One year ago, I was on overdrive planning the memorial that would be held on July 5th for my beautiful husband. A continuation of non-stop focus that had begun with his terminal diagnosis a few months prior, the memorial would be the last event (other than legal paper-pushing and family gatherings) to commemorate his passing.
This year, the months of May and June seemed like a nightmarish replay of last year's hyper-vigilance. However, one year later the house is eerily silent and no actions other than mundane daily life care require attention.
Within this deafening silence, a great irony plays out. Life has continued on without my husband by my side, very much unchanged minus the gaping chasm of his physical presence. Even the ancient black cat who adored Michael is still here, only now clinging to me, the last Mohegan, for solace.
It seems unfair that all he built in his life-time - the knowledge accumulated, the films he did, the books he wrote, the children he sired - are not his to enjoy anymore. If there is such a thing as life after death, his life is nothing now but a memory, never to be recreated as it was.
Musing thus, one's ego takes quite a bruising; in clinging to an identity, to possessions, to people, a grand illusion that it is "ours" plays out. In fact, we take nothing with us but a distilled consciousness and the unrealized hopes and fears of our life in the physical.
This understanding presents a double-edged sword, causing either deep agony or ebullient freedom. Someday I wish to fully incorporate the latter.
This year, the months of May and June seemed like a nightmarish replay of last year's hyper-vigilance. However, one year later the house is eerily silent and no actions other than mundane daily life care require attention.
Within this deafening silence, a great irony plays out. Life has continued on without my husband by my side, very much unchanged minus the gaping chasm of his physical presence. Even the ancient black cat who adored Michael is still here, only now clinging to me, the last Mohegan, for solace.
It seems unfair that all he built in his life-time - the knowledge accumulated, the films he did, the books he wrote, the children he sired - are not his to enjoy anymore. If there is such a thing as life after death, his life is nothing now but a memory, never to be recreated as it was.
Musing thus, one's ego takes quite a bruising; in clinging to an identity, to possessions, to people, a grand illusion that it is "ours" plays out. In fact, we take nothing with us but a distilled consciousness and the unrealized hopes and fears of our life in the physical.
This understanding presents a double-edged sword, causing either deep agony or ebullient freedom. Someday I wish to fully incorporate the latter.
Having a husband that is 21 yrs older than I am,married nearly 43 yrs, I find myself wondering how I will cope if the Lord takes him first. My prayer for you is that you will soon find something to fill the "gaping chasm" Michael's death has left you.
ReplyDeleteBlessings in abundance,
Jan Siebert