Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

A few nights ago, the loudest BOOM I’ve ever heard in my life woke me in the middle of the night. My first thought was, “Are we at war?” It literally sounded like my neighbor’s house just blew up. My own house shook with the force of the explosion, which was followed by a sudden flash of light beyond the window curtains, like in a horror movie. Then the steadily falling rain started to pour so loudly, it sounded like it was raining in my room.

Then yesterday, during our morning stick time, the weather went from sunny to cloudy to SNOWING within fifteen minutes. Neighbors had warned me of late April flurries when I moved up here, but that’s the kind of thing one doesn’t believe until one sees it.

Well, yesterday it happened. Snow fell on just-bloomed flowers and new buds.

Strangely, I handled the cold all winter, but yesterday I shivered uncontrollably, even in the winter coat and gloves (which I had to run back into the house to get). The cold felt more painful in those few minutes than it had in the last several months. Was it because I wasn’t expecting it? Or because Nature was going backwards?

The weather oddly mirrored my own emotional state.

Last Saturday I joined a friend in the city to celebrate his birthday. The whole weekend was a vibrant rush of familiar faces, friends, new experiences and great weather. I felt alive and hopeful.

Upon arriving back home, I noticed that more flowers had bloomed, and some of the buds on the trees and bushes were now visible. The air smelled fresh and sweet. But the week went downhill from there…

Wednesday (April 22) was my wedding anniversary, which, as well as being forever etched in my mind and heart, also sets off an 11-day mourning period until May 3, the anniversary of Kaz’s passing. Four years ago we married. Four years ago he died.

I had anticipated that this week would be an emotional minefield. But I didn’t expect how many mines I would meet. Silly me, I thought I had cleared some of them already. Not the case.

I cried while throwing the stick for Ruby, while sitting outside listening to the birds, while passing a dead deer on the road, while taking a shower. I took a lot of naps, and went to bed before it was even dark out. The quiet of the countryside has felt oppressive this week, not comforting like usual.

And then there was the weather.

How ironic that it would get cold again right when everything is starting to come back to life.  The snow seemed surreal at first, and then more sinister, like a betrayal or a sick joke.

“It will get warm and stay warm eventually, right?” I asked a neighbor yesterday afternoon. “Yes,” she reassured me with a smile. “We’ll be standing out here in t-shirts soon.”

Even though the cold is only temporary, it’s hard not feel discouraged. It’s as if these cold, sad days have shaken my faith. I keep telling myself it will get better in May. Everything will get better in May.

Seeing the Stars at Night

It’s funny how life turns out. I never thought I’d be living in the country. I’ve always been a city girl, the kind that screams at the sight of a roach, and jumps on the furniture at the sight of a mouse. On our one and only camping trip, Kaz found it amusing how paranoid I was in the tent at night. “What’s that? Did you hear something? Is there something in the sleeping bag with us?”

And yet, I was always trying to get us out of the city. To Joshua Tree, to Santa Barbara, to the coast, anywhere but inside the urban jungle. When he was sick, and especially when he got depressed, one of my most frequent questions was: “Why don’t you sit outside?” “And do what?” he’d respond. “Just feel the sun on your face, the wind, listen to the birds, breathe some fresh air. It’s good for you!” But sitting outside on Hollywood Boulevard wasn’t his thing. I don’t blame him.

I often think of him now and wonder what he would say about my current life, if he would have been willing to make this kind of move to the country (probably not, his work was in the city), if it would have even occurred to us (again, probably not). I know he would have loved the roads around here, which are perfect for motorcycle riding. He probably wouldn’t have liked the winters. But I think he might have liked the solitude. He was kind of a loner, or at least a homebody. He liked being at home, playing his video games, watching television, relaxing. He would have enjoyed how much I cook here.

Who knows. He might have been surprised by how well I’ve adapted to the solitude because I was always the social one. I still am, but in smaller spurts. Ironically, I relate to his homebody-style more now than before. It’s hard to describe how much I love living in the country. It’s not perfect. I do miss certain things about the city, but on a day-to-day basis, I feel more content than I have since Kaz was alive.

As I write this post (the original by longhand on a yellow legal pad), I am sitting in the backyard on a weathered metal rocking chair that has a cotton cushion. I’ve sat on this chair all through winter. I call it my “outside office.”

The sun is out. It’s in the 60’s. The clouds are mere wisps. There is a strong breeze blowing, and a family of black flies buzzing around me. In the distance, the flowers that line the edges of the house have just begun to bloom. Ruby is lying nearby in the grass, her eyes half-open in that way dogs do when relaxing in the sun. This morning she was sniffing all over the yard instead of the usual stick-fetching, and I was reading a book. It was peaceful, both of us doing our own thing, occasionally looking up to check on the other. Some people don’t want to deal with flies or dirt (which is unavoidable in the country), the wind, the quiet, and so on, just like some people prefer air conditioning to open windows in cars (I’ve always been the latter).

Apparently, there’s such a thing as Ecotherapy, which is literally contact with Nature, and it’s becoming more important as the world grows more populated and the environment continues to deteriorate. This article in the Washington Post discusses concerns that health officials have about how people in the future are going to get enough (unpolluted) nature to stay healthy. “The World Health Organization predicts that 70 percent of the world’s population will live in urban areas within 30 years.”

If I’m still here in 30 years, I’m pretty sure I won’t be one of those people. I like seeing the stars at night.

When Life & Grief Come Full Circle

Finally, the whirlwind of the last few weeks is over. I was in Los Angeles for ten days, upstate with family for a few days, and again with family in NYC this past holiday weekend.

As I mentioned in the last post, the trip to LA was excellent. I saw many dear friends, made some new ones, and re-acquainted with a couple of folks I hadn’t seen in years. I had brunch with my amazing writer’s group posse, met up with my former boss and had dinner with my former film studio sisters. I had lunch with my mentor, and a business meeting with my manager to discuss a television pilot.

Then I attended BinderCon, an all female (including female-identifying) writers conference, and spoke on a panel called Death and Loss: Women Writing Out Loud, along with several other amazing writers, some of whom you might recognize.

If I had to sum up the entire experience of the last few weeks in one word, it would be validating.

Being in LA confirmed certain things I already knew, but appreciated being reminded of, namely: I have a genuine, diverse and strong community of friends and colleagues there; I know the city like the back of my hand; and I always have a place to stay there. I was thanking my lucky stars every single day for these things. LA is not a place I would want to start getting to know now.

To my relief, I also didn’t want to move back, at least not in the immediate future. If I did, it would be for work, and I would want the east coast to stay the home base. It feels good to be certain of that.

Furthermore, the trip proved to me (and possibly to others) once and for all that moving to New York was a good thing. Not only have I accomplished a lot in the past six months, but also living and writing outside of the “business,” and writing more than just film and television, has made me less dependent on LA. I came back feeling more grounded and confident than ever.

Another surprise was that I managed just fine without Ruby. I missed her, but it was honestly nice to have a little break and concentrate on the matters at hand. It gave me huge peace of mind to know that she was being well taken care of by family and dog cousins. It’s good to know we have this option for the next time.

The writer’s conference was validating of both my writing and grief work. If you had told me four years ago when I was sobbing every day that I would be speaking about my grief to a room full of strangers (as a visitor to LA, not a resident), I wouldn’t have believed you. On top of that, to be in the company of such accomplished writers was a huge honor. At one point I had to pinch myself, like “I can’t believe I’m here!”

Having a “pinch me” moment.

Lastly, the trip was a significant milestone in terms of my grief. I had feared being bombarded by “triggers” the entire week – and I did have a couple of emotional moments – but in general I was more than okay. Rather than feeling tethered to the weight of my grief, I actually felt buoyed by the certainty that Kaz was proud of me. I could feel him and his pride everywhere I went.

Kaz used to lovingly call me a “soldier” after overcoming particularly difficult challenges. And that’s what I felt like in Los Angeles — like a once battle-weary soldier now returning triumphantly to the scene of battle, stronger, more focused and at peace. I am extremely grateful for him and his never-ending love, for what these past few weeks taught me, and for my current life in upstate New York.

Now, Ruby and I are decompressing, sleeping and getting re-acquainted with our humble little house and old routine. I have tons to do, including a book to finish, but I’m re-energized to make it all happen. The weather is warmer. The birds are chirping non-stop, and the flowers are just starting to bloom. It’s as if everything around is us is coming back to life with a big cry of “Onward!”

HuffPost Live interview with Nancy Redd

I’m back from Los Angeles and happy to report that it could not have gone any better (proof that worrying is a waste of time/energy). I’ll be posting about different aspects of the trip in the next few days, but first wanted to share the interview I did on HuffPost Live with host Nancy Redd right before I left.

The segment, called “Newlywed Widows: Starting Over,” featured John McFadden, a widower who lost his wife on their honeymoon, Jennifer Cutler, a psychotherapist who specializes in grief therapy, and me. We talked about the particular challenges faced by people who lose their spouses shortly after marriage. We also talked about how writing helps in the grieving process. John blogs about his grief at Lindsey McFadden: The Love of My Life.

The full interview with all of us is here (28:14):

http://live.huffingtonpost.com/r/segment/newlywed-widows/54daea6f02a7600e1f000159

My portion of the interview is here (7:33):

http://live.huffingtonpost.com/r/highlight/how-this-widow-coped-with-losing-her-husband-11-days-after-their-wedding/550b3febfe34447e3600008f

The day after the interview I flew to LA and spent the next ten days in a whirlwind of meetings, both professional and personal. At the end of the week, I attended a conference of women writers, where I sat on a Writing About Loss panel with five other women, including two NYT best-selling authors.

More about the LA visit to come.

Now I’m back home in upstate New York, decompressing and processing everything. I feel incredibly humble and grateful, and wanted to take a moment to say Thank You to all of you for being part of this journey with me. Some of you have been following the blog since the beginning. Some of you are newer. Many of you have lost loved ones. Each and everyone of you has helped me cope with my grief. You have made me feel less alone and more understood. You have taught me so much. I can’t thank you enough.

– Niva

Going Back to Cali, Cali

The next time I post, I will be in Los Angeles again. I’m going for a 10-day visit, at the end of which I’m participating in a 3-day writer’s conference and speaking on a panel about Writing About Loss. Before I leave, I’m being interviewed on HuffingtonPost Live (tomorrow, Thursday, March 19 at 4:00pm ET). Needless to say, it’s a very busy time, and I’m more than a little stressed.

I’m excited to go back to Los Angeles, but also nervous. When I tell people this, they don’t understand why. I’m not sure I totally understand either. I did live there for 19 years. But there’s something about going back to a place you’ve left.

Part of me is nervous that once I’m there, I’ll regret having left, like I’ll be walking (driving) around feeling homesick the whole time.

Another part of me is anxious about being asked the same questions over and over again: “How’s it going in NY? How do you like it? Are you glad you left? Are you coming back?”

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that just the thought of being in such a big city, dealing with that traffic, makes my stomach tighten a little. I’ve basically been living in the woods for the past eight months — in a quiet, zero traffic, distraction-free, practically people-free zone. I’ve been in “writing mode,” which is a lot different than “meet and greet and speak publicly mode.” Yes, I’ve been to NYC periodically, but I stay with family in Brooklyn and tend to keep my activities local.

Another source of nerves (and emotions) is that being in Los Angeles will remind me of Kaz in a way that I haven’t experienced in a while. Living in NY, where Kaz and I never visited together and therefore shared no memories of, has been a sort of respite from all the emotional triggers that come with familiar sites in a shared geographical location. I know I will be alright, but it’s the not knowing where and when I will encounter these triggers that makes my nervous.

Finally, my heart aches at leaving Ruby behind (it was too complicated and expensive to bring her). I’ve never been away from her for this long, and am already feeling the longing. She’ll be staying with family and going to doggie daycare during the day, so we’ll both be busy. But it will be strange to be apart. Our days upstate are, if nothing else, an exercise in routine. Everything happens around the same time every day. We’re nearly always together, and she is nearly always off leash, running free.

All that said, I am looking forward to the trip, to seeing all my friends, feeling heat, going to the beach, meeting many other talented writers, getting as much done as possible, visiting the mountain where I released Kaz’s ashes and more.

A lot has happened since I left Los Angeles. Maybe going back will remind me of how far I’ve come. Maybe it will remind me why I left.

Ironically, this will be my first time visiting Los Angeles. I will miss upstate NY, but I’ll be back soon.

Looking forward to sharing the journey with you, as always. xo

10 Lessons Learned From Writing

It’s been almost a year since I published my first essay on Modern Loss, and a little over half a year since I quit my job to write full-time. I now have half a dozen professional clips to my name, in addition to a part-time writing job, my memoir in progress, this blog and my experience as a screenwriter. While I am not an expert, I have learned a few important things about writing, especially this past year.

1. Writing is a huge responsibility

I think writing non-fiction carries a higher level of responsibility than writing fiction because you’re not making it up, you’re writing about about real people, events and facts. In both genres, you have to watch for grammar and spelling, historical accuracy and cultural representations, but in non-fiction you’re also responsible for quoting correctly, getting the facts right, and remaining objective. Each story you write has your name on it, so any mistake reflects directly on you. I recently made my first mistake (misspelling a source’s last name), and it was mortifying. The error has since been fixed, but it really brought home how vigilant I have to be, and how much responsibility comes with this kind of work.

2. Writing (well) requires listening

As a screenwriter, listening is essential for capturing dialogue and interviewing research subjects. As a journalist, listening is at least half the job. You’re listening for good quotes, for the story, for what is not being said, and for how things are being said. I’ve learned a lot from listening to the way people talk, when they take pauses, the pace of their speech, when it rises and doesn’t, if it sounds rehearsed or spontaneous. I’ve also learned from listening to my own speech because I record interviews. I tend to take a lot of pauses and not be direct enough due to nerves. One of my goals is to learn how to be a better public speaker.

3. Reading makes you a better writer

Whether you write fiction or non-fiction, reading is the best way to learn about storytelling, character development, plot and sentence construction. Fiction and non-fiction have their differences, but essentially they’re both forms of storytelling and share many of the same rules. I like to read when I’m writing because it both relaxes and stimulates my brain. I get ideas from other writers. Watching a really good movie can teach you about writing too, but reading is the best way to see how an author constructs a story.

4. Writing is about structure (and discipline)

Structure is the framework of a story, the way it’s told, the way the facts, plot points, character introductions are organized. It’s also (for me) one of the more challenging aspects of writing. I recently read a non-fiction book called “Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith” by Jon Krakauer, the author of “Into the Wild” and “Into Thin Air.” I was very impressed by how he unfolded the story, which included dozens of characters, historical events, non-linear time shifts, a criminal investigation, a trial, dozens of book excerpts and quotes. It was a mountain of material organized in a very precise, easy-to-read, engaging way.

Likewise, a productive writing schedule requires structure in your own life and being disciplined. As many writers can attest, routine is a good thing.

5. Editors are essential (good editors make you better)

Editors aren’t usually famous (in filmmaking or publishing), but in each respective industry, they’re generally regarded as the next most creative position other than writer. I’ve worked with several editors, and they have made all the difference. The good ones can see through the words on the page to the larger story, communicate their edits clearly and precisely, and make your writing better without changing your voice. I work as an editor sometimes and learn a great deal from being on that side of the process.

6. Writing is the fun part

I think most writers will agree that the writing process is a lot more than just writing. It’s research, thinking, structuring, pitching, promoting and so on. The time we spend actually sitting in the chair writing is less than people might think, but it’s also the sweetest part.

7. Writing isn’t just about you

Now more than ever, writers are expected to create their own fan base and bring them along wherever they go. This means that as much as we might be inclined to be loners, we have to get out there (physically and virtually) and “work it” just like any other business person. Unless you’re already famous, the days of being a recluse who’s rarely seen (but everyone loves your work) are over.

8. Writers need a community

I’ve said this before, but it’s worth repeating… writing is a lonely pursuit, this is why having a community is so important. Find your community, find your tribe, and be generous. Read other people’s work, provide feedback, say Yes more than No, share contacts and opportunities, support your fellow writers in word and deed (and tweets), don’t be jealous, insecure or competitive. There are plenty of stories out there, and billions of readers. The more you give, the more you receive.

9. Writing is about readers

One of the big differences between screenwriting and literary writing is the relationship with the reader. Most people don’t read screenplays, so it’s generally not a writer-to-reader experience. A screenplay also goes through many iterations and interpretations before it reaches the screen. On the other hand, literary writing, whether fiction or non-fiction, is one of the most direct communications with readers possible (the only more direct is blogging). It’s literally a relationship, and like any relationship, it takes effort to build and maintain.

10. Writing requires a helluva lot of courage

Some writers can hide behind their writing better than others. For those of us who write personal essays, memoirs and personal blogs, we are putting not only our writing out there, but also our personal lives. I find writing articles scary too, because it’s telling someone else’s story (see #1). But the personal writing is by far the most vulnerable, and the best of such writing comes from writers who lay it bare and let you into their most intimate thoughts, fears and weaknesses. We feel connected to them because they have exposed a truth about themselves that we ourselves don’t have the courage to admit, but desperately want to know we’re not alone. This is not easy for writers to do. So, be nice to your writer friends. 🙂

Last thought: if you don’t feel compelled to write, if you don’t like to be alone, or if you don’t want to deal with criticism, don’t do it.

What are some lessons you have learned from writing?

Happy creating!

How Grief Changes Us

One of my first thoughts after my husband passed away (four years ago in May) was “I will never be the same.” Later, I would write in an essay “I am not the same person that I was when he died.” In my post Even Lava Cools Eventually, I described grief as “a molten, bubbling, red-hot river of volcanic lava, unceremoniously destroying everything in its path and reshaping the landscape underneath.”

Lately, I’ve been wondering, has this landscape changed? If so, how?

The most obvious change since Kaz died is that I now live in upstate New York instead of Hollywood, California. My days used to consist of driving across Los Angeles to sit in a cubicle at my day job. Today I write full-time in my home office with my dog sleeping at my feet. Whereas before I took my lunch break in the courtyard of a film studio lot, today I take my breaks outside (rain, snow or shine), where I read and throw the stick for the dog. Sometimes I look around and think, the scenery has changed. Has anything else?

In many ways, I am the same person I was when we met. I’m still an impulsive spender. I still make my bed every morning. I still like old movies, classical music and NPR. I still like the same foods. I still drive over the speed limit. I still worry about the future, though not as much as I used to. And (I think) that is the key to what has changed internally.

When Kaz was alive, it was extremely difficult for me to let go… of anything. I took things personally, worried incessantly, and was extremely hard on myself. My way of mitigating the insecurity, worry and self-blame was to try and control everything. I was a film director who also tried to direct life.

When he became sick, this desire to control everything was both good and bad. On the one hand, it made me a very efficient and organized caregiver. On the other hand, it made me an emotional wreck because I couldn’t handle the uncertainty and, frankly, lack of control that comes with illness. I had signed up for the experience knowing that he had a terminal disease, and yet did everything in my power to stop him from dying. When he wanted to let go, I tried to persuade him otherwise, even getting angry at times.

In a journal entry shortly after his death, I wrote about feeling like a failure, like I (not Kaz) had lost a battle. “My ego feels bruised,” I wrote. “How ridiculous is that?”

I was also angry. I’ve never been very religious, per se, but I do believe in a divine presence, and in those days I was mad as hell at that presence. I felt like we (Kaz, me, his parents, friends) had all been robbed, like a cosmic criminal act had been committed. It was wrong, unfair and unforgivable.

As time passed, and through the course of many discussions, reading and introspection, the anger slowly subsided and I started thinking about things differently.

I came to the conclusion, reluctantly, that there are certain things in life (like almost everything) that I – that no one can control. We cannot control what happens to our loved ones, nor what happens to us to some extent. We cannot control what other people do, or how they think of us. We cannot control the future, the past or even the present.

It was a very hard pill to swallow. There is a part of me that still finds it difficult to accept that bad things happen to good people, that pain and loss is a part of life, and there’s pretty much nothing we can do about it. But the more I accept and make peace with it, the more relaxed I feel, and the more grateful. There’s something about living with the awareness of possible destruction that makes the peaceful present even more precious.

I do still care a great deal about certain things and people. But I no longer obsess about them like I used to. I try very hard to be more present and humble, which comes easier (for me) out here in the countryside, where I’m surrounded by nature and immersed in what is essentially a very simple life. I also try to not be negative towards myself (or others) for imperfections and mistakes.

It sometimes pains me that I learned these lessons too late to apply them to life with Kaz. But when those thoughts come around, I deal with them by doing what I couldn’t do before… I let go.

 

Remembering (and Writing About) Love

I’m not a huge fan of Valentine’s Day, not just because Kaz isn’t around to share it with me, but because it seems forced and commercial, not to mention superfluous. Every day should be about love in my book. And people should express it in their own ways, not feel pressured to do so by some public measuring stick.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m a little sad. I’m happy for anyone who is enjoying this day and celebrating love. It’s just impossible to not think of Kaz and remember times gone by.

My favorite Valentine’s Day (which I wrote about here) was the one when we had the least amount of money and went camping in Joshua Tree National Park. The only expense was the price of the campsite ($15), wood for the fire ($20), and the food and wine, which we would have had anyway at home. During the day we hiked. At night we ate dinner and talked. We had no entertainment other than the fire, the stars and a radio. It was lovely.

As a writer attempting to capture our story, it’s easy, cathartic even, to describe scenes like the camping trip. Less easy is to describe what it felt like to be in love. (To be fair, I think this has been a challenge for writers since the beginning of the written word.) Some folks who have read my memoir draft have commented that while it’s clear that Kaz and I really loved each other, they found themselves wanting more of the “being in love.”

How does one write about being in love? To me, it’s not very effective to say, “I had never felt so happy” or “I felt like my heart might burst,” even if it is an accurate description. It’s easier to write an argument – a moment of conflict – than it is to describe those silent moments where everything was happening on the inside.

Maybe it’s because I come from screenwriting. One is never supposed to write how the character feels, unless the character is saying how he/she feels, a slippery slope which only the greatest screenwriters can pull off. One is supposed to write the scene in such a way that the reader knows how the character is feeling without being told.

I recently discussed this with a friend, and she asked me describe out loud what it was like being in love with Kaz. This is what I said:

“I remember looking into his eyes and feeling like the rest of the world had just faded away. It didn’t matter if it was for several minutes or a split-second. In those moments, it would feel like there was only us, like we were inside a bubble. Inside the bubble we didn’t need to speak out loud because we could speak with our eyes. Outside the bubble was everyone else.

Looking into his eyes was also like looking into a mirror. I saw him… but I also saw myself. I saw myself the way he saw me. In his eyes, I was more beautiful, more intelligent, more talented… always a better version than how I saw myself.

There were moments when he would take my hand and bounce it lightly in his, or just play with my fingers, or he would squeeze my hand and I would squeeze back. It was this private thing between us, a way of communicating without words. We did it when we watched television, on long drives, in public, when he was sick, all the way to the end. Actually, that’s how I knew we were at the end… when he stopped squeezing back.

At concerts, he would always find the best spot in the crowd to see the stage and let me stand in front of him. He didn’t dance, but he would put his hands on my hips as I danced.

There were other moments when we would make each other laugh, or we’d be hanging out in the kitchen, drinking wine, cooking dinner, just talking about our days… and I would suddenly feel the sensation of fullness, like my heart had expanded to fill up my entire body, like my heart had become my body. Sometimes I would hug him out of the blue because… I just had to. Moments like this would always be followed by a hint of pain, because I never wanted them to end.

I used to fall asleep before him when we watched TV, and he would always guide me to bed and tuck me in. My mother used to do that too when I was a child. She would sit with me for a few minutes before I fell asleep. Kaz was the only other person who ever did that, and it always made me feel so good and safe, like I could trust him with my life.

When we were in nature, like in Joshua Tree or driving up the coast of California on Route 1, everything sort of sparkled. I know that sounds silly, but that’s how it seemed, like everything had a layer of diamond dust. I used to feel like a divine presence was with us, like the heavens were pleased, like my mother was smiling down from above. One of the ways I knew that Kaz was special was this certainty that my mother would have loved him, and vice-versa.”

It was a good exercise to describe these moments out loud. I often wonder if I’ll ever feel like this again. In any case, I never want to forget what it feels like to be in love.

Wishing everyone a love-filled day, every day. xo

Me looking at the Joshua Tree sunset, pic taken by Kaz

Feeding Your Soul

Sometimes bad things happen out of the blue and stop us in our tracks. Other times, we may find ourselves in situations that feel like they’re slowly eating away at the core of who we are. In either case, the hurt and pain makes the world seem different, uninspiring, devoid of meaning, unfair and cruel. We lose our sense of purpose, our will to continue. We think to ourselves, what’s the point of anything? What’s the point of me?

And then… one day, weeks, months or even years after our pain began… something or someone causes us snap out of it momentarily. It can be almost anything. A piece of music, a kind gesture from a friend or stranger, a ray of light filtered through the trees, the sound of birds chirping, a memory, a line of dialogue, a smell, an animal, a joke, a dream, a piece of art… anything.

In that moment of inspiration, we suddenly remember the other side of life: beauty, love, joy, laughter, goodness, grace.

At first, we might resent that these things still exist when our pain is so deep. We might resent that the world continues to turn while we feel dead inside.

But another part of us cries out, possibly a meek voice that requires a special type of listening. The voice of our soul, which has been long neglected and patiently waiting in the darkness.

In that moment, our soul peeks out from behind the curtain shrouding our heart and turns up to the sunshine of inspiration.

Like the first daylight after a storm, it feels a fleeting sense of hope again. If it happened once, maybe it can happen again.

Our soul urges us to find more inspiration, for it is hungry.

For the first time in a while, we do something that seems so simple but actually requires a bit more energy… we notice things. We allow ourselves to feel and observe and enjoy the world around us.  And each time we encounter another moment of inspiration, we grow stronger.

We grow stronger because we are feeding our soul.

Our souls are individual. What feeds your soul might not feed another’s. But feeding it is essential.

What feeds your soul? What inspires you?

Being Alone vs Being Lonely

Last time I posted about loneliness and made some suggestions on how to overcome it. I neglected to mention that just because someone is alone doesn’t mean they’re lonely.

There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think of Kaz, that I don’t miss him and wish he were here. But even when he was alive, I used to like being alone. Back then I called it “needing my space.”

One of the more difficult aspects of moving in together was that I couldn’t have my space. His apartment (like mine) was a one-bedroom, and the bedroom wasn’t big enough for a desk. So, I wrote in the living room – with headphones on to drown out the sound of the television and his video games. After a while, he started wearing headphones too, so he could play his video games at full volume. It wasn’t ideal, but we made it work.

After he died, it wasn’t totally foreign to be alone, but it was strange and very painful. Excruciating at times. I felt him with me spiritually, but that did little to lessen the void created by his physical absence. It took a long time for the pain to subside and stabilize.

After 3.5 years, I’ve grown accustomed to being alone again. I still have moments of “why isn’t Kaz here?” but being alone has become normal.

And now that I live “in the sticks,” as someone recently teased, I’m more alone than ever, in the sense that I don’t see lots of people.

But I’m not lonely. Well, sometimes I am. But for the most part, I’m not.

I think this is because I’m writing all the time. I’m extremely focused on my work, and I like that there are little to no distractions (other than the dog).

Besides my work (which I enjoy), I get enjoyment from sources other than people… things like books, movies, cooking and being outside. I’m even enjoying winter (so far). It’s a bit like being in hibernation. There’s a certain relief in not going out a lot.

When I go into the city, it’s a different matter. That’s when I get my people “fix.” But I love returning upstate to my little sanctuary.

It’s hard to explain, but I have no complaints right now. I  don’t have much money, but I’m not stressed about it for some reason. I’ve gained a little weight here, but I’ll lose it eventually. I still cry about things, but I’m not depressed. And after I cry, I’m okay. I don’t go to bed sad, which is very different than before.

I’m more grounded and secure than I used to be, more self-sufficient and content. I need less of others, and less of the material world.

In a way, it’s like I’m learning to be happy again… happy with a very simple life. It might not always be this simple, but perhaps I can carry the simplicity within me.

As I told a friend the other day, “If I can make it through this year of working my ass off, making little money, living in an isolated place, and surviving the winter… I’m pretty sure I can handle just about anything.”

Wishing everyone peace and light.