You can get lost in your thoughts. You can get lost in memories. You can get lost in your house, as in the old Sniglet: destinesia- the act of walking into a room and forgetting why you went there. You can feel lost because you are without a partner. You can feel lost because you don't know where to begin...I could go on...
I'd like to be playful and light of heart. Right now, I just feel Lost. Capital "l". I feel as though I have done a decent job surviving this first year of being a widow. And now, I face another year. And another. And I can't just wallow forever. Two friends of mine with different types of tragedies made separate but similar bad choices for three years as they coped. I feel like I could use that as a guide. But then I think about how I am 40. I think about how hard it is to even just take the kids out...how tiring it is to keep an eye on all three, make sure they are fed, they don't fall in the canal, they don't kill each other, they have fun, laugh, and stay healthy, take regular showers and baths...Every dish washed is up to me. Every dog walk, every mess cleaned up, every meal, every fight to be refereed, every hug...you'd think hugs would go on the good list, and believe me, they do! But when they fight over my hugs, when they want my hugs NOW and I am already doing three things, or when I just want to sit and have some quiet time where I don't move, but they want me to come upstairs for another hug...or they all three want to sit next to me, but I just don't have three sides. And so I offer to put the littlest little in my lap, but then the middle one wants to sit in my lap, and the oldest is getting elbowed and shoved in the fight for the sacred space so he leaves saying he will NEVER sit with us again.
And I have to find the strength to pack and purge without others, but I just haven't found it. Having someone there to talk with me and help makes all the difference in the world. But asking so much so often is just so hard. So I am lost with that as well.
The rub is, lost or not, I'm the only cartographer qualified. And what I have to accept is that I WILL LET YOU DOWN. The "you" there, is me, John, the kids, and probably everyone close to me. I simply cannot do it all. I will do my best, but sometimes my best is drinking wine all evening and reading a powerful book. How I wish I were able to find the strength to put down the wine, and start running. Walking, Doing yoga nightly. Doing something to lose the weight and drop the crappy habits. I know I have it. But currently, it seems to be lost. And so the losing, of the weight and the unhealthy addictions that have been my crutch, seems the only lost that I really want but cannot reach. Yet. I will say yet. I won't give up.
It's just I have to begin. And I seem to have lost my way in this labyrinth of responsibility and inaction so that I'm wandering in circles. I have moments of strength and clarity and action. But then in my maze I turn and face a hedge. So before I retrace my steps and get myself slightly less lost, I sit down, have a drink, read a book...get lost in myself or a fantasy world.
But I do have courage. Because I have that tiny voice that says I will get up and try again tomorrow. I ascend my stairs looking at the pictures of my kids, my husband, our life together. I trail my fingers on the tops of the frames sliding the dust to a point and rubbing it off to float feather like to the ground. And sometimes, I even let the anger in. I'm angry I have to do it all myself. I'm angry that I think that, because I do have a lot of wonderful friends who offer to help over and over. And I'm angry that I have a small voice in my head that wishes I could just give up and be with him. And I'm angry that I have to do this without him. And I'm angry. And lost. And courageous. And sometimes, when I look the other way, I know I am hopeful. Because of him, I am hopeful. I am afraid of dating and trying, but he showed me that there are good people out there. And when I stumble and question myself, I promise to try to look back at my too short time with him and remember: he loved me. Deeply, imperfectly, and honestly. And perhaps that will be my beacon. I don't know how the love of a dead man can guide you, but it is all I have. And so I follow, one foot in front of the other, and do the best I can.