind she was; and gentle.  I'm working on a poem about Gwen and how uncomplicated she was.

Dear, you will be pleased to know that the home on Huron River Drive has been sold.  There was a car in the driveway, and there were lights in the windows.  In a way, none of that seems important now, but, because it was important to you, it added emotion and meaning to my day. 

RED RED WINE

Red, red wine

was the song

we danced to

on the deck

of the catamaran

on the way to Nevis Island.

Red, red lips

were the ones I kissed

as we floated

over coral

and fish of every color

there in the Caribbean.

Red, red eyes

are the ones that cry

as I recall

the joy of

those days

on the Isle of St. Kitts.

John A. Bayerl, December 27, 2011

It's a cold, snowy day, and I'm remembering a week that Gwen and I spent on St. Kitts Island.  It was quite an experience for the two of us who had never left the Continental United States, much less seen the beauty below the surface on a coral reef.   We had done a lot since our wedding: travelled about the country, increased our family to four children, filled with pride when Gwen graduated with a BSN in nursing; and now we were at a resort on island in the Caribbean.  Whatever regrets we may have had about "forgetting" to have a honeymoon were soon put aside during that week.  We snorkeled, enjoyed a ride to Nevis Island on a catamaran, and, best of all from Gwen's point-of-view, took a horseback ride around St. Kitts.  Mostly, we relished doing nothing but lying around on the beach and swimming in the surf.  That, and re-affirming our love for each other.  

And, it was a red red letter day, Dear, that warm day in April when you said, "John, maybe we ought to think about getting married."  

BRAVELY BEAUTIFUL

BRAVELY BEAUTIFUL

Her last birthday

with us

we went to a movie,

Secretariat, she loved horses.

Sitting next to her,

there in the theater

seeing her in real life

she looked so shrunken

too small for the seat.

How could she ever have

ridden a horse?

I saw brave and beautiful.

Wanted so much

to protect her

from what lay ahead.

I could not, of course.

Like all who shared her love,
all I could do is watch
as she showed  how to do it all—

bravely and beautifully.

John A. Bayerl, February 15, 2011

 This afternoon my daughter, Anne, and I attended the movie The Girl with The Dragon Tattoo.  Anne will return home to Dallas tomorrow, and I appreciated the chance to do one more family thing with her.  I've been blessed at having been surrounded by the love of our children and grandchildren, relatives, and friends, especially during the past week.  Seeing the movie today was good, it's better to stay busy.  Yet, even at the theater there are the reminders of the seats where we sat, the corner in the wall where I would stash away her folded up wheelchair.  And, it brought back sweet memories of when I read the book on which the movie is based to Gwen each night at bedtime.  It seems fitting to repost a poem that I wrote back in February.

Today, the day after Christmas, I am feeling more blue than usual.  Why should that be, I wonder?  Some of it is the letdown we all experience after the rush of the holidays has subsided.  But, beyond that, I have this feeling of being bereft, deserted by the one who meant everything in the world to me.  As I write this I am aware of how hard and selfish these feelings are; and in some way I don't fully understand it is important for me to write about them.  In my heart and soul I know that Gwen and I loved each other to the end; she fought with everything she had to be with me for as long as she could.  It comes back to what I've written about and felt before; those words "until death do us part" that we repeated in our wedding vows now mean just what they say.  


If at times I do feel deserted by you, Dear; it's because there were so many more things we would have enjoyed doing together, and I still have all this love for you in my heart.  I'm working on  a poem about the week we spent in St. Kitts; one of the things we did get to do.

Silent Sunday

Merry Christmas to all.

GRACEFUL GIFT

GRACEFUL GIFT

The last thing at night

before drifting off to sleep

I feel again

your body close to mine

my cares of the day

dissolve into its soft warmth.

I hold you again

in the way

that only I can.

How many times

did I welcome

the graceful gift

of your nearness?

It matters not

I believe

that all those nights

have passed.

Tonight

I’ll know them again

as each yesterday

becomes the present.

John A. Bayerl, December 24, 2011

Pictures and poetry have power to plumb the depths of our hearts.

Another Christmas without you, Dear; we'll never get used to it.  I'm blessed to see you in our children and their children; when memories aren't enough.

GRACEFUL GIFT

GRACEFUL GIFT

The last thing at night

before drifting off to sleep

I feel again

your body close to mine

my cares of the day

dissolve into its soft warmth.

I hold you again

in the way

that only I can.

How many times

did I welcome

the graceful gift

of your nearness?

It matters not

I believe

that all those nights

have passed.

Tonight

I’ll know them again

as each yesterday

becomes the present.

John A. Bayerl, December 24, 2011

Pictures and poetry have power to plumb the depths of our hearts.

Another Christmas without you, Dear; we'll never get used to it.  I'm blessed to see you in our children and their children;when memories aren't enough.

SWEET INNOCENCE

 SWEET INNOCENCE

We found it by chance

the little diner

that served grilled pecan rolls

on Sunday morning

we went there after Mass

enjoyed the coffee and the rolls

but mainly each other’s company—

our own special time

in our own special place

two kids from the U. P.

newly in love

with everything

bright and shiny.

Time was forever then

we had each other

and needed nothing more.

Now our secret rendezvous

is a bed and breakfast

I pass by it often

pecan rolls just a memory

yet I feel such softness in my heart

remembering how everything fit

all was perfect as could be

we had each other

wanted for nothing. 

John A. Bayerl, December 22, 2011

I've been having particularly poignant memories of Gwen tonight.  In a good way.  I think she loves the little Christmas Tree that Nick, Izzy and Brooke decorated.  Ginette gave me the idea of putting baby's breath on it, and a long time ago Gwen wanted to put red ribbons on our tree, but somehow we never got around to it. Tonight we did.  

Tomorrow will be Christmas Eve; we'll celebrate at Terri's house first, and then at home with the whole family gathered around.  I will set an empty plate at the table when we eat, and we'll drink a toast of Bailey's Irish Cream, Gwen's favorite when she made her famous "I should drink more" statement.  

How could I not think of you tonight, Dear,  with tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat as your grandchildren made an ordinary miniature evergreen into a thing of beauty?   As you are reflected in them, so are you also in the tree--a comforting thought.

HARVEST MOON POND

HARVEST MOON POND

A harvest moon reflects the brass plaque

honoring Jen and Nora.

I sit on the steel bench, also in their honor,

and try not to see the pond.

The now grown trees and shrubs that surround it,

the Cyclone Fence that circles it

keep it safe and innocent, and,

I wonder how anything so ordinary and irrelevant

could have caused such pain.

Water, at once our best friend and our worst enemy,

quenches our thirst, waters our crops, keeps us clean,

and destroys lives, as it did that night twenty years ago.

I walk to the edge of the pond,

see it, cold, brooding, calm,

and know what I must do

to restore balance to the world.

The coin I toss lands with a plop,

like a trout leaping for a Mayfly,

a much happier memory,

and ripples flow in the moonlight.

I have beaten it at its own game.

Then I pray.

John A. Bayerl,  November 3, 2009

This poem I wrote, a year before Gwen died, was a tribute to two high school  students, friends of mine as a school counselor, who accidentally drove into a pond that drained a subdivision and were unable to escape the car.   This was on the 20th anniversary of their death.  They were so young, still in their teens.  They were athletic and full of life, yet they left earth on that night.  In a way this puts into perspective Gwen's death.  She too was young, athletic, had much to live for; yet, she is gone.  That's the hard part to deal with; the seeming randomness of death.  Yet, for each of us, when it happens, it will seem random.  No one really believes it can happen to them.  Now I know better.  My faith tells me that life doesn't end, it changes. Until then, I remain faithful.  

Tonight, Dear, we went to your favorite Olive Garden.  We missed you.

NARCISSUS BULB

NARCISSUS BULB

The narcissus bulb

I planted a year ago

now sleeps

in cold, dark earth.

Beneath the ice and snow

it waits patiently

wanting only

to preen for me.

Its delicate petals

will open

and I will enjoy

its sweet musky smell

feel its taste on my lips

become one with its beauty

in the spring

when all is transformed--

hope fulfilled.

John A. Bayerl, December 21, 2011

 It seems somehow fitting to write about  springtime today; the longest night and shortest day of the year.  Tomorrow, we begin our march toward longer, warmer days.  Of course, there will be some ice and snow and wind and cold nights before we reach the longest day and shortest night in June.  Tonight I take comfort in she sheer predictability of changes in season.  

Yesterday I felt pretty happy all day because my children had arrived and they all did their parts to keep dad in a cheerful mood.  Today, although Mike Deann have left for a couple of days or so, it's been so enjoyable having Bob, Jeanne, Nick and Izzy filling the house with happy sounds. Jeanne, bless her heart, cleaned the refrigerator today.  I told her that hadn't been done since last year when a woman I hired to sit with  Gwen did it.  Those who know Jeanne will know that I now have the cleanest, most organized refrigerator in Ann Arbor.  She does everything well.

Also today I attended a wake for a woman who, at age 53, lost her seven-year battle with breast cancer.  Her mother and sister attended a caregiver group with me for three years; they were also former neighbors.  As I knelt before the casket with a beautiful young woman's body in it I was taken back to when I knelt and prayed for Gwen.  Surprisingly, it felt good to  reminisce about what seems like such a long time ago.  I also have this memory of Gwen kneeling and praying the rosary in front of her mother's casket.  As I knelt beside her I was so proud of her courage in doing what she felt was her responsibility and privilege, as the oldest daughter.

This morning I arose early and went to the gym, Dear.  While there I had recollections of being there with you, and I could see you walking on the treadmill, talking with me all the while. This overwhelming desire to have you there with me overtook me.  All I could do was  whisper your name and talk to you as I pedaled the elliptical.

SCENES ALONG THE WAY

SCENES ALONG THE WAY

The landmarks roll by

like scenes in a familiar movie

each

with its own set of memories.

What once was a beautiful home

has a lawn long since gone to hay

sagging roof

windows shattered and gone

someone’s flaming dream

now a slow fire.

Hog Island General Store

fudge

smoked fish

jerky

pasties

ice cold beer

all under one roof.

A sign in a farmer’s field

DREAMLAND MOTEL

EASY ON-EASY OFF

we always laughed at that one

easy for the one on top.

Naubinway, Beaudoin’s Café

good food, cheap

a great view of the Lake

we loved it

the kids hated it

no Big Macs and fries there

Dead tamarack swamps

give way to cedars

then pine

balsam

hardwoods

charred grass and tree stalks

where fire came through

last summer. 

All the beaches

Top of the Lake

National Forest Campground

it’s a hot day

let’s go for a swim

hang towels in the windows

change clothes in the car—

since we’re by our self. . .

We pass by

a lone man

on a bicycle

bags hanging everywhere

looking for somewhere

to spend the night—

as I am now

at home in winter

remembering.

John A. Bayerl, December 20, 2011

These recollections are of one of the many trips Gwen and I took from Ann Arbor to the U. P. in the summertime.  Sometimes, when we were a young family, we would be in a station wagon jammed with luggage and four children.  No seat belt laws for children  then; they just found a comfortable spot and settled down. . .that is, until someone intruded on someone else's territory.   Later in our life we made the trip alone, just the two of us, enjoying well-earned peace and quiet.  It was a long trip, close to 500 miles.  We managed to break it up with stops at favorite rest areas, restaurants and beaches.  We knew the route by heart, and had no need for maps and itineraries, the landmarks along the way told us where we were and how much further we had to go to Birch Creek or Gaastra.

It will be nice to have all the children home this Christmas.  Mike and Deann arrived last night, Jeanne, Bob, Nick and Izzy will arrive today, and Anne will be in on Friday. We'll all get together with John, Amy and Brooke this weekend.  Gwen's presence will be everywhere.

They're only landmarks, Dear, but they were so much more than that when we saw them together.  You added meaning to everything in my life.

PREPARING FOR ANGELS

 PREPARING FOR ANGELS

Midnight,

late in December of

my sixty-third year on earth,

I stood alone beneath the ironwood tree,

near the southern shore of Lake Superior.

There,

in that awful silence

and the clean, crystalline cold

I heard the sound of snowflakes

arranging their warm, intricate patterns

on the withered, shivering oak leaves of autumn.

Preparing for angels.

John A. Bayerl, December, 2000

It seems appropriate to post this poem again in light of the season.  I wrote this when Gwen and I lived in Marquette, when cancer and being alone could never have been thought possible.  The poem is about a night in Gaastra when, after I partook of Bertha’s Christmas feast, I left the warmth of the house and the gathering of my new in-laws and went for a walk alone.  It was one of those zero-degree nights when snow fell straight down as the bitter cold squeezed every last bit of moisture from the air.  The world has a sense of awe at times like that; it is almost foolish to try to capture it in words. 

On that night I walked a short way into the woods behind the house; stopped beneath a tree, and heard the distinct sound of snowflakes, one-by-one, settling on dry leaves.  It is a memory that I cherish; the comforting solitude of that moment and knowing that all of the love I would need in this world was waiting for me in the house; in the presence of my new bride.

Later that night, Dear, we experienced the warmth of each other, and the cold world seemed so far away.

Sunday Song

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-iP27eatYxE&feature=share

Sometimes a poem. . .

Marriage is a Bungee Jump

by Walter McDonald

Marriage is a bungee jump off some box canyon
in Colorado, concession manned by a minion
from the fifties high on weed, beard he hadn't brushed
since high school. The ropes felt new enough

and he swore he measured them, the fall to the rocks
a lovers' leap eighty stories long.
He made us sign a waiver and pay in cash.
Folding the bills away, he slouched back to the shack

and high-fived a friend who passed the bottle back—
Done it again, like cupid. We heard a match strike,
the sizzle of hemp. We checked the ropes, the stiff knots
tied by someone who flunked that lesson in scouts.

We'd checked the charts, the geology of cliffs
and canyons, but no one knows which fibers split,
which granite ledges crack. On the edge of hope
for nothing we'd ever done, we tugged at the ropes,

both ropes, blessing the stretch and strain
with our bodies, a long time falling to the pain
and certainly of stop. Hand in hand we stepped up
wavering to the ledge, hearing the rush

of a river we leaped to, a far-off
cawing crow, the primitive breeze of the fall,
and squeezed, clinging to each other's vows
that only death could separate us now.

"Marriage is a Bungee Jump" by Walt McDonald, from Blessings the Body Gave © Ohio State University Press, 1998. Reprinted with permission


When I read this poem from Garrison Keillor's website it so resonated with me; especially the last stanza.  It takes a lot for a poem  to make me cry, but this one certainly does.  clinging to each other's vows that only death could separate us now.  Whew!!  Wish I'd been able to read this to Gwen some night before we fell asleep; "clinging to each other's vows". . .I can only trust that she's the one who sent it to me.  


This morning a very light snow is falling; I've been watching it gather on the bell outside the window.  There's absolutely no wind, so the snow just slowly piles up; on the bell it looks like frosting on a cupcake.  This will be a good morning for me to get some more Christmas decorations out and run to the mall for a few things I want to get. This almost feels like how I remember it would feel when Gwen and I did these things together. Can't believe I said I'm going to the mall.  Do it for those who love me, and whom I love in return. 


This can't help but be one of those blue and melancholy days, Dear; one of those days when I cling to you.  It will be OK when I get to moving out and about, preparing for the happy times ahead.

BEFORE THE DEADLY DIAGNOSIS

  BEFORE THE DEADLY DIAGNOSIS

We are grateful for,

and appreciative of

the quality of life we own,

the gift of each day,

the opportunity to live life

to its fullest.

Was life, just life,

ever so real, so near, so present,

indeed, so important,

before the deadly diagnosis?

Is that what it takes?

How sad.

John A. Bayerl, October 9, 2009

This is another Friday evening, and I am once again filled with the melancholy feeling I always get when I remember how wonderful Friday nights were for Gwen and me, both before our marriage and all though it.  Tonight it's as though her spirit and presence are everywhere.  That's a good thing in a lot of ways.  

Yesterday I was taken aback when I realized that Monday was December 12, a year and a month since Gwen died.  And, it slipped right by me.  In a way that is a good thing, a sign that things are changing.  On the other hand, I don't ever want that date to become just another day.  

My poem about our life before you were diagnosed with cancer, Dear, is a reminder about how important life is and how we try never to take it for granted, even now.  The poem was written on your birthday; a good time to remember the importance of this one wild life we are given.

TONIGHT TEARS (AGAIN)

TONIGHT TEARS

A familiar country road

at night

made special

by sheer ordinariness   

Dare I say sacred?

The big hill always surprised us

just by being there.

Look, the lights of Brighton

and Howell, and I think that’s Novi.

All twinkling and sparkling

in the cold clear night.

So beautiful.

You would say.

Comfortable silence.

down the hill

toward the freeway

and that life.

I reach out

you take my hand

squeeze it between your knees.

No need for words.

Tonight, tears.

John A. Bayerl, February 15, 2011

It's been a busy day; driving over to Milt's Mom's funeral with Dick, Mary and Terri was something I've been needing to do.  Spend good quality time with family, and then  more of the same at  the funeral service and lunch afterwards.  Memories of Gwen's funeral did come flooding back, but there was always someone there to share my "quiet moments" with me.

Driving in the car today I was reminded of the many trips Gwen and I took together.  Sometimes they were long journeys, other times just a short trip to visit family or friends.  TONIGHT TEARS  is a poem I posted back in February; I was reminded of it today as we made the trip home from Grand Rapids.  

How many times, Dear, did you grab my hand as we drove along?  You would squeeze it between your knees and whisper "I love you."   Each time that happened it would give me a warm feeling, but not as warm as the feeling I get tonight as I once again recall those ordinary moments that are now so special.

TOGETHER

TOGETHER

You are always foremost in my thoughts

never an afterthought

You are forever held close in my heart

my heart is yours

When life was but a breath

we breathed together

From the first I love you to the last

our love goes on.

John A. Bayerl, December 14, 2011

Rain is dripping off the cast-iron school bell mounted atop a pole in our back yard.  I am reminded of the fun Gwen and I had searching for that bell when we moved from the Forestbrooke subdivision to our home on Baseline Lake.  She insisted that our yard was incomplete if it didn't include a wagon wheel and a bell mounted on a pole.  We perused antique stores and the Treasure Mart in Ann Arbor in search of a bell, when, quite by accident, we found an ad in the newspaper.  A local farmer had decided to move into town, and our perfect old school bell,  as well as an old wagon wheel, were offered for sale.  We snapped them up immediately, and they soon decorated our yard. 

 On this rainy, cold, dreary December day crows have gathered in the barren oak tree back along the fence.  What an Edgar Allen Poe image that is!   Even that can't chill the warm feeling I have in my heart as I remember another of the endearing things about the woman who completed my life.  When she decided she wanted something, be it an antique school bell or a B. S. Degree in nursing, she simply went out and got it.  I've never had a doubt that when she decided that I would be the one to complete her life I didn't have a chance. I have never stopped being grateful for the time she said, "John, we should get married;  no matter what."  

Dear, the sappy, sentimental poem I've included with this only begins to speak of the miracle we know our love to be. 

A Busy Day

There were lots of things on  my agenda today.  This morning began with a Story Time Players reading at a local elementary school.  We read for a couple of  kindergarden classes.  They were totally engrossed as we read and acted out Three Little Pigs, The Three Billy Goats Gruff (I got to wear the red wig read the part of the troll under the bridge.), and, always a favorite, Tikki Tikki Tembo. . In Tikki I read the part of Chang, and had to repeat that long name several times.  Always fun.

After that I dashed over to a local restaurant where my bereavement group was having its monthly meeting.  Again,  good friends, and I enjoy the ease of being able to talk with others who walk a path that is similar to mine.  After that it was on to a luncheon with a group of former colleagues from Forsythe Middle School, where I was a counselor for several years.  That was a tough one, so many of them attend with their spouses, and, although they go out of their way to make me feel welcome, still . .

 Finally, tonight I attended a dinner for those of us who worked at UM football game this fall.  After that, we were given tickets to the UM basketball game; it wasn't much of a game, so I left at half time.

When I walked in the door of the house this evening the sadness overwhelmed me.  By keeping busy all day I had kept those sad feelings at bay, but there comes a time when once again it is necessary to face the fact that Gwen no longer waits at home for me.

 I look forward to next week when all our children will be home for Christmas.  Each day I do a little decorating, and by time they get here at least the house will have some Christmas Spirit. I've decided to once again decorate a dwarf Austrian Spruce that I will plant in Gwen's Garden this spring.

Tonight, Dear, I hold you so close in my heart.  Along with the sadness, all the good memories also come flooding in--even the bad times were good, you know.  Now I'm going to say good night, I have a couple of poems I want to work on.  One of them is kind of sappy and sentimental, but the world needs that too.

SECRET LANGUAGE

  

SECRET LANGUAGE

  

When I told my friend Dave

about her dreams

he cried

because he knew

the special language

used by the dying

to comfort the living—

those who love them.

It would be a year beyond the time

she no longer told me dreams

when I learned

the secret, special language

the dying use

to make precious every moment

with those who love them—

it’s knowing

we are all going to die.

Now her dreams make me cry.

John A. Bayerl, December 12, 2011

This is kind of a poem about a poem.  Way back on January 22 of this year I wrote a poem called FINAL ACTS.  The poem was about the time when Gwen told me that she was going home.  At the time I heard what she said, but the idea that she would be dead a week later was incomprehensible to me.  Now, more than a year later, I understand the special secret she shared with me.  It's the secret everyone knows.  Son Mike, the physician, puts it this way:  "Death is totally democratic."    Or, as I one time heard someone say, "Life is a terminal illness."   

When my perfect partner left me it was and continues to be the loneliest feeling in the world.  Then, as life continues onward, a certainty persists that there are still things to be done by me.  Each day this is made more apparent by a loving kindness on the part of one of our children, grandchildren, a friend, or one of the myriad of new friends I discover daily.  The lonely feeling is buffered by gratitude.

Today, Dear, I came to the realization that you are with me as I contemplate another Christmas without you, a song to be sung, a poem to be written, a friend to be comforted, and yes, jokes to be heard and told.   As gratitude arrives, so will meaning.  I'll never forget that sunny afternoon, early in November, when you awoke from your nap and told me the secret.  What a gift; even though it took me a more than a year to unwrap it.

Silent Sunday

Gifts of relative strangers.

"The gifts that relative strangers can bestow on us are among the best."  A friend, also a relative stranger, left that remark on my blog yesterday.  The simple truth contained in the comment conceals a deep wisdom that those who grieve the loss of a loved one know well.  It is always the seemingly unimportant events, reminders, memories, sounds, sights, tastes, smells, touches that evoke deeply-held memories and feelings of gratitude.

This morning, for me, it was when I completed wrapping a gift for a gathering I will attend this evening.  As I complimented myself on a job well done, I experienced  a gnawing sense that something was missing.  A bow!  There has to be a bow on the package.  Even when Gwen and I would squash wrapped presents into the car in preparation for the long trip north at Christmas, she insisted that there be a bow on each package.  No matter that it would be a flat piece of ribbon when we arrived in Birch Creek or Gaastra, it was the thought that counted.  I'm sure I grumbled while dashing to the CVS to buy their last package of bows on Christmas Eve.  Such a small matter in the scheme of things.  Today, I would drive all around town to find just the right package of bows that would make Christmas complete for the love of my life.

You'll be at my side this evening, Dear, at the gathering of friends from the old neighborhood.  I can't call it a party; I'm not in the mood for a party.  I'll be dressed in black and gray, but the gift for the exchange will have a pretty red bow on it; in honor of you.

MOMENTS OF HOPE

MOMENTS OF HOPE

This morning

when I came in the house

the driveway clear of snow

I wanted you to greet me

at the door

with a little hug and peck on the cheek.

I know not to expect that

although I felt that moment of hope

all year long

each time I came in the kitchen door

from raking leaves

mowing the lawn

planting the garden.

That afternoon in November

I came in from golf

and you were there

patiently waiting

to say hello—

then goodbye.

Now you wait

on the shore of another sea

with a smile, a hug and a kiss on the lips.

John A. Bayerl, December 9, 2011

It's another of those Friday nights when memories of that Friday night in November when Gwen died come flooding into my consciousness.   This is always mingled with sweet memories of a year's worth of Friday nights when Gwen would greet me at the door of her home in Gaastra, with, as the poem says, a smile, a hug and a kiss on the lips.  In that moment there was no more waiting, only joy.  Now I find myself once again waiting with faith and hope, certain that one day Gwen will once again greet me with a smile, a hug and a kiss on the lips.  

This morning I shoveled snow for the first time.  I did get the snowblower out of storage and started it up, but the snow was light and fluffy and I cleaned it up with a snow shovel.  After that, I  went to a Mass that my friend Mary had said for the love of her life, Jim, who died on this day a year ago.  It always seems almost profane to just simply make a statement that someone died, especially when it's a friend whom I know well.  For Mary it continues to be a life-altering event.  We see with different eyes, hear with different ears when someone whom we dearly love dies.  It deserves more than a simple, matter of fact statement.  

When I got home I went to the gym.  While there, quite by accident, I met a young woman who works at a coffee shop where I sometimes stop.  She teaches figure skating at the Ice Cube, where my gym is.  This young woman has beautiful eyes that remind me of Gwen's, and each time I would see her at the coffee shop I would say, "I see you wore your beautiful eyes to work today."  It makes her day, she says.  We only chatted for a moment today, but it was not only endorphins that lightened my mood as I left that serendipitous meeting.  

I so wish you had been by my side, Dear, when I met this young skater, I don't even know her name, but she has that same wholesome beauty you have.  A nice addition to an otherwise melancholy day; to be reminded of the gift that you are to me.    

A poem from April

THE WATER IS ALWAYS COLD

It’s like washing my hands in the winter

this grief of mine.

I turn on the faucet marked hot

and the water is always cold.

It’s always the same.

Wait patiently for the warmth

to take away the cold pain;

the water stays cold,

sometimes even gets colder.

I fill my hands with foam,

rub them briskly,

sing happy birthday to myself,

rinse in the clear, cold water,

long for the warmth.

In what seems like forever winter

I turn on the faucet,

the one with the red H,

and it’s always cold.

John A. Bayerl, April 28, 2011

It's cold tonight and there's snow in the forecast. It seemed like a good day to post again this poem that I wrote in April.  Then, I was coming out of winter, now I'm heading back.  

It seems like it is always cold, Dear, the warmth you added simply by being in the room with me is what I miss most.

Our Faith and faith in each other.

Every year our church has distributed a little booklet during Advent and Lent.  Each day there's a little historical article and also an article that presents a short extract from one of the readings for the upcoming Sunday.  Gwen and I enjoyed these, and each night, including her last year, I would read what was presented that day, and then we would discuss it.  As far as faith was concerned, Gwen did not easily suffer fools.  She had a keen ability to separate what was "man made" from what spiritual and meaningful.

In addition to our faith in each other and the miracle of the love we shared, we also maintained a strong religious faith.  Early in our relationship this was particularly true; it's a large part of what drew us to each other.  Gwen had attended a parochial school through grade 8, and I had served for one year as president of the Newman Club, a Catholic organization on campus at  NMU.  We were not bashful about discussing the role our faith played in our relationship.  That was a far different time than now.  As I've talked about elsewhere in my blog, we were strongly physically attracted, and it wasn't easy keeping our hands off each other.  Yet, we persevered, and found enjoyment in living the best way we could.  Going to Mass together each Sunday morning was a highlight of each weekend.  During our first year of marriage when we lived in Ann Arbor we continued to enjoy attending services together on Sunday morning and then going to a favorite little restaurant we discovered where the best grilled caramel-pecan rolls we had ever eaten were served.

Tonight, Dear,  it seems important for me to talk not only about the miracle of our love, but also the Faith we shared.  You aren't with me this this Advent, but each  night in bed I still read the Little Blue Book to you; out loud.  You feel nearer then. All day today I've had an image of you all dressed up for Midnight Mass at St. Mary's in Gaastra. Some of it was stepping outside into the clear -20 degree night, but it was always your beauty that took away my breath.   That came full circle on the night you died when we were blessed with the opportunity to make you once again beautiful.  I'm not sure if any of this makes any sense to anyone but you and me, but tonight I needed to write it.  

BEDTIME PARTNER

BEDTIME PARTNER

Every night,

before drifting off ,

I allow myself to feel again

the wonder

of your body next to mine—

close, soft and warm.

I hold you once again

in the way that husbands do,

and count the many times

I welcomed the reality

of your nearness.

It matters not, I suppose,

that all those times are gone,

tonight I’ll know them again

as all those yesterdays

fill and bless my today.

John A. Bayerl, December 6, 2011

Safety is an attractive barrier to genuine faith.  Dave, the guy who is teaching  me to enjoy golf, had that slogan on his desk today.  When someone we love dearly dies, it puts our faith to the test.  At least it does for me.  Gwen's and my marriage was an example of the truth of this slogan.  When we knew that we were in  love with each other there was no doubt, no rationalizing and analyzing.  We just knew that this was it.  The "safe" thing to do would have been to play it safe, have Gwen return to campus and complete her degree 

while I enjoyed teaching for two years and saw her when I could.  Our faith in each other and belief in our love told us to do otherwise.  Several years later Gwen gave me a card on our wedding anniversary that imparted the message that the best decision we ever made was the one to do what we had to do in order to get married as soon as possible; it was a decision neither of us ever regretted.   It wasn't easy, we were lonely during the week when we were apart, and the weekends were never long enough.  Gwen missed being  with her friends at college, and I felt humbled by the sacrifice she was making for me and vowed that she would never be sorry she made the decision that she did, and that she would someday complete college.  Both promises were kept.  

You always made me feel safe, Dear, and now it is our faith in each other and the purity of the love we shared that helps me survive the pain of this time when we are once again apart.  Someday you will again hold out your arms and greet me at the door, and our wounds will all be healed. 

And, to my children and grandchildren:  Happy St. Nicholas Day!

Blue Beautiful Snow

Tonight, as I was leaving The School of Music after my lesson, I walked out into the parking lot and it was snowing.  This was one of those beautiful snows; thick, big flakes, straight down.  I hummed Jingle Bells as I made my way to the car, and the blues hit hard when I remembered all the times Gwen and I would bundle up and go for a long walk when it snowed like that.  It was the simplest of pleasures to gaze at the snow as it drifted past the Christmas lights in our neighbor's yard, talking about nothing in particular.  It was a profound moment in our marriage; a celebration of our love.

When I got in the car I turned on the radio and heard Floyd Kramer playing Last Date.  That's when the snow became blue.  Yesterday I cried too when I went to a movie by myself; the new George Clooney movie called The Descendants.  It was in the theater that Gwen and I always went to, and I sat in the seats where we sat.  The movie was quite moving and sad, and as it ended I was crying harder than I've cried since right after Gwen died.   This wasn't just eyes watering; I could feel the tears streaming down my cheeks.  It felt so good!

I'm looking out at the snow as I type this, Dear; missing you like crazy.  

Silent Sunday

Where Gwen stood when we were young.

SCENIC OVERLOOK

SCENIC OVERLOOK

Epoufette Bay Scenic Overlook

is what the sign said,

we parked the car in the shade

walked hand-in-hand

down the dusty trail

to the rail fence

at the edge of the cliff.

The most northern tip

of Lake Michigan

glittered below,

the afternoon sun;

made sparkling

the drab homes

in the fishing village

a few yards offshore.

She stood next to a tree

for the picture.

I looked at the picture today

saw her stand there

in the shade of the birch

hands behind her back

legs crossed like a ballerina,

looking out at the world

beautiful, proud and hopeful.

There, by ourselves, but never alone

we shared an embrace, a kiss

vowed to remember this place

always.

This summer

now alone, by myself

I once again parked in the shade

walked down  the trail

to the scenic overlook.

The birch tree remains there

a lonely sentinel

and she once again stands there

hands behind her back

beautiful, proud and hopeful

happy that we remembered.

John A. Bayerl, December 3, 2011

That's how I miss Gwen tonight, remembering her in full beauty, always proud and hopeful.  That summer when we stopped at the overlook was when we were newlyweds, driving down to Ann Arbor to begin our first adventure.  This summer I visited the same spot when I was on my way home from my trip to Portland, and, yes, I could see her standing there next to the same birch tree she stood next to all those years ago.  I'll post a picture of that tomorrow; it's the picture I use as wallpaper on my computer.

Tonight, Dear, I attended Dick's Christmas Concert with the Novi Choraliers.   They have a new director who is someone I so wish you could have met and seen in action.  That's what's so hard about all this; it's important to do things like this, and Dick and Mary make me feel so welcome and are welcoming and loving.  Yet, there's an emptiness to the whole experience because you aren't there with me.  So great was our love.

DUALITY

DUALITY

There’s the me

that always was

and always will be

everyone sees me.

Then there’s the other me

that loves her

as she loves me

no one sees me.

And so I live in that duality,

sometimes the public I

mostly it’s a private I.

It sounds like I may be kidding.

I’m not.

John A. Bayerl, December 2, 2012

This is my weak attempt at putting into words what it feels like to learn how to be who I am without Gwen at my side.  This seems to be a topic that I keep returning to.  What it's about is sometimes being in the public eye and at other times being a private eye.  

It's easy being in the public eye.  I know how to do it.  I've been doing it all these years.  The only time I may be a little ill at ease is at events where everyone is there with a spouse or significant other.  Even that is getting easier now; people either know that I am a widower, (It is so hard to type that word.) or they don't.  With those who don't know I can always play the sympathy card by telling them about the beautiful person they never got to meet.  

The private I is a little more difficult.  It is being a private eye in the sense of having to do some detective work in order to find out who I am becoming.  Even here I'm a lucky guy because I have four children, sisters and brothers and friends with whom I can let down the gates and talk frankly about what my options might be, and, more importantly how desperately I sometimes miss Gwen.  Although I don't yet have a clear sense of direction, I do have a sense that I'm going somewhere and that there may be better times ahead.  Dare I say that?   

Today has been another interesting day.  This afternoon I observed Nolan, a student teacher at Pioneer High here in Ann Arbor.  His supervising teacher, Steve, is an old friend, Gwen and I often saw him at church with his family.  A classroom with 36 AP Physics students in it is about as public as it gets.  On the other extreme, I also had a most intimate conversation with Mary, a dear friend from the caregiver support group we attended together.  There was more intimacy when I was able to visit with a couple of counselor friends whom I know at Pioneer.  Intimate may be a bit strong;  these are friends whom I prize and cherish, and it is possible to reveal that private I with them.  

Here it is, another Friday night, Dear, and it's about that time of day when the realization set in that I would soon lose you.  A dear friend said something very comforting today when she told me that my appreciation of all that you were to me in this world prepares me well for when we are together again in the next.  I still enjoy that image of you smiling and waving at me as you tell me that you've been waiting for me all along.

Something is changing. . .

Some changes are happening.   I still miss Gwen something awful.  Just this afternoon I was reading the newspaper, and I came across a recipe for apples in a caramel sauce with a scoop of butter-pecan ice cream.  If I really wanted to please her, I would bring Gwen a scoop of butter-pecan ice cream.  She loved it.  So. . .I reached for a scissor to cut out the recipe and began making a list of things I'd need.  Then. . .

So, yes, there are moments like that.  There are also moments like this afternoon when I was with Story Time Players at an elementary school.  One of our cast members has cancer, and is undergoing chemotherapy.  She and I had a discussion about chemo-brain.  Part of me was feeling like screaming that I don't want anything more to do with evil cancer.  Another part of me felt very empathetic and sympathetic when she told me that her husband doesn't quite understand about chemotherapy.  I assured her that the most important thing was that he is with her every day.  Then she smiled.  What I get out of all that is that I was fulfilling whatever purpose that I have been left here to do.

It's a process of discernment that we go through as we slowly find a new life.   I don't like it--I'm doing it kicking and screaming, but. . .I'm doing it.

Lately I've been thinking about putting some of this stuff I've written into a book, Dear.  You'll have to help me with that one. That will be a nice project for the winter.