I am a Pilgrim

It’s a fact of life. If we live on the Earth long enough, we lose someone we love. Someone who is so much a part of us that living without that person is unthinkable. And even someone like me, or many others you probably know, who have lived through such a loss cannot offer solutions or make it stop hurting.

Books on death and grief tell about various steps of the process. But it’s not one-size-fits-all, and it’s not a linear process. Grief is sneaky. It blind-sides you when you least expect it – a song, a scent, a place, a voice, words and even people can trigger the pain of loss. And just when you think you have moved to the next stage of grief, you may find yourself back at square one.

I recently read “Travels with David,” by Fran Rybarik, who lost her husband suddenly to a heart attack. She and her two adult sons came up with a unique way to honor her husband by taking film canisters of his ashes to places he loved and places they knew he would have loved and probably would have visited, had he lived long enough.

The book is not drippy sad. Actually, it’s full of adventure, inspiration and honest stories of how Fran somehow goes on, as life does, and becomes who she is today. Not “David’s widow,” but much more.

So many things in this book rang true to my own experience. Joyce Carol Oates memoir, “A Widow’s Story,” ends with this quote:

Of the widow’s countless death-duties there is really just one that matters: on the first anniversary of her husband’s death, the widow should think, I kept myself alive.

While I have never been suicidal, in the years since Ron died I have often thought I would rather just be in Heaven with him than here without him. But apparently that’s not God’s plan because here I am, still on planet Earth.

Like Fran Rybarik, my life has changed. I have continued to make memories – travels, fun with grands, new friends, reconnecting with old friends, to name just a few. The thing I miss most now is that I cannot have a conversation with Ron about these experiences and the memories I am making. I know I can talk to him, but it’s always one-way. Not a conversation.

A Hawaiian shoreline

Several of my travels have taken me to the shore – the Loch Ness in Scotland, cruising in the Irish Sea, the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean Sea, lakes in Missouri and Iowa, the Pacific Ocean, Resurrection Bay in Alaska, and the shores of Ohua, Hawaii. When I am on a beach or shoreline, I always look for shells. Rubarik says seashells symbolize pilgrims.

I have often said it’s a good thing I was born in the 20^th Century because I never would have been brave enough to cross the ocean in a small wooden boat, travel West in a wagon train or any of the other crossings or treks the pilgrims who went before us took.

But, now, in 2016, I find that I, too, am a pilgrim. A whole person, separate from Ron, to whom I was married for 44 years. I am stronger than I ever thought I was. And I am braver than I thought possible. I drove to New Jersey with only my trusty OnStar and me for company. I joined a different church – the first time alone and the first one where Ron has not been part of the music ministry. I took a three-year course to become a spiritual director. I’m becoming more intentional and contemplative. I have hired people to help with big tasks, and I bought a car, sold the house we lived in for 30 years and bought a townhouse by myself.

Does all this mean I’m over my loss? No. I don’t think it’s possible to get over it. It simply means I know myself -- my strengths and weaknesses -- better now. I know that while I am single, I am not alone. I have friends and family, a great circle of wonderful people who have helped me to grow, recover and heal. And most important, my relationship with God has grown greatly in these last four years. I have God and he has me. And he will never leave me.

In a class I took I learned about mandalas, which are circular patterns representing the cosmos or the universe. I think of them as the circle of life. Mandalas are visible in many forms around us if we pay attention. The most obvious perhaps is in a rose window, a circular window often found in churches of Gothic architecture. But I have noticed mandalas in many places.

A few years before Ron died, we went to an art event where we bought a beautiful circular copper wall hanging. Once I understood the spiritual meaning of the circle, that copper piece became a mandala for me. It signifies my journey, like a labyrinth. My journey was not Ron’s journey, although we walked together for 44 years. His journey ended in 2011, but mine goes on. And since I “kept myself alive” through that first year, I have sought to find my path in my life now. Maybe I had not thought enough about retirement before, but I am often surprised by how many choices and decisions I still am making.

One choice I made is to not wear the “widow badge.” I am only the widow when required to fill out an official form and check that box. Otherwise I’m a pilgrim you may see looking for seashells and picking my way along my life path.

My journey continues. I don’t have many answers. I cannot give anyone a magic formula for living with loss and grief. But I know that I am not alone on this path, which opens ahead of me just one step at a time. I continue on my pilgrim way.