The Stages of Grief....

It is said when something tragic occurs in ones life, we go through five stages of grief. Depending on the situation, the stages can last anywhere from a week to months, sometimes longer.

Because I was the one who left, I don't think anyone expected me be grief stricken.  Least of all, myself.  The first stage is shock.  Shock as in, you can't believe that what has happened, has really happened.  Shock was not my first stage of grief.  My first stage was denial.  Denial of what the reality of going through a divorce entailed.  I was so relieved to be away from the pressure, that I experienced what I would call a faux sense of euphoria.  I say that in a most respectful way.  I ran away from my pain and here in Arizona, I didn't feel pain.  I felt pain relief.

The reality of being truly alone didn't quite hit me until Thanksgiving.  Kicking into high gear, the holiday season and the first Christmas alone.  It never occurred to me at the time, that my Christmas would be quite so different from Christmas' past until I went through that first Thanksgiving.  The reality of the divorce hit me over the head...hard.  No, my first stage wasn't shock, my second stage was shock.

I have lived the same life, with the same man, under the same roof for so many years, I think I was so completely naive as to what a divorce really meant.  It never occurred to me then, that the man I spent so many years with wouldn't be there still; even though I didn't want to be married to him anymore.  He said he still loved me, why wouldn't he still want to leave family traditions like Christmas, the same as before?  Why?  My parents and kids said, "did I understand what it meant to be divorced?"  Apparently, it wasn't something I had thought would change.  Imagine the shock when I realized, not only had it changed, but it threw our entire family into a tailspin, because none of us knew how to do the holidays any other way.  That is denial in the most "slap me in the face" kind of way and it threw me into shock.  Was it really going to be this way forever?  What?

The next stage of grief is anger.  Although I alternated between shock, anger and denial for many months, the anger poured out of me in terrible ways. I became so adept at hiding my pain, suppressing my pain, running from my pain and denying it's existence that it knocked the wind out of me every time I went home.  I wanted my family to forgive me for the choices I had made.  I wanted their acceptance for choosing to live a different life then the one they knew.  I wanted them to be happy for me and to be proud that not only had I started over in a brand new city, where I had known no one, but that I was thriving! Ha! Wishful thinking and complete denial...again.  I was angry at all of them when I realized they didn't understand.  It didn't matter how much I wanted to explain my reasons why...no one wanted to hear it.  I was angry, furious even.  And, I thought, justified.  They hadn't lived enough life to understand.  Their experiences were minimal compared to mine.  How dare they judge me?

I made the decision to hide my life from them all.  Regardless of how lonely I was. How sad I was, how much I hurt...they would never know.  I would put on a brave face and flip them all the finger and fake it, even if it killed me.  And the running nearly did. I ran myself ragged, involving myself in anything and everything I was invited to.  Racing frantically from party to party, happy hour to happy hour, anything....anything to fill the void.  I wanted to fit in here. I was doing everything possible to fit in. But I missed my life in the northwest.  I missed normalcy.  I didn't even know what normal was anymore.  I felt lost.  But I would never have admitted it.  It took Mother's Day weekend without my kids around, and a middle of the night, drunken, sobbing, phone call to a friend, that finally, finally, I could admit how very sad and extremely lonely I was for my old life and my family.  I was close to the bottom, but I hadn't bottomed out yet.  Welcome to stage four...my old friend, Depression. 

As time went by and I got closer to my trip home for the summer, I was running faster, getting little sleep, drinking too much and spending far too much money, and dating frantically to fill the voids.  I became deathly ill.  I say it this way, because although I was seriously ill, now it seems a little melodramatic to say "deathly," but I really felt... deathly ill.  Before I left town, I had made some careless remarks, causing a rift among a few friends, that even now, I'm not sure if it will ever be the same.  The bottom was rising. 

When I arrived home, I was weak with relief at the familiarity and comfort of my lifelong home.  I was pretty low physically and emotionally and needed some unconditional love and acceptance.  I vacillated daily between extreme highs and extreme lows, depending on the day and who was around.  My mom was a mix of tough love and nurturing-my-heart kind of comfort.  I still hadn't hit bottom and I cried on a daily basis.  There were good days and bad days.  I wore my melancholy like a sweater around my shoulders in the chilly summer nights.  I knew I was depressed, and extremely lonely... but for what, and why?  I wanted this... remember?

The middle of July, everything came to a head.  It had to eventually I guess.  It knocked the wind out of me and made me want to curl up in a ball and die...again...but as in all things that seem horrible and traumatic, there was a lesson in there somewhere.  If I paid close attention, I knew it would be really valuable and important.  I spent three days straight sitting in my old counselors office, sobbing my way through my past year, pouring out the pain of my decisions.  This was the beginning of stage five...Acceptance. 

As my summer in the northwest drew to a close, I drew boundaries with my kids and my parents. I needed time now, to process all of the words that had been spoken to me by family and friends. The same people who, although I knew they loved me and wanted to fix my broken heart, I needed space from them.  I am grateful for those last two weeks there.  I spent long hours alone, thinking about my past year.  I thought about how I couldn't see before now, how hard I'd been running and how very tired I was.  It took an old friend from my past to put it all in simple perspective, simply by being honest.  I went home sad, but determined.  Homesick the moment the plane touched the ground, but  truly ready to start over again...only this time, ready to deal with the things I'd left behind in both places and to stop running. 

I've been home seven weeks now and making a scheduled life for myself.  I stay home most every night.  I go to bed by 10 because I am tired.  I wake up at 5 because I am rested and ready to start my day.  I do my homework, complain about how much time it takes, but am grateful for the time it fills.  I am spending time getting to know me.  I am finding the normalcy I miss so much.  I am able to talk with my ex without crying.  I feel oddly unaffected by the knowledge that he is seeing someone, in fact, I know that I want him to be happy.  I still feel pain in the knowledge that in leaving the way I did, I hurt him so deeply; forcing him to go through those same stages of grief as well, but through a divorce recovery group, I am learning to forgive myself, which is so much harder.   Most of all, I am moving on and I have accepted what those choices have given me now. 

I want to find love again.  I believe that I will.  I'm in a better space than before I left.  I'm not completely healed, but I am on my way, and as my friend Miguel would say "for reals" this time...

Next week will be one year from the day I filed for divorce.  This blog has been an open journey of my heart through this process.  I felt compelled to share publicly because, although I know my journey is not original, it was always my hope that others who read it, might find a piece of my story that resonated with them and helped them get honest with themselves, and heal through their pain as I have been healing through mine.  Many of my posts seemed to say the same things again and again, but the messages were fairly clear to me.  I left a place I was unhappy to forge out on my own.  I was filled with guilt over the choices that affected so many and had small victories along the way.  I sought redemption and affirmation for what I believed was right for my life.  But I tried hard to look at this journey with honesty.  I believe I have.  I'm not much of a religious person these days, but my faith runs deep.  A verse from the book of Proverbs is one I memorized at young age and have tried to live by..."Wounds from a friend can be trusted, but an enemy will multiply kisses."  Thank you my friends and family for being willing to speak the truth and allowing me to hurt, process and accept the love in the messages.

I have decided it is time to retire this blog.  The sadness here is a place I hope to never be again.  I realized the other day, that I no longer feel so compelled to write about my sadness.  I have moved through the five stages of grief and I arrived at acceptance. What a difference a year makes.  I am still learning and my capacity for compassion is huge.  Judgment has no place in any of us, but especially in me.  I want to write about other things.  Happier things.  Funnier things.  I am starting a new blog on Word Press.  It will be much lighter and hopefully I will gain more followers and keep your support.  I will post on Facebook when I launch.  Thank you for reading...Tam

And so...here I am

I've been back in the desert for two weeks.  The moment I stepped off the airplane, I felt the overwhelming heat of this desert.  The swamp-like feel to the air is stifling.  I hate it.  I can't figure out why I'm here now.  I originally came here to escape.  Now I want to escape from this place I've called "home" for almost a year.  I feel displaced.  I don't know where my home is anymore.  When I left, I ran from everything familiar because I was afraid of the pain.  I was afraid of my thoughts and what those thoughts were doing to me.  I thought about dying.  A lot.  Two days ago, I re-read all of the posts on this blog.  My thoughts as I read, were this...the woman that wrote it, was faking it.  She was trying so hard to move forward, but the pain was still so evident.  I read about a woman so torn in half by guilt and sorrow that she kept apologizing and explaining and defending all of her actions and decisions.  I hurt for that woman who sought redemption.  I hurt for that woman that needed to explain.  I hurt for that woman that wanted nothing more than to be forgiven.  I hurt for me.

As time progressed, I saw moments of her former self.  I saw her sense of humor and ability to laugh at herself and her mistakes.  I saw the pain lessen and the instinct of survival take root.  I saw her start to be okay.  Then she went home.  I went home.  The first week was relief.  I was so sick and needed my mom to take care of me.  I came home physically sick and run down.  I came home with a broken spirit.  Ready to throw everything I'd fought for away, and tell everyone...I give up. I'm back and I have nothing left to fight with.

I arrived the night before the 4th of July.  I was so happy to be going home.  I was  excited to see my mom, my kids...I was so happy.  I was home.  The feeling was indescribable.  I drove along the lake shore road towards my mom's place.  The smells were comforting and familiar.  I had the windows unrolled so my dog could smell it too.  I was almost home to the cabin where I'd spent so many of my childhood summers.  I could see the early evening boaters and a few skiers capturing the last few hours of daylight on the lake.  I was overcome with joy.  When I walked down those stairs into the cabin and saw the corny sign that said "Five skiers to a Bed" I smiled from the sense of familiarity. 

My mom greeted me with a hard embrace, both of us laughing and crying at the same time.  I was home.  I had requested the back bedroom because it was darker and quieter than most of the other rooms.  Part of my step family was there, but my mom moved mountains to make sure I had that bedroom.  No one was more important than her daughter.  I felt so loved.

The next few days were spent catching up.  It was a special time for my mom and I.  As we spent long hours in conversation, I realized how much she had aged.  I saw how worried she had been about me.  I saw her wince in pain every time she moved from the toll of osteoporosis.  I noticed how much she talked about getting well and her frustration of being in so much pain.  I should be taking care of her instead of her taking care of me.  She is only 70.  This is scary.  And I'm right behind her.

I was recovering slowly from the pneumonia, resting and allowing my mom to nurture me and be a mom.  I helped her and scolded her for doing things she knew she wasn't supposed to be doing.  I made my bed every day and did the chores I did as a child.  In the morning we would share a cup of coffee on the porch, watching the early morning skiers, and the Osprey swooping in to pick up a fish. At night we would sit together and watch 'The Bachelor," making funny, snarky, comments about the absurdity of it all.  Most nights, I went to bed early.  I woke up more rested and began to feel healthier with every day that passed. 

I moved into my "treehouse" at the end of the first week and settled in to receive my friends and family as guests and spend time alone on this beautiful lake.  Anyone and everyone was invited to come see me there.  I had no cell service or internet and was forced to break my technology habit.  I kayaked daily, in the quiet hours of the morning with my dog on the bow,  feeling the burn and strain of the muscles in my arms with every dip of the paddle into the still water of the bay, I felt stronger.  I allowed myself to be quiet.  The only music that could be had was one station on an old radio.  I sang along to old country songs while I cooked and BBQ'd for myself in the evenings.  The days felt long and not rushed.

 One day while I was still at the treehouse, I drove into town.  I was feeling disconcerted.  I couldn't put my finger on it, but I knew I needed a change of scenery for a few hours.  I was still recovering, and my chest was still racked with a painful, nagging cough that wouldn't go away.  I had made an appointment with a massage therapist.  Already feeling down before I got there, I lay down on the bed and waited.  She had a quiet, soothing voice and asked me a few questions.  I answered her questions with short answers, wanting to sink into the massage and feel that dreamy, quiet state overcome me.   Her firm, rhythmic hands, found every sore muscle.  All the sadness I had been feeling came to the surface and I started to cry. I don't know what happened.  That's never happened to me before.  I cried through most of the massage.  She pretended not to notice.

The rest of the summer was spent living out of a suitcase.  I drove from lake to lake,  my water ski in the front seat of my car, begging a ski from anyone that would pull me; couch surfing at anyone's house that would offer me a bed.

Looking back, I see how broken I still was when I arrived.  I wanted to believe how far I had come, but the reality of the decimation and rubble of the life I'd left, was hard to deny.  The time spent finally facing the pain I'd run from became healing, but not until after another crisis forced me to get real with what had happened and my responsibility in all of it.  The truth hurt, but I was no longer committed to the lie.  This time, there was no where to run   I was here now.  I couldn't hide out in my cabin or home.  It wasn't there anymore.  It hurts me to know that this will be the year my family will remember as..."The year I fell apart and ran away from home."
So I quit running.  I was tired.  I am tired.  Now I am walking.  One step at a time, one day at a time.  Resolution is near and I am planning my future.  I want to go home.  The Prodigal daughter.  

I ended my stay in the cabin I raised my children.  On a lake that holds special memories.  I had a tiny romance that filled me with hope, that still makes me smile as I remember, and my voice soften when I get to talk about him.  And then I flew back.

So now I'm back.  In Arizona.  The place I ran to.  In this oppressive heat that makes me wonder what I was thinking.  Oh, not all the time.  But now, while the weather is so mild in the Northwest, as their Indian Summer begins and the leaves begin to change color.  I didn't know I would be this homesick.

But, it was a good summer.  I reconnected with my children.  I had good quality time with my mom, I spent time with my friends.  I came back feeling rested.  And although I came back to a lonely apartment,  just me and my dog,  I felt missed here.   And so...here I am.  For now.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation...Final Chapter

That night, I wasn’t going to go to the bar, even though his sister was still here, the same band from the night before was there.  I wasn’t going.  But I wanted to.  I wanted to see Cort again.  But I wasn’t going.  Of course I went.  It was a lighter crowd, but the music was great.  Cort wasn’t as busy as the night before, and he seemed happy to see me.  I danced.  Almost every dance.  Cort would come out from behind the bar whenever he could and dance with me.  He kissed me on that creaky, old floor in front of anyone that was watching and he danced with me.  I laughed as I moved my hips to the blues I find so easy to dance to, stepped on toes and made up dance moves.  I haven’t felt so alive in over two years.  Cort had to go back behind the bar and I kept dancing.  His sister was my partner in crime.  At one point, there were 10 men on the floor and just myself and Cort’s sister.  We danced with everyone.  From time to time, I would take a break from my whirling and twirling and hip shaking action and look up at the bar.  And there would be Cort, standing there behind the bar, watching me with that big shit-eating grin.  I danced for Cort, and he knew it.  I want more, but I wonder if he is feeling the same way I am?

We dance another dance.  A slow one.  I am in high school again.  My head is against his chest, and his arms are around me.  Help me.  I’m falling.  I ask him if he will come over after the bar closes.  He looks at me and simply says…yes.  I dance more; with anyone that wants to dance, I dance.  The bar is closing and I drive home and wait for Cort.  I text him and tell him the back door is open, to come to my room and make love to me.  I fall asleep waiting.  I wake up when I hear my phone go off with another text.  It’s Cort saying he is tired and going home.  He will explain tomorrow.  I text back…”Really Cort?  Okay, life is short, I was looking forward to you, but your decision, I don’t know what to say except…sleep well?”

I feel so lonely and sad.  I miss him and want to feel his arms around me.  I was looking forward to sleeping next to someone again.  I miss the intimacy of lying next to a man and waking up and making love.  I wanted to and knew I could sleep next to Cort.  But I can’t force someone to feel what I feel.  I don’t understand, but I know he will explain, as he has said.

The next day, we are supposed to hike together up to a waterfall and take a picnic.  I meet him at his house and he shows me around.  He introduces me to his horses and his dog.  His house is a hodgepodge of ideas, and even though it seems helter skelter, I can see where he is going with it.  We drive to the trailhead and start our hike.  He says nothing about the night before.  He begins to tell me about the mountains here.  He says that huckleberries always grow where these tiny, low green plants are.  If I want to find huckleberries, look for those.  He points out the edible mushrooms.  He notices where elk and other wild life have cut their trails through the brush.  He comments on the age and beauty of the cedars.  He begins to tell me a long story about a moose he had the privilege of watching die. How he felt so helpless to save her.  He told me how throughout the two days it took her to die, how many times and how hard he tried to save it, arguing with himself for messing with Mother Nature, and how the cycle of the food chain was playing out in front of him and how he had to let it happen.  He tells me how, when the moose cow was finally near her death, how he held her head and looked into her eyes and sang “You are my Sunshine” because it was the only song he could remember.  I have never heard such a beautiful story.  I have never been so moved or in love.  Who was this man named Cort?

He had lots of stories like this.  He talked most of our hike.  All of his stories were beautiful, poignant, funny or just plain unusual.  He told me about one his friends.  How she never changed her oil on her car or worried about any of the idiot lights that came on in the car, until one day, her car wasn’t working…duh, and would he mind coming over and checking it out.  Cort came, got the car running after changing the oil, replacing plugs and what have you.  The best part of the story was the punch line.  She tells people she drives from town to the mountains to have her car serviced.  This is Cort.  Patient, funny, kind, giving.  Mountain Man.  I told him, I could see someone writing a story about him like they did with the old man that died on Lake Tuttle when Mt. St. Helens erupted and obliterated his home.  Cort says, “Yeah, he did it on his terms.”    

I asked him if he believed in God.  He said, “Mostly.”  I ask him if he is afraid of dying.  Not at all, and he really doesn’t care how they dispose of his body, thinks that burying is a waste of space, but that his loved ones need to do what gives them comfort.  He tells me that his boys have worried aloud that he snowshoes across the frozen lake, what if the ice breaks?  No one will know.  He assures them it is the perfect way to die.  A few moments of thrashing, as the instinct to survive is natural; and then peacefully slipping into hypothermia and sinking to the bottom.  No suffering.  We talk and hike for a couple hours.  Time flies again. 

Finally, we are back at the car and decide to find a cool place along the creek to eat our picnic.  I tell him I want to talk about the subject he conveniently keeps changing.  What happened last night?  Why did he change his mind about coming over?  He tells me casual flings don’t work for him.  I look him in the eyes and I say, “You know, this isn’t casual.” He stares back and says, “I know.  It was your text that changed my mind.  It wouldn’t have been casual, it would be making love.”  He has already told me, he falls in love easily.  He says,  “I am a ‘temptress’ (his word).  The text that said “come make love to me” was the tipping point and he knew what the outcome would be.  He says, “I know your dream is not mine.  You left your marriage for your dreams.  I am here living mine, and this is not yours.”  He tells me he is single, but a woman he knows, a good friend of his, is moving back here.  This is her dream.  She grew up here.  She wants to be here.  They have been talking.  They are not together, but if she knew, it would hurt her.  This is why he didn’t come over.

 I am deeply saddened, a bit rejected, but I understand.  And I do understand, but after the damn moose story of the day, I am head over heels in love.  That woman is going to be the luckiest woman alive.  I am okay with the “why.”  The respect he has for this woman, is so great, that even the chance he might fall in love with me, is not the person he is.  He is not a person who can have a casual fling.  I am jealous he will love her the way I dream of being loved.  The way I know Cort will love her.  But Cort gave me a gift…I know that the beginning stirrings of deep love don’t just happen overnight.  I know I am a big romantic sap.  I know I’ve blown this into something bigger than it probably was, and I know that Cort may not have felt this same way either.  I teased him and told him that he only made it more of a challenge for me.  But I also know, I couldn’t respect him if he changed his mind and it became casual, especially knowing he respected this woman enough not to hurt her.  Even though they are not together yet.  I know who Cort is now, and he is not that person.

But Cort is this person: Cort is a man of great integrity.  A man of great thought in his choices and his decisions.  He is living life on his terms.  He is comfortable with who he is and what he stands for.  He stands for a lot.  He is one of the kindest souls and most unique man I’ve ever met.  I’m grateful he even noticed me and thought I was cute way back when, let alone now.   I’m richer for having spent those days with him.  I love him.  I truly do.  The gift he gave me was… knowing.   Knowing what I want.  I know “Cort” exists, I just met him.  I know that I will meet another Cort and the timing will be right.  There are no accidents, just collisions of destiny.  I found peace in the Northwest on my summer vacation.  I found forgiveness, and I found release.  I found love and I found that I deserve it.  I have been cracked open and I’m ready to receive love again.  It is true, love never fails, but damn…timing is everything. In a few years, I might be ready to hibernate in the woods in the middle of winter and write.  But not yet.  I told Cort, we should wear T-shirts that say, “The One That Got Away…”

One last footnote…the two years ago, the first time I saw Cort before this week, my husband and I were splitting up.  I gave Cort my phone number on a slip of paper, telling him, “if he ever needed a haircut…” he said he kept on his dresser for a year.  He kept it because it had my handwriting on it.  He never called.  When we hiked to the waterfall the other day, he picked an unusual stone out of the creek and handed it to me.  I will keep the stone he picked it out, because he thought I would find it special.  It is.  Thank you Cort.  I love you.  You are a good man and a true friend…

And I am a sap for romance with a big imagination.  This is a story that begged to be written.  Every woman wants to remember a moment of romance that seems so sweet and too good to be true.  This was mine.  It happened at a moment when I needed hope… in this special place, on this lake of happy memories.  Now I have a new memory here, I will cherish it forever, and even though there may be moments of artistic license, you get decide where. 

How I Spent My Summer Vacation...Part Three

It is Friday.  I am cutting Cort’s hair this morning and we are going to hang out.  He works tonight.  I try hard to look like I’m not trying hard.  I shower, wear a light fragrance.  I wear a bathing suit under my sundress and flip flops.  A little tinted moisturizer, blush, mascara and little gloss.  I look at myself in the mirror and I wonder, will he notice the lines around my eyes?  Will it matter? After all, it might just be a haircut and this is the lake.  I blow dry my bangs and let the rest of my hair dry in natural waves.  I’m nervous as hell.  This is my first high school crush and I feel like I did in high school, shy, self-conscious and terribly excited.  He texts me he is on his way.  Shit.  Calm down, Tam, this is silly.

Once he arrives, all is good.  He is witty, and charming.  We decide to decide what we will do to “hang out” after I cut his hair.  My girlfriend is here, she talks with him as I run around gathering my things to proceed with the haircut.  He is wonderfully entertaining, easy to talk to and my friend and Cort are instant friends.  I start the haircut.  His hair is long and thick.  I cut carefully, afraid to cut too much because I can tell; he likes it long, but how long since his last haircut?  Cort is an easy client.  We continue our banter, and I confess to my schoolgirl crush in typing class.  He smiles that brilliant smile and says, “kinda like the one I had on you?”  We both laugh and I say, “Why didn’t you tell me”? 

After working my way through that thick head of beautiful, gray hair, I ask him to go into the bathroom to check it out.  I follow him.  “He is so tall…” I think to myself.  He makes the appropriate comments and tells me how great it looks.  We stare at each other, grinning for just a moment.  Then he bends down, puts his arms around me, placing a tender kiss on my lips.  Oh shit, this can’t be good. 

We “hang out” on the beach for about half an hour and decide to go to lunch at one of the local places on the lake.  Cort is well known on the lake.  Everyone knows him.  Everyone is wondering, ”Who is the blonde with Cort?”  He introduces me with no explanation to anyone.  We have a delightful lunch.  It’s easy.  We are catching up on the last 32 years.  There are no uncomfortable silences.  He is interesting as he talks of his dream of living on this lake.  He tells stories as if I know the locals he talks about.  I watch how he looks ahead while he thinks, and how he smiles as he remembers how it all went.  His hands are large and expressive as he speaks and I want to touch them and look at them closer.  I like to think I can read palms, so that will be my excuse to touch him.  I notice that he pulls his bottom lip in as he pauses and how he flashes me that big toothy grin when he says something funny.   I am smitten.  I am 15 again and I am afraid.   

Time slipped by so fast and it was time for Cort to go to work.  He drives away and I can’t quit smiling.  We will go to the bar tonight, my friend and I.  Cort’s sister will be there and her boyfriend is in the band.  We arrive early to get a seat and our table is big.  I see lots of people I know and recognize; small world, as usual.  Cort’s niece is our cocktail waitress and she is extra friendly to me.  She takes our drink order, and before too long, Cort is next to me, delivering my drink and sitting beside me.  This goes on all night.  The band is great and the music is blues.  I danced most of the night.  Once in a while, Cort comes out to the dance floor to dance with me.  It just feels right.  Cort’s son stops in and introduces himself to me.  He is the very image of his dad in high school.  I can see why Cort is so proud.  The night ends too fast and I am lonely thinking about going home to an empty bed.

The next day we go to lunch again.  Same lake, different location.  Same reaction from the locals…friendly, but curious.  Cort leans over and says, “We are giving them all something to talk about.”  Today feels different.  My hair is in two braids and I keep nervously twisting the ends.  He notices and tells me it’s endearing.  I am suddenly feeling much shyer, much more self-conscious and the conversation feels less natural.  As we walked onto the patio of the bar, I look up at him and all of his tallness and feel small.   There is a first time for everything.  I liked that feeling of feeling protected by this big giant.  We order and Cort begins to tell me his stories.  He is a mesmerizing storyteller.  He tells about his years of growing up on this lake, of his father, his sisters, his first hunting experience with a man who was not his father, and the impact this man made in his life.  I begin to see Cort.  Not his tallness, not his smile, not his big brown eyes, but I begin to glimpse who he is.  I ask him questions.  When did he finally decide to live here full time?  Why did he give up the rat race?  How does he do the winters up here?  Why is he alone and not with someone?  Where has HE been all my life? And WHY didn’t he tell me he had a crush on ME in high school??   Of course, those last questions, I don’t really ask, but I want to, and now my damn head is spinning and I am overwhelmed and confused by my feelings.  I am leaving to go back to Arizona in less than a week.  I love Arizona.  I have my new dreams to pursue and fulfill.  They don’t include an old high school crush that I just reacquainted with, and no matter how wonderful he seems, I know I couldn’t survive more than one winter in this frozen piece of tundra, November through May.  THIS isn’t why I’m here.  Shit, shit, shit. 

I begin to rationalize how I can have just a summer fling.  It wouldn’t be casual; after all, I have developed feelings for him.  I like him.  I might even love him.  But, I am still fragile.  I am still learning and growing and, (ugh…) dating.  AND, it’s only been three days.  What the hell?  (I know he is reading this, and I should put in a disclaimer, but I’m the storyteller now Cort, it will unfold the way I felt/feel it)  As a consenting adult, you get to make choices of who, what, where and when, but, this just seemed surreal.  I feel disillusioned by what I thought I was looking for; what was this?  Infatuation?  Fantasy?  And what the **ck?  I don’t even like to camp.  He is a mountain man.  I’m a city girl that likes to hike.  He hunts, I shop. He eats moose!  And venison.  I eat sushi and chocolate.  I get botox for pete’s sake!  We have almost zero in common in regard to lifestyle.  But we have a tiny past, a huge connection of chemistry, a shared love of this lake, but…different dreams.  

More to come...it's all written, but it's not like I can say, long story short...tomorrow.... 

How I Spent My Summer Vacation...Part Two

And so I am here. Everything smells the same.  I look through every drawer and cupboard, finding the same pink plastic plates, chipped bowls and empty buckets for picking huckleberries.  Some things have changed, but not much.  It seems sad that this place stands empty for most of the year. I fall asleep in this large, empty, cabin with many beds that should be filled with friends and family, but, other than my dog, I am the only one sleeping here.  It is lonely, but familiar.   I sleep in the same room I always slept in with my husband.  The one closest to the window.  The bed where once, he woke me in the middle of the night to show me how the moon shimmered on the water, and made love to me.  This place, this room, this bed, this place…

I wake early on the first day, make my coffee as usual, go out to the porch that overlooks the lake and sit.   The first of the die-hard skiers are out because the water is still smooth and the window for the water is short.  My happiest memories are here on this lake.  Not the other place… the place I feel obligated to fight for; but, this lake, these mountains, this place…is in my soul.  I say a prayer of gratitude, because finally, I am at a place in my heart, where I can pray again. 

I am heading across the lake today to visit one of my oldest, dearest friends.  Our plans are to spend the day on the beach, BBQ and head back across the lake for a drink at an old, historic bar on the lake.  We did all of that, and that is when I see "Cort"…. again.

Cort and I go back 34 years.  He was my first big crush.  One of the first boys I ever kissed.   His hair is gray now, his face more lined that I remember, but there he was…the boy I sat across from in typing class.  Over thirty years have passed, but those school girl crush feelings returned in a nanosecond.  I tried to be cool, but my heart was beating rapidly in my chest and I could feel my face flush, as I smiled and said, “Hey Cort, how are you?” 

Over the course of thirty some years, I only recently have run into him again in the last five, once in our hometown, and once here in this place, two years ago.  I knew he still worked here, as I had just had dinner with his sister two nights ago and she told me.  “Yes, he still works the bar there.”  This was no “coincidence,”  I wanted to run into him, I planned it, because I knew I would.

He was charming as always, cute as hell, taller than I remembered, but with those same big brown eyes and huge smile.  He knows everyone in the bar and while my friend and I roll into a dice game with people at the bar, Cort and I begin a friendly, flirty, banter.  And this place, this lake, is where I have found the next love in my life. 

Before you either sigh deeply, or throw up, there is more to this story.  The real story isn’t about falling in love with someone I knew thirty odd years ago, the real story is about Cort.  The real story is what I learned about myself.  The real story is what I discovered.  I have written about my sadness, my guilt in leaving, my grief, and my pain.  The real story was a gift from God; a higher being, the Universe, whatever we want to call it, this was a gift.  There are no accidents, but only collisions of destiny. 

After a fun evening, my friend and I boat back across the lake and head to bed.  The next day after spending the morning drinking coffee, looking for huckleberries and waterskiing, she drops me at my car.  Back to the land of cell towers and service.  I turn on my phone to find a friend request on Facebook from Cort and a voicemail asking when we can get together again.  I am happy.

I return his call and we make arrangements to see each other again in a few days.  He requests a haircut from me.  He says, of course, he will pay me.  I think I was asked out on a date, but I’m not completely sure.  Maybe I am just cutting his hair.  But, if nothing else, I am seeing him again and I will be cutting his hair…for free. I am happy.

The next few days are filled with anticipation and imaginary conversations in my head I will have with Cort.  I am enjoying my time at this place and have met the neighbor next door, but I am counting the hours until Friday.  I will close this story for now, and write again tonight, as this story is bursting inside to be written, but I am only here for a few days longer, and I need to sit on the porch, drink my coffee and watch the skiers.  This sadly, is probably the last time I will be in this place, and I need to enjoy every moment I have left.  The story of Cort is not over and it never will be.  Hang on…we’ll be right back…

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

Last summer I was in the Northwest at my beloved cabin on the river.  I kayaked, I ran, I water-skied; spending the majority of my time, hiding out, depressed, unable to make a decision to end my marriage; afraid to face people, basically doing anything to avoid the real issues of my life.  My family accused me of a mid-life crisis.  I was in crisis.  It was the middle of my life.  I resent the term. 

After finally making the decision to leave for good, filing for divorce, moving to another state, going through the winter and spring trying desperately to figure out what I wanted, where I was going and wondering if I could ever find what I was searching for, I have found peace.  Peace in the choices I made, regardless of what others may or may not think, peace with judgments my kids may or may not have, I feel peaceful.  I’ve made many mistakes along the way.  I learned hard lessons about myself, paying a high price for what I thought I was fighting for, but couldn’t articulate what it was I thought I needed and wanted, other than my freedom.

As this blog can attest, I have struggled with the hurt, the grief and the loss that I have felt since I left.  I wrote many of my entries out of enormous pain, that sometimes seemed even too much to write.  And my writing was the outlet for my pain.

What a difference a year can make.  Everyone says that time heals.  It does, but as I have learned, just because time passes, it doesn’t mean that you heal.  It means the pain is less.  True healing is happening because I am willing to do the work; to examine my own faults, get the tools and strategies I need to relearn my life to help the process along.  This is what takes time.  It is a journey.  The pain is less, the grief not so severe, but the loss is still there.  The road to recovery is not through just a couple counseling sessions.  I wish it were, because the way I see it, I am about to turn 50 and I don’t want to spend the second half of my life, wallowing in the failure of my marriage.  I want to live and experience as much as I am able to do in order to move forward to fulfill the dreams I’ve always had.  The dreams that were so strong, that I made the decision to disrupt and overthrow my entire existence, comfort and safety, the only life I ever have known, to pursue and fulfill what I needed to survive as an individual.  I risked it all and dared to leave.  I am here to say, I am surviving and beginning to thrive. 

But it is just the beginning.  I have so much more to learn.  A good friend just said to me, as I allowed yet another round of self-pity overwhelm me, “Today…You start today, not tomorrow, not when you get back…today.”  A veil lifted. 

My almost ex-husband gave me a gift.  It’s complicated, but a gift nonetheless.  A gift that allowed me to stay on a lake that was filled with happy memories.  Memories of  my children’s childhoods.  Memories of where I first fell in love with him.  When I first arrived, I was overcome with a sadness that was mixed with the memories of what is now gone.  I sat cross-legged on the dock and stared at the sand where I could still hear the echo’s of my boy’s laughter, the images of my youngest little girl, wading through the water and crossing under the bridge of the dock over and over, while her sister and brothers buried each other in the sand.  Regardless of the divorce, I think I would have felt the same melancholy, because those young children are gone, replaced with adulthood and their own lives.  But it was a bittersweet moment that I am grateful to have experienced right then.   And then I was over it.  I was so happy to be here and I felt so grateful for the gift that I began to cry.

This place is the beginning of the last of my time here for now.  It is hardly the end of what I have experienced and learned.  I have more to share that seems profound and miraculous.  I don't believe in coincidence.  I believe in flow.  I believe in synchronicity.  I believe that things happen exactly the way they should and as I look back over the last six weeks, I believe that this was God's hand.  My friend Meg keeps saying that love is always here.  It is.  I can't wait to write more tomorrow, but for now you have to wait.  I have no internet and this was just a good place to stop until I can get back to this spot.  Stay tuned...I still have flow and it won't go away until I write it.

Now is a Better Place to Be Than Then...

I feel as if I'm on a sabbatical.  I've been learning about gratitude and the art of being okay with being alone.  Two totally different subjects, but in the time I've spent here alone, I've felt so grateful.  Grateful for my physical health, that is beginning to return, for my mental health, my sense of humor and ability to laugh at my ridiculousness, my fortunate life, my children and of course, my amazing friendships.   Excuse me while I mush a bit.  This sabbatical has made me sentimental.  

So many of my friends are cheerleaders.  They stand beside me, they encourage, they never let me feel like a loser.  I'm so grateful for these friendships. I have to give Facebook a lot of credit.  In the last two years, Facebook became a gateway to reconnecting my past with the present.  The re-connections I've made have blessed me in so many ways.  A friend who has lived in Japan for 25 years+ has been a lifeline.  Facebook gave her to me. 

I recently hosted a few old high school chums at my "treehouse" getaway.  We spent hours on the dock, sitting on the deck, drinking wine, dining on delicious food and getting to know each other as adults.  We weren't friends in high school.  We knew each other, but ran in completely different circles.   These girls, were considered part of the "popular kids".  I'm still not sure where I fit into all of that, but I know I wasn't considered part of the "elite" crowd.  There is a line from "The Jane Austin Book Club" that says..."high school is never over..."  It's true, but yet,  it isn't.  I still look at these women as  "girls".  I feel like a young girl when I am with them.  They don't seem any older to me...just wiser, more seasoned with compassion.   I am delighted they like me.  I know this sounds strange.

I'm not sure how or why the anarchy of high school royalty is formed, but it is real.  Ask any one who wasn't a part of it.  We go back to our reunions (or we don't) to either prove something or to say "screw 'em...I never want to go back".  However, my experience in HS wasn't terrible.  It wasn't without it's traumas and dramas, but generally, it was okay.  Not spectacular, and I guess that is a good thing, as I would hate to have had that be the best years of my life and want to relive them over and over.  But the feelings associated with HS return with every reunion I've attended.  What I've discovered as an adult is, that except for that evening of the reunion, it doesn't matter anymore.  We all made our own lives and we are either happy with the outcome or we aren't.  And...we accept what life has become for us.

The interesting part is we all lived a life.  After 30 years, there are marriages, children, divorces, deaths,  grandchildren...in some way shape or form, life made us the people we've become.  Unless we are in complete denial, most of us became real.  We are no longer trying to fit in or trying to impress anyone.  Having just left a long term marriage and trying to look like I had the perfect life, the surprise of reacquainting myself with these women from my past,  who weren't really a part of my adult life until now, it feels good to be myself with women that knew me in my youth. It feels good to be with women who knew me alone and not as part of a couple. They remember 'me'.

The three of us took a walk along the dirt road behind the treehouse the other day and talked about these feelings of reconnection.  For the two of them, it's probably not such a big deal, because they were always friends from way back when.  But for me,  it's affirming.  It's hard to describe.  I grew up in this area.  I've been a fixture here my entire life. Our parents knew each other, we know so many of the same people.  You make a mistake here and trust me, people know it.  Does our history connect us and put us under the scrutiny of judgment?  Or does it connect us and give us grace?  In the case of these women, it gave me grace.  I have made friends with old friends.  Although we can laugh about our HS days and memories, it doesn't define who we are anymore.  I feel blessed to call these women my friends.

I revisit a lot of the same topics sometimes, and I know I've shared a backhanded compliment someone gave me years ago.  I still love it and I still use it.  The person said to me, "You're not as shallow as I thought"...I love that.  I got a text yesterday from one of these women I spent the weekend with.  She said, "You are so down to earth".  I'm sure my parents would disagree as maybe would some other family members, but, I was so blessed by those words.  I still dream big, I still want great things, I still believe in lasting love...I don't think that makes me NOT down to earth, I think it makes me hopeful.  Thank you for those words...it made my whole day. (You know who you are...) :-)

I've made many acquaintances over my lifetime.  I've had people come and go, and  I rarely meet someone I don't like.  I'm open, (probably too open) and  I'm more real today, than I've ever been.  I'm learning to be the most true,  authentic self  I've ever been.  Many of the friends I've kept close to me, I've known for 20+ years.  When we've lost touch and reconnected,  we've been able to pick up where we left off, as if no time has passed at all.  These people are like precious gems.  If you are still in my life, it's because you are so very valuable to me.  Facebook brought many wonderful people both into my life and back into my life.  My new, old girlfriends?  We grew up.  We are wives, mamas, grandmas...we are women connected because of our past, bonded by life and because we are women that know how to love, nurture, feed each other and be cheerleaders... 
 The days of high school ARE over...and now is a better place to be, than then...