Author: storyboardpzimapplez

Wave

Dear Reader,

Who knew opening a desk drawer would flood a whole room? 21 months since my partner and husband died from cancer, this is a typical day. I don’t fight these tears, they are with me on this ride, salt-watered and wet, stinging with missing and memories. ~P.

“Meadow, Trees and Snow, Winter Afternoon, Yosemite National Park, c. 1965” Photograph by Ansel Adams, Courtesy of the Ansel Adams Publishing Rights Trust. All rights reserved. Museum Graphics, Menlo Park, California.

“Moonrise, Hernandez, New Mexico c. 1941” Photograph by Ansel Adams. Courtesy of the Ansel Adams Publishing Rights Trust. All rights reserved. Museum Graphics, Menlo Park, California.

July 17, 2018

Life organization of After in progress. Tackling this daunting task, finding things tucked in desk drawers. It’s this type of stuff that brings on instant tears and a racing heartbeat. Shit. A moment’s pause, memories of this man and who he was wash over me, and suddenly in my mind I’m surfing again, paddling out, then having to hold on tightly to the board with both hands, tensing, as wave after wave takes my breath away, drenches and soaks my skin. Patiently waiting for the right wave, to be mine, to ride for my return to shore. Deep breath in, tears steam out. Come up for more air.

Ansel Adams was one of his favorite photographers. These small, 5” by 7” prints, holiday notecards by Museum Graphics, I can see through his eyes what he liked in each one, why he saved them in this drawer. He had a sense for knowing great design and loved looking at nature, better still, sought to be in places just like these. To be. ~Paula

#anseladams #photographbyanseladams #museumgraphics #yosemitenationalpark #newmexico #grief #widow #surfing #waves #nature #winter #moonrise #be

Storyboard – No. 04

July 6, 2018

Dear Reader,

It’s been just about three months since I’ve published something new. I’m calling this span of time a much needed brain-break, a rest-and-reset, or maybe just a falling off of the merry-go-round I am on with my-life-with-loss, a result of going a bit too fast and spinning in too many directions at once. My writing and the continuation of the telling of my story has now had this necessary, self-imposed pause, and as of today, this segment has gathered a lengthy, unexpected list of happenings involving people, possessions, and my evolving position on living this life. I keep thinking of my present life as one, big biking adventure, and when it veers off some perceived course and the brakes don’t seem to work, I’m shouting in my mind and sometimes out loud, “It’s my bike ride damnit!” which basically means “focus” to attempt taking control, “stop being distracted” to do what is needing the most attention, and most often “you have your own shit to do, stop doing everyone else’s shit.” This last thought may sound harsh, but for me, cancer and grief has put me on the defensive about the trajectory of time, and specifically the use of my emotional and physical energy in it, whether asleep or awake. It’s release comes at a high cost to me, and if I’m not careful with the speed and breadth of it, I fear I won’t have enough energy to make good decisions, or worse, really fuck something up or not be mentally-present when I’m needed most by my two teen-aged children. My fears and grief are intertwined, like tree roots and poison ivy on a mountain bike ride, no matter how I try avoid them, it seems like I steer directly at them regularly.

Today it has been 21 months since Jon died. At nearly a year and half without him, at that time, my own well-being and “just being” had hit a hard wall. It’s not easy to say, but I reached a total energy depletion. Days while my kids were at school, I found myself in the month of May sleeping extra hours, my brain felt utterly useless and my body refused to cooperate and felt weak. I think after putting on my “brave face” without real replenishment for so long both before and after Jon died, one day the whole of me literally expired with a capital “E” for Empty. Only very slowly, with giving in to all that extra sleep, crying about everything all over again well into June, and doing effectively what felt like a hiding-of-myself-away, had I finally begun to feel like I was able to function, think more clearly, and could exercise without needing a nap afterwards.

This pause had also, in-part, included and yielded some new writing, most is the kind that is too difficult to readily share, because the depths of my mind have been a messy place to be. There became my having more awareness and sharp delineations between what should be public versus private, those boundaries have resulted in some protective walls going up, needing time to reflect moreso in, than out. Sometimes, I chose to write only to myself, or privately to closest friends. I’m not a person who just spews out words to the public just for saying, so if ever those thoughts from that time end up here, it will be for good reason.

What needs saying now though, is that it has been a full year since our family trip to Canada, and the continuation of ‘Storyboard’ with more telling about that week, needs both a bringing forward to the present and a catching up from being one year ago in the past: like a boomerang, it’s gone a far ways-away, yet now it’s ready to come back to me. And just maybe, my current, evolved emotional state now will be able to handle where my mind was then, in what was in real-time, exactly one year ago. As I share with you now, and continue my story, I invite you read on and to be with me. Be. With. Me. ~P.

Storyboard – No. 04

Ontario, Canada – July 4, 2017

Valhalla

Being in Canada over the Independence Day holiday was a perfect excuse not to celebrate it. That matter of place in being outside of the U.S., or north of the wall as I think of it, and having no fireworks show or patriotic songs, easily put it all furthest from my mind. All of my family members and I are focused on just a few important activities here this week: fishing, family-time, and Jon’s ashes. Today we will be making preparations for his last official ashes celebration. We decided our event will be tomorrow, July 5th, fulfilling the last of his three requested locations. First on the agenda though, there will be fishing and a fantastic outing called a “shore lunch.” Afterwards, when we return to our island, event preparations will be in the form of making paper boats to be created by each family member. Then, tomorrow, there will be fire, and Valhalla will be welcoming him home. Will. Be.

Early morning at the dock, all on board for today’s fishing excursion. The lake is particularly smooth and glass-like. This calmness is what I seem to lack the most of in my mind today, so this picture will serve as a reminder for what I wish and wonder if ever I will be. Ever. Will. Be.

My kids and I bought large sheets of Canson paper, selected in colors of calming-blues, blood-red burgundy, and stone-greys. Mom taught us the paper boat folding method, and all together at the table we began to assemble a fine fleet in various sizes and designs, our own messages and symbols of love drawn on the sides and hulls. Our working together was mostly silent, but the sounds of paper-creasing, markers-squeaking, and the occasional musical melody of our voices, echoes in the sparsely furnished room. It blended all together to help us work along. I feel myself looking on, not so much in the middle of this process. I imagine making a boat will also make tears flow, and I don’t want more of that in front of everyone, so I look on and take pictures instead. This detachment I am feeling is not something I can snap out of, and I think I’m hiding it, but really, I’m that rabbit sitting perfectly still in a barren field, I hide nothing very well.

As we were going about our boat building business on this Tuesday evening, suddenly the light from outside seemed to darken, and looking out through the large, glass-sliding doors to the deck, we noticed a dramatic change in the weather. A storm was coming in fast, and reflective calm waters were now choppy and windswept. A dense, misty fog had descended on the water, shrouded our small island, and gusts of rain began dousing our cabin. Time seemed to stand still.

The storm and air pressure then shifted to a new phase. The fog cleared, and an odd-glow from gold-tinged, cloudy patches mixed with a steely-blue sky canvas revealed the most intense rainbow in the distance we had ever seen. We all took turns standing on our deck taking in what we were being shown: a full, high-arcing rainbow perfectly centered in the distance over the water outside of our cabin.

Ever since Jon died, I have chosen to show my face in pictures mostly with some form of smiling. It’s what I need people to see, an outer-image will be shared, and combined with my “natural instinct” to please others, dutifully I just do it, and in the process, reassure you and remind myself: I’m still alive, albeit grieving, but smiling anyway. However, there are other pictures I have taken of myself along this journey with no smiling. I’m talking about the crying ones, where at the moment I realize the need to document the sad state I feel, I take a picture of my distorted face to reflect later. It’s a way to privately acknowledge my range of emotions, despair to anger to fear, all of this, and I often look at these pictures as proof to myself that this loss is real and not imagined. To show you, the reader, my face with a sad expression, is to reveal how I’m feeling on the inside. Do you really want or need to see that? I don’t think so. Who chooses to see a sobbing mess, sagging skin, and a tear-streaked face? You or I can’t fix it, but I feel it, and my seeing it makes it real. So in that spirit, this sad picture, I choose to share now with you because one year after the fact, it’s okay for you to see, for you to know my reality. My whole being was lost in gazing at that rainbow. Looking at it from end-to-end, following its curved trail woven through the clouds, wishing I could reach out and touch it, I felt so certain he was there somewhere along its path. What I felt most at this moment was our separation, the time and distance between our souls. The pressing air and that surreal glow was connecting us now, and tiny raindrops where finding their way to my face like soft kisses. I now saw Jon as a part of the universe, in Valhalla, but I’m left behind in human form, standing in place and falling without him to catch me or hold me up. His life and his love for me are done and gone, so my life is effectively over without him here. In full disclosure, I felt that day, “I have nothing except a rainbow, and it too, will leave me.” While in Canada, even though I was in such close quarters with my family, at this moment especially, I feel so alone, so weighed down by thoughts that I will never be loved again. Will. Never. Be.

What came next that evening surprised everyone. In fact, the next day, we heard from others at the dock that they, too, never saw anything like it. Just as the rainbow faded, and the sky darkened to later evening, the wind had changed, and began blowing in from a completely opposite direction. It was another storm, this time with billowing, rolling silvery-clouds, a darkened, ash-grey sky, and bursts of lighting that flashed and popped. Again, our family watched in awe of what we were shown. And again, on the deck I stood, feeling alone, attempting to capture lightning in a picture, holding back tears.

Thank you for reading. The story will continue with ‘Storyboard – No. 05.’

~ Paula

Magnet

Spring Break 2018: The week in pictures – Number 01

The beach is like a magnet to my soul. It is here where I am compelled to walk, to say thoughts out loud because only the ocean and its depths can bear hearing them. My words and distorted sounds are claimed at the shoreline, rushing water and foam capture and float messages out to a ship only I can see. Tears spilled on my sun-kissed face from eyes hidden behind UV protective lenses are blotted dry by soft brush strokes of salted air. A blink held a moment too long to adjust my focus, and the ship has disappeared, broken into tiny speckles spread across watery miles. A smile tightens otherwise sagging skin, pulled by the weight of loss and missing the one who cannot be found. Despite my calling his name, there is no answer, only lapping waves and solitude today. ~Paula

Portfolio – Circa 2014

In 2014, Jon was alive and only one year in to his cancer diagnosis and chemotherapy treatments. He and I started to have conversations of my going back to work. I had been a graphic designer up until our daughter was born in March of 2002. Then, my role as a stay-at-home mom began, and still continues today.

My graphic design portfolio in its down-and-dirty video form above is a collection of my work from the era where you may not have a web site design project or space for social media information on a business card. What is the same from then to now though, is that good design is still about people wanting to share a visible message in some form, showing what is important to them, an open invitation hoping to make it important to you in some way.

I don’t expect you to think any of this is important. Truth: I see in my little life’s work review a person I don’t recognize today, so I would imagine you would not know who this person is either. I can’t even come to make the decision to update my LinkedIn page because I no longer fit in the role of graphic designer. That page, by the way, was created in 2013, when I was attempting to connect with my Carnegie Mellon design school alumni to somehow go back to where the birth of my career came about.

Who am I now? After being a mom, I am now a widow, 16 months in to being, and under the weight of grief, I have morphed to becoming a cyclist, surfer, triathlete-in-training, and grief blogger. I don’t think LinkedIn can quite “link” me to my community because of so many things that are outside of their expected algorithms, the simple one-sentence answer. LinkedIn, you and I will have a day of reckoning, and on that day, I will tell you who the hell I am, and you will just have to deal with all these parts of me for my description. ~Paula

Order

Right now, those familiar tears are finding their way to the outer corners of my eyes. They’re just kind of resting there, hovering on my lower rims, I feel a combination of sting and wetness made cold by stale, interior air of my car. I’m not really sure if they’ve made up their minds yet to fall down my dry checks or retreat back to gloss over my view of the road as I prepare to drive to my next stop. I’ve just dropped off my soon-to-be, 16-year-old daughter for her last driving school instruction class, and now after ending a phone call just made, here I sit, in silence, in thought.

Just before driving her here, at home my 14-year-old son and I agreed that I would pick up and bring back a pizza for dinner together while his sister had her 2-hour class. Normally, we order a certain pizza with garlic crust and pepperoni from a particular place close by for pick up. The reason goes beyond the fact that it’s tasty. Every time I need that meal I can rely on to be ready and correct in 15 minutes, I know it will be waiting for me within the time it takes to drive there. They are there for me, my little helper, to make things just a little easier. I’ve never mentioned about my husband passing to the pizza people, but I’m always saying how great it is that their pizza is always ready when I arrive to pick it up, and I really do appreciate them. We might share commentary on the weather, either too cold or too hot, and I always walk out the door smiling. That kind of customer service matters to me, especially now being a single parent and having little room for error in schedule planning.

This evening, however, is a different story. The driving school is within view of another pizza shop I am very familiar with, but because they are not as close to my house as the other reliable place, nor close to the usual kids-chauffeur and local-errands routes, I haven’t had their pizza in what feels like years. As I sit alone in my running car, just noticing the red-lit sign across the road, I spontaneously make the decision to go with what’s closest now. After a basic, quick text to my son of “hey, how about pizza from this other place?” He answers with what is a resounding “hell yes” type response. To myself thinking the what’s next, “I’ll call in the order and pick it up on my way home.” Great. Easy. It’s right here, it’s what’s most convenient now.

Calling from my car while still in the driving school parking lot, my Bluetooth connection carries the call in stereo around my ears. The pizza guy who picked up the phone seems to be having trouble hearing my answers, as I had to repeat my phone number several times. Maybe he was new at the ordering or maybe we had a bad cell phone connection. Once I confirmed “yes, that’s correct” there is a notable pause, then I hear “under Jon?” My heart bursts and empties with a rush of blood to all of my farthest extremities. The exhale of my breath brings clarity to my brain as I feel myself dropping my head and smiling at hearing his name while closing my eyes and saying “yes” in reply with the last push of air from my lungs. Nodding now to no one in the car but my aching heart and memories that have swelled to fill empty space, pizza guy happily asks what I would like, so I’m snapped out of the before, back to the present of IS: which is ordering a pizza in the shape of a square and trying to remember what they call it.

So in continuing my ordering, I find myself automatically envisioning what my memory of their pizza looks like in my mind, out-loud thinking with pizza guy “I’m not sure if it’s called a 4-corner or an 8-corner, what do you call it? The deep dish type?” To which he explains simply, “a 4-corner is one, an 8-corner is side by side.” I see it perfectly in my my mind now, two square pizzas with crispy cheese straight edges, each one cut into four square slices nestled in a rectangular box, side-by-side: the pizza always brought home by Jon on his way home from work. He would always look forward to this dinner treat, even though there was no pizza here in Michigan that quite measured up to the famous Roberto’s pizza from his childhood hometown in Illinois. But he made do, and liked this pizza here from this place.

Order for pick up completed, the call is ended, and all I feel now are these tears that still linger on the edge of a grief wave ready to curl and go beyond a swell formation. I have about a fifteen to twenty-minute wait, and these thoughts need to be written down immediately, so in to my phone I am typing it out. All the while, putting to the back of my mind envisioning what it may feel like going back to a place I know he stood in, at the counter, maybe Jon even talked to the same pizza guy as I did. I’m suddenly hyper-aware of my every breath, my eyes pop up to the time at the top of my phone, confirmed by a glance to my car dashboard, it’s time to pick up my pizza.

There is no usual music being played in my car as I drive less than two minutes across the road. This ordinary act of picking up a pizza will be accompanied by silence, in respect for the going back to a place once not out of the way, a different time playing in my mind, and thinking full-on about my partner and pizza-loving husband, when he could eat and enjoy it, before he was too sick and could not.

As I park in front of the narrow glass-enclosed space, I see nothing has changed here, and the door still sticks and scrapes as I pull it open to go inside the shop and step into the shiny, red-tiled, green and white-walled somewhat-uninviting space. It’s just a bit too bright in here, the fluorescence from the lights overhead cause my pupils to constrict, but that’s okay because it seems to help in holding those tears in place. My eyes become fixed on pizza guy, and I answer his question of, “Picking up?” with a soft, but firm “Yes, for Jon” as I plop my oversized, black-leather purse on the pizza-grease-smudged, slightly-too-high red counter to dig out my wallet. The next thing I know, I have paid, and my hands are feeling the slightly damp, hot pizza box held in my left hand, made heavier with my too-big purse hung over my forearm. My right hand finds the glass door handle and after a quick “have a good night” blurted out to whomever would hear, the door is pushed and scrapes open and suddenly cold air meets my face, and I lean into the night to press forward to my car. Once inside, a brief silence is now replaced with my car ignition and the smell of my pizza squarely positioned on the passenger seat. That smell, this particular pizza smell, is so distinctive. It’s a pungent sauce-smell, slightly sweet with a hint of bread crust and oregano. My drive home was all about taking in that smell, I can feel it adhering to the wet in my eyes, soaking in, finding its way to my memories of who I’d like to see when I get home, bringing what he would love to eat. The oven would be pre-heating now with our pizza stone inside waiting to make-hot what is now surely cooling in the box next to me.

Arriving back at home, I hesitate to go inside. Even though my son immediately greets me and is happy to have pizza for dinner, I feel the emptiness now in my kitchen as I place the box on the center island. Jon’s absence is felt without the pre-heated oven, and without his presence and smile to greet me here. There is nothing here that tells me I’m truly home. He was my home, my place, my food that filled me. I look at this pizza now, the smell of it wafting through my kitchen, carefully picking up a piece so my fingers don’t get too greasy, and it’s just not enough. Every bite swallowed does not bring me closer to him, only further into my reality that he will not be here where and when he is expected to be and that hearing his name by someone like pizza guy saying “under Jon” has to be a something for me to savor, to eat, to be a version of home. Sadly though, I feel I will always be hungry.

Time leaps ahead, and suddenly I need to pick up my daughter. I am happy to leave the kitchen behind, sad and feeling guilty though to leave my son alone in it, but he seems to be enjoying the pizza. Music is now played for the return trip: a U2 song “Raised by Wolves” fills my car, and somehow I find solace with these lyrics describing a horrific car bombing. As the song builds in its intensity, I am staring at the road ahead. Maybe it’s the lingering pizza-smell, or that I’ve begun to sing along at the top of my lungs, but the tears have finally broke like a wave on to my cheeks. The view of the road ahead is distorted, and water-filled. ~Paula

Wounded

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

I have to do this day ‘with gusto.’ In fact, that applies to every day of the whole year we are now in: 2018. My mind has been swirling with mixed feelings of resistance to write and ‘feel’ because the last month of December was about holding it together in mind and body to get through what remained of the holidays: the second Christmas and New Year without Jon. Where did he go? As of this January, he left this earth now 15 months ago, and despite my hand reaching out like into a dense fog expecting to touch him, then pulling him close with his suddenly being in my view, and wanting say, “there you are, I’ve missed you so much,” my hand instead only finds the empty chill and dampness wrapping around each of my fingers and heaviness from tired muscles straining hard just to feel something that is ‘him.’

I had another strange dream last night. Yes, he was there, in it, and it was all about him. Just to my left in the corner of my eye, tall, filled-out, I could not see him clearly, but I could tell by his shape he was wearing baggy jeans, work boots and had on some kind of coat. We were outside mowing a sprawling lawn somewhere together. Not just any lawn, the grass was such a bright, healthy green, the sun seemed to illuminate it from all angles, and it needed to be cut because it was flopped over like a continuous wave to one side. He is walking along using a regular lawn mower, making those patterned lines as he goes, but there is no sound to his work. My mower is like a an edging tool, and I’m going around the pine trees, finding the patches of grass that are outside of those patterned lines and with a sweeper-like motion, I’m brushing the grass, blending the green blades to be the same length, same color. We are together in silence. I feel him come up beside me, I am smiling at him, but keep looking ahead as he and I are working together. I can sense his gaze and it warms me to feel that familiar connection. I know he is smiling back at me. Even though I seem to be wearing baggy clothes too, with a hat, gloves, and my jacket sleeves are pushed up, I know he sees all that is underneath, that twinkle in his eyes set upon me. I don’t want to be in his way, so I turn to my right, and take a few steps over to an area that had mostly packed, bare dirt. There are pussy willow branches growing randomly with those fuzzy grey catkin buds on them coming up to about my waist’s height. I find myself now mowing both around and through them, but they don’t get cut with my tool.

As I go along, the dream shifted to my trying to remember what is buried under those sprouting branches, just below the moist ground. Something is under there, and I have forgotten, I know the plants are there to mark this special spot. With each step while continuing to use my mowing tool, frustration is building at being unable to think of what or who is there. I should just know, right? I am waiting for the memory to come to me. I just see wet, deep brown dirt in front of me now, the green grass appears like a frame around my view. I woke up at that moment, and the guilty feeling of not remembering something added to the realization of dreaming about Jon hits me. The rush of tears and my maybe not so quiet wailing from every part of me fills the darkness of my bedroom. I feel like a wounded animal unable to find shelter. There is no comfort within my reach, no dressing to stop the bleeding of my heart.

Memorial brick

A ‘wounded animal’ is probably the best summary description of my emotional state during the recent holidays. I’m still hurting, but by putting up some defensive walls a bit to not show it, it kept my pain from spilling out like a running faucet. Deep breaths, spending more time with my kids, and gym time somehow kept me grounded. Thanksgiving of late November in Chicago was the kick-off of me making a sincere effort to being present emotionally and physically with my other grieving family members. I remember sharing my excitement about plans that have just begun this past week, reassuring my parents that my kids and I are managing ‘okay,’ and listening hard to how others are doing. The Friday of our visit was a beautiful sun-filled day. I went out for a much-needed run on the Prairie Path. I found myself laying next to Jon’s memorial brick at Elmhurst College, lovingly dedicated to him by extended family. My heart was both pounding from my run and falling to pieces as the sun burned flowing tears deep into my face.

Christmas. Boston. We are all together. At my sister-in-law’s house, her family’s dining room wall immediately caught my attention. The photo wall with a large open space, one lonely nail, I knew without needing to ask what picture was missing, why it wasn’t there, and completely understood why it wasn’t hung back up. Every single meal in this room for nearly five days, I sat staring at this spot. Where is he? Show me. He is here somewhere, right? I kept wanting to take pictures of this wall. The light played with its opportunity to run uninterrupted by sharp-cornered frames here in different ways throughout the day. It seemed alive with movement nearly every time I looked. I wanted to take pictures so I could capture the dancing light and shadows I saw, preserve with me what I see and feel beyond this dining room, and to continue thinking about who is not here. I wanted to get up out of my chair several times during many meals together with my family to do this, but I needed to do it when no one else was looking. To do this privately, so as not to offend anyone, because I don’t want to send a wrong message. I don’t want my family to think I’ve really lost it by taking pictures of blank walls, or be perceived as this is somehow wrong or bad.

To me, this wall actually says what we all may have shared this Christmas: his absence being seen, felt and heard because we are all without, and that, in itself, made him the ‘most present’ person in these holidays. And I need to say, what ever you do my wonderful sister-in-law, please don’t hang the picture back up till you want or need to. Mom and Dad, thank you for bearing with me when you saw my mind and body stare at that empty space unable to be reached by the living and other sounds around me. When I allowed my eyes to focus on this space, my entire energy brought forward unexpected memories of random things, pieces of a good life had with the love of my life and father of my two children. The shadows that flickered on this wall were like tiny glimmers of who I want to have smiling back at me and I waited impatiently for some special message to appear. I had to take a short video, because the dancing light added with the music and voices was like watching a performance, I needed to see it again and again.

So now the New Year has begun, and my life seems to have taken a new turn on my route. Even if now I don’t see the point of it all, I’m going on and making choices and living whatever this life will be. I am hoping it’s not a lengthy-circuitous-type one, but somehow more of a purposeful-Ikigai-type one. You see, throughout 2017, I had practiced leaning in to my grief, and in doing so, I have removed fear of doing impossible things. I’m finding my way now by having let in what I fear most: all that sadness and aloneness of my loss, nearly nothing else could be more frightening to me. Words come out of my mouth that Before would not be spoken, actions I make now that Before would be overthought or delayed. The dark side of acknowledging any new accomplishments from any of this though, is saying that because he died, these things are happening and somehow I should now ‘count my blessings’ for ‘good things’ that might come. NEVER will I do that, or believe that good will come from this very bad thing of his death. If I could have Jon back from the dead instead, if I could go back to that Before a long time ago, before cancer entered my world, I would choose to be in that reality instead of all of whatever ‘this’ is. Fact: He was taken from me, Jon would have never, ever, left me otherwise.

THIS existence now After, is hard to describe. I have allowed myself to ‘let-in’ people and ‘make-real’ interesting things that result in my difficulty speaking in a concise sentence of saying exactly who I am and what I’m doing. I’m most like a rambling countryside that has a different horizon-line in each direction you look. So when asked a simple question, the answer that comes out of my mouth travels far and wide, whereas other people might just say a simple “yes” or “no.” What I do know, is that I’m not sitting in some comfortable chair of life looking at everyone passing me by. I have no fucking chair. I’m standing and constantly moving, in the form of cycling, running, surfing, thinking mercilessly in the attempt to figure out where I’m going now in After.

My kids gave me a book of poetry aptly titled “a beautiful composition of broken” by r.h. Sin, and I’ve been flipping through its pages. My eyes fell on this particular poem as having meaning to me in my current state. It also speaks to my past, and offers a glimpse of things to come.

be loud, no silence.

find your strength

find the courage

reclaim your voice

and say what you need

to say

do not be silent

be loud

be unapologetic

be entirely you

without regret

r.h. Sin

I want to offer you an invitation. Would you like to join me on my journey? As I go, would you choose to follow along with me and see where life takes me now? I make uncomfortable decisions every day, I’m putting myself at risk of failure at every turn. I have an unknown end-point and I don’t fit in some one-size, fits-all box. If you can deal with that, then continue to read my grief blog, The Glog, and find me wherever I am. Hopefully, more of my time will be spent on a bike, within reason of course because I’m a mom of two teenagers first. Now, for the next three months, I chose to be in Working Out Loud group to focus on some specific goals. I even chose one word to be my guiding sprit to embrace this year: Face. I will Face, overcome, and work through tasks I avoid or have not made time to do. I will be a Face representing the grief community, putting myself out there in the form of planning a bike ride to do the entire 3,000 miles of the East Coast Greenway over several years. And I will Face each of you, allowing you to see where my journey takes me. Thank you for being a part of it. ~Paula

Sedated

Paula and the sunset at Playa Guiones, Costa Rica – October 19, 2017

Saturday, December 9, 2017

Last night I dreamed of Costa Rica. In my dream, I was there again, but this time I was not alone. This is what happened. It felt like I lived there, like it was my home. I was riding in the front seat of a taxi cab. The driver to my left was smiling, he had lovely dark-toasted skin that was shiny and seemed to glow. I had twisted my body around on the overstuffed bench front-seat to face him. The ribbed, black-leather seating material felt warm under my left arm which was bent and hanging over the back of my seat, leaning in to see and talk with who is behind me. There are two people, both blonde, one is male, the other female. Their smiling faces seem familiar, I cannot say for certain who they are, but I find myself asking them, “Don’t you love it here?” and as I’m saying this, in my mind I’m thinking “I hope they don’t think it’s too hot, that’s what’s so great, I’m not cold here.” I’m smiling, sweating, and slightly sticking to the cab seat under my legs which are kind of side-curled on the large front seat. My left knee is wedged in the crack where the seat backing meets the bottom seat cushion. “You’ll love it, I’ll show where to go” is the next thing I say, emphasized with a big smile to our passengers. I shift my eyes back to our driver, who is still smiling because he and I share the same love of Costa Rica and somehow at this moment he widens his smile to me just a bit more, and I understand it to mean “I love it too, all we can do is show them, then they will understand.” At this point, I glance to the back seat again, and I still don’t recognize these people but I do like them, and I notice how small they look as the black leather seating kind of frames around their bodies. I glance out the back window behind them now, and I only see blurry, bright daylight and flashes of green as our car speeds along. Pivoting myself around now to look straight ahead, I adjust myself on the seat, helped by the sweat underneath my thighs. It’s gotten a bit slippery. As I look ahead, the road it seems we are driving on is like a large water park slide with deep, clear cerulean choppy-blue water along our “road” and there are red-molded high embankments dotted along the way. “We’re almost to what I really want you to see,” I say in an loud, upbeat tone, because I’m really excited to share this place that I love. We are going pretty fast, the car swivels a bit side-to-side, and I grip the edge of the front cushion seat with my left hand, and for added balance my right hand reaches up to grab the upper handle bar above the door frame. As we make a large arcing turn to the left, our car slows. I feel myself smiling like the cab driver now, just a little bit wider. I know we’re almost there. I’m still thinking about our passengers, wondering if they can see what I see from the roomy back seat. And then I woke up.

Waking up from this dream, I immediately knew it snowed last night without looking out of my bedroom window. The sound of a neighbor’s snowblower is buzzing away, yelling at me like an alarm without a snooze button. It was 7:48. That’s about a half hour too late to get to the 8:30am spin cycle class at my gym on time. I would have to be on my way by 8:15, a little too tight. I immediately called my gym anyway to attempt a last-minute reservation, and there was a wait list for the 8:30 class, confirmation that it wasn’t going to happen. “Okay, no worries, So when’s the next class this morning? 9:45, great, there are spots left? Yes, great, sign me up.” So now I had time to write about this dream, and squeeze in a rushed shower. Also great. Time moves faster when all I really want to do is slow it down, even for a few quiet moments. In my case, writing, social media, and self-care time pass too quickly before I need to pull my head out of the clouds. My “extra” time was more like a time warp, and I felt rushed this morning anyway. I expected there to be more snow, but when I opened the garage door, it was only what I’d call a “loaded donut:” just enough to coat everything in a nice even layer of white. If the grass where poking through, then I would call it “a donut with sprinkles.” Just before I get in the car, I grabbed my pretty blue cycling shoes without the clips from the shelf. It is a small goal of mine for this year’s indoor cycling season to start using cycling shoes in class. Last year at this time, I didn’t even own a pair of cycling shoes. I took my first spin class sometime in November of 2016, and I started outdoor cycling in late February.

I arrived at my gym and hurriedly did the locker room ritual of finding an unused space to lock up my coat and purse. The shoes will have to be changed in class. The class had already started. I picked an open bike, make the quick and comforting switch to my cycling shoes with the blue laces, then adjust the seat, handlebars, and toe cages, and finally hop on. This is a cardio cycle class, so I’m trying to figure out which gear is best for me to make my legs last the entire time, thinking about if he says “gear at 10,” am I good with 9 or 8? If he says “about 100 rpms,” do I go 85 to 90? Or, do I just do the exact thing he says to do and go for it? This instructor gets off of his bike a couple times to adjust this-or-that and the person that came in behind me didn’t close the room door completely, so it’s banging in the door jam, and the instructor gets up to fix the door, too. He expertly clips back in to his bike pedals with ease every time. I don’t really notice much of what’s going on around me, mostly because I’m listening to the music and doing the gear game in my head. “I Want To Be Sedated” by the Ramones is rattling my legs to wake up now. I think I need to be the opposite of ‘sedated’ if I’m going to kick some ass in this class for almost an hour. I’m also wondering about what I missed at the beginning of class. As I’m thinking about the minutes I missed and how many minutes to go, the instructor gets off of his bike one more time, but instead of heading to the stereo system or some other technical dilemma, he walks to my right, directly to a woman two rows diagonally behind me. My head turns and follows him. I see he pats her left shoulder, says some words of encouragement and gets to helping her with some bike adjustment, and I hear her say this is only her second class. She appears to be with the man biking to her right, they are smiling and look like they’re having a good time, and also giggling at their own scene which the sound of it echos off of the high ceiling in this glass-walled space. Bike adjusted, our instructor heads back to his own on the platform and it’s back to focusing on pedaling at 100rpm, which I’m at like 75-80rpm right now, so I’ve got some catching-up-pedaling to do. As I go along trying to follow if we are standing-up or gearing-up or pedaling-faster-up, they all sound like the same instruction to me, and I break my resting-biking-face to smile when I get what we are asked to do all wrong. I’m thinking about this woman, and her second cycling class comment. That was me last year. I see a bit of myself in her. Well, except for her riding partner, I did not have one then and I still don’t have one now. It’s now been over a year since I had begun indoor cycling, it was the only thing that really helped with the anxiety after my husband’s death. A lot has happened since then, time seems to pass in a blink or not at all. Either way, time messes with my mind. Now that the weather is cold and snowy again, I’m back to indoor cycling.

I now find myself really wanting to offer encouragement to that woman. I can think of a few people who shared words of encouragement to me about cycling, and still do, and I am so grateful to each of them for doing so. It requires a lot of patience from them with me and my learning process as I immersed myself in wanting to be a better cyclist. I will leave it up to you, now, to decide if I took a moment to talk with her after the class. What would you have done? Do you just reflect on your own self, stay quiet, or keep your eyes straight ahead? Or, do you reach out to others in some way and maybe share what you’ve learned or say a kind word? A simple comment or even the gesture of a smile could mean a lot to someone. Class continues and I cycle on, and the memory of those boys at Misquamicut State Park beach in Rhode Island playing on the lifeguard chair last summer pops into my head. After being at the ocean’s edge, I had walked back to get my bike that I had leaned against its white-painted posts. It was just after 6pm, and the empty guard’s chair had about six boys now climbing on it, playing some kind of game, laughing the whole time. As I gathered my things below them, I casually mentioned my opinion of what a great job lifeguarding is, and if you decide to be a lifeguard, you can help a lot of people and you can sit up on the chair. I walked away feeling like if only one of those kids even thought twice about what I had said, then I had somehow planted a seed of some sort that may someday grow later. I still believe in planting those seeds, however the situation presents itself, it’s those tiny random moments of opportunity. They flash by so quickly and unless you just do or say what comes to mind at that time, the chance leaves as quickly as it comes. My daydream thoughts are now interrupted by a huge droplet of sweat that has made its way through the fine hairs just above my upper lip. I don’t know where it started: from my forehead, eyes, or nose, but I can feel it trickling fast. As it crests over the edge of my lip, and right before it can fall, my jaw drops just enough to open my mouth, and my tongue meets and catches the droplet. A small burst of salt in liquid form spreads in my mouth. Not too briny. Kind of tastes like Costa Rica.~Paula