There’s a Light

When Brian died, all kinds of people told me all sorts of things.  I can’t count the number of times I heard, “at least he didn’t suffer,” (how do we know?,) “he will always be with you,” “you’re strong and you’ll make it through,” and a bunch of other stuff that I know were said to me out of compassion and love, but honestly didn’t do me a damn bit of good.  There was only one thing anyone said that helped me out at all (interestingly, two people told me the exact same thing,) and that was this: It’s going to suck for a very long time.  It’s going to suck until it doesn’t suck anymore.  And when it stops sucking, it will likely be because Brian led you to the place you are meant to be and it will be okay to be happy.”

Friends and neighbors, I’m here to tell you: it doesn’t suck anymore and I am happy.

Don’t get me wrong.  I still miss Brian every day.  I still love him and always will.  I still hurt.  I don’t think any of that will ever go away and I hope it doesn’t.  Brian is a huge part of who I am and everything that happened in our 14 years shaped me, including his horrible death.  I wouldn’t want to wish that away.  That said, I’m still here, I’m alive, and I’m living again.  I’m happy and that feels wonderful.

Months (years?) before Brian died, my life started taking on a new color.  I started getting interested in music that is mostly unknown to the mass public because it doesn’t fit a radio station’s idea of what should be played.  I started meeting artists and writing some here and there.  I started talking to folks on Twitter, going to shows in little clubs, interviewing people, and just sort of getting involved.  Brian used to look at me and shake his head with a grin on his face and say, “Just remember to take me with you when you go.”

After Brian died, that part of my life took off.  These people that I had been interacting with somehow swooped in and showed me support and grace and generosity that shocked me. There was no pity, there was no dancing around the subject, there was no patronizing me.  It felt safe.  It felt like I was where I was supposed to be.  Out of Brian’s death, I was given a new life.  I feel like he led me here.

These are good, good people.  I have gotten pretty close with a lot of these folks in the last few months, very close to one in particular.  He is one of the kindest people I have ever met and we are now in a lovely relationship and I am very happy.  I put my whole life out here on this blog, but I won’t be talking about him in detail because that’s his story to tell, not mine.  We have both spent some seriously painful time in the dark, but somehow we managed to take a chance and found the light.

All of this to say that, if you’re in a dark spot, just keep going.  This crazy life will pick you up and body slam you right down into the pits of hell, but if you keep going, if you don’t give up, it will also pick you back up and gently set you down where you are meant to be all along. I promise you.  There’s a light.

Perfect

They sit in his man cave, the room that has been his for over 11 years.  Beer and bud flow smoothly between them and the music plays as they look at each other, but words are nil, until she speaks up.

“Goddamn it, what is this place?  Look at it!”

She mentions the clutter, calls it out piece by piece.

“I see 5 pair of boots here.  What is up with the broken radio controlled truck? Do you really need that broken down scooter?  It’s been here for 5 years!  Why do you have 11 curvy rum bottles?  What do you plan to do with the 3 broken blenders?  Do you really need 6 tackle boxes?

He doesn’t say a word.

Well, the first days are the hardest days.

She looks around again.  Takes it all in.

“Do you know that, at one swift glance, I see 3 very expensive hats in here? 8 outrageously priced fishing poles?  2 space heaters? $2000 worth of framing equipment that hasn’t been used in years?  An untouched table saw?”

Again, he says nothing.

What I want to know, is are you kind?

“Those paint cans have been here since we bought this house 11 years ago.  WHY are they still here?”

She looks up and sees the crates he has suspended from the ceiling.  She has no idea what in the world he has stored up there.

“Baby, honestly, you have 3 strobe lights in here.  We’ve never used them once.  I thought I told you to recycle those pots and pans?  Do you REALLY need 8 radio speakers?

You know all the rules by now and the fire from the ice.  Will you come with me?  Won’t you come with me? 

“The air cannon I get, baby, I really do.  But do you honestly need to keep all the parts you discarded after you built it?  WHY ARE YOUR DIRTY SOCKS STILL ON THE FLOOR?”

He’s silent, letting her rant away.

“I know, darling, that WD-40 is the answer to everything that duct tape is not, but do you really need 12 cans?   Why are there 11 plastic shot cups?  And did you REALLY dig those bottles of my nail polish out of the trash to paint your fishing lures?  REALLY?”

Their motto is, “Don’t tread on me.” 

“I see your drafting kit.  Those pens are 20+ years old.  Yes, I know they still work.  Yes, I know they matter, but can’t you put them in a drawer?  And what about the oil filters and bottles of antifreeze and the 3 weedeaters and SERIOUSLY???  You honestly NEED 3 boxes of steel wool?”

Again, he utters not a word.

Come with me or go alone…

“Sweetheart, I love you.  I respect that you have a need for everything, but truly? We live in tornado alley.  That work bench could kill an entire city.  42 open containers of nuts, bolts, screws, and nails, NOT TO MENTION the 5 open faced tool boxes and the 200lb steel Craftsman box.   Baby, this is a death trap!”

She looks at him.  She pleads with him.  She begs him to give her an answer.

Not a word does she hear.

Ain’t no time to hate.  Barely time to wait. 

She looks at him and she softens.  The love for him overwhelms her and suddenly things disappear.  She stands before him and slowly reaches out to touch him.

First is the box that holds the steel bottle of cheap vodka and water, the last thing to touch his lips.  And his phone, the last contact he had with her, now crushed, burned and ruined.

She kisses them both.

Whoa, what I want to know, is where does the time go?

She reaches down and puts her hands into him.  This part of him, in the second box, is in paint cans.  The remains of his clothes, the steel toes of his boots, the pockets of his insulated jeans.  Once upon a time, she used to put her hands in these same pockets to playfully grab his ass.

I can hear your voice. Oh, what I want to know, how does the song go?

She moves her hands down further.  There is his wallet. Three hundred and 2 ruined dollars.  Burned credit cards.  A singed fishing license.  A picture of her, burned so that only her eyes show.  His license to drive, leather seared onto the edges.  A stocking cap.  A pack of smokes.  A lighter.  2 quarters. 3 grocery store receipts.  An ashy paycheck.

“Oh, my love,” she says, ” I don’t give a shit about the clutter.  I love you endlessly, regardless of anything else.  As long as we’re together, we’re okay.”

Come on along or go alone, he’s come to take his children home.

And she slowly stands and takes off her clothes and opens the last box. She removes the heavy black parcel and opens it up once again.  And then, as the song ends, she zips up the body bag to her shoulders to lay with him one more time.

Come hear Uncle John’s band by the river side.  Got some things to talk about here beside the rising tide. 

The waves wash over her and carry her to a new shore. She loves him more than ever. She gets up.  Puts him back in his boxes, his new home, and turns the light off, leaving the clutter untouched.

It’s perfect.

Ball and Chain

6 months ago, Brian left home and never came back.  6 months.  How is that even possible?  I can’t wrap my brain around it.

I used to listen to this song all the time and joke about how he was my ball and chain and I was his.  While we never truly felt like that (we loved each other tremendously,) we were a real married couple.  We argued, we disagreed, we got frustrated with each other, and, admittedly, sometimes we intentionally pushed each other’s buttons.  That said, I don’t think either of us ever dragged each other down.

As time has passed and it’s been half of a year since Brian left his body, I’m starting to see this song differently.  My amazingly wonderful husband finally ditched his ball and chain.  I’m still weighted down here on this earth, weighted down by insignificant things like dinner, bills, taxes, misunderstandings, illness, but Brian… Brian is completely and totally free.  He doesn’t have to take any more pain.  Someone took away his ball and chain and, while I’d do anything to have him back, I am finding moments of pure joy in knowing how completely free my beloved is now.

Fly free, MoonRunner.  No more ball and chain for you.

The End

If you have 17 minutes, it’s worth your time to watch that.

Brian finally came home yesterday.  Around 9:30am, I got a call from the lead investigator that he was ready to release the final two pieces of evidence to me.  I had been waiting for 5.5 months for the remains of his phone and the water bottle he was drinking from the night he died.  A friend of mine drove me to meet the investigator at 11:30 and, in a matter of a few short minutes, it was the end.  Two signatures and a handshake.  The end.

The metal water bottle is still 1/2 way full with the last thing he drank while still alive.  I was very tempted to open it up and drink from it, just to have one more moment of contact with his lips. And, frankly, it was a very tense moment and I really could have used the drink.  I didn’t do it.

I am rather conflicted in my feelings about this.  On one hand, I’m grateful that the state no longer has possession of anything of Brian’s.  For those of you who knew him, you know how much he would have hated having his personal belongings in the hands of any law enforcement. I’m also glad that this means that I won’t have to continually be anxious when my phone rings, I won’t have to worry about the police showing up at my door anymore, I won’t have to wonder what happened to his things.  On the other hand, this also means that they are done hunting, done searching, done investigating and I still have more questions than answers.  I will never have the answers.  I guess that’s just the way life is.  Apparently, death can be that way, too.

While none of this has been easy, it’s traumatic to have no answers.  It’s agonizing that I didn’t get to see him, I don’t know what he looked like.  I don’t know what his last words were.  I don’t know what happened to cause my husband’s death.  I know HOW he died, but I don’t know why or what started it.  I hoped and hoped and hoped that there would be answers and maybe someday there will be, but right now it’s not looking like it.  I wanted the investigators and the crime lab techs and the medical examiners to keep digging, keep searching, keep hunting until they found answers.  I guess I don’t know what I wanted them to find.  It’s another catch-22.  Knowing someone hurt him would be horrific, but knowing it was an accident leaves me no one to blame and no hope for justice.

In the end, no one wins.

Sluts, Shaming, Strength, and Survival: In which I piss off everyone I know

It’s been quite some time since I’ve written and, once again, I am astonished at how quickly things can change.  Sometimes it’s perspectives that change, sometimes it’s the amount of one’s courage that changes, sometimes it’s life circumstances.  It makes no difference, it can all happen and it can all happen in an instant.

One of my favorite books is If Buddha Got Stuck.   Admittedly, I haven’t read it for a number of years, but I remember how much it impacted me the first few times I read it.  More than anything, the book taught me how to recognize when I was stuck and, friends, I am here to tell you that I had been stuck since the day the cops came to tell me that Brian died.  Stuck waist deep in muck with no branch or rope to pull me out, no friendly hand to guide me, and no clear eyes to see any of those things had they been there.

About a month before he died, I purchased tickets for us to go to Chicago and attend MoonRunners Festival that took place April 27.  After he died, I didn’t quite know what to do with those tickets, but the awesome guys over at MoonRunners heard of my story (they actually ran my first Brian piece) and encouraged me to come anyway.  I rounded up a couple of girlfriends and we trekked our way from different areas of the US and met up in Chicago for the festival and, how do I go about saying this?  It was probably in the top 3 weekends of my entire life.  I had fun, I met people, I felt alive again.  And, yes, I took some chances that worked out rather favorably for me, but not everyone understood those chances or my need to take them or my elation in the results.

No one knows anyone but themselves.  Sadly, there are a lot of folks who don’t even know that.  Even more sadly, there are many folks who think they know you and what is best for you enough to place judgement or criticism on what you do, regardless of how comfortable you are with your own ideas and actions.  Call it projection, call it self defense, call it whatever you want.  It all boils down to distrust and disrespect and putting your nose where it doesn’t belong.

Earlier today, I was scrolling through Facebook and saw a post by a fairly well known yoga teacher that mentioned something about someone’s arms being long enough to do a certain asana or transition.  This is not anything new.  There are some people who just have skeletal formations that will prevent them forever from doing certain things.  That is not what triggered me.  What triggered me was the tag line this teacher used to promote her YouTube video: “Click here to see if you fit!”  This pissed me off to no end.  Yes, I realize that it seems hypocritical that I am judging another person by their words.  I get that. That is why I am not naming names or linking to blogs nor am I even saying that this teacher is wrong for having used those words.  I’m just talking about what it triggered for me.  There is NOTHING in the world anyone can do to grow their arm bones an extra 3 inches.  Nothing.  Telling a person with shorter arms that they don’t “fit” is, frankly, body shaming.  It’s the same bullshit I hear all the time about how yogis should be thin and bendy and muscular and strong.  Yes, it’s true, many of us are all of those things, but let me state right here and now: there are just as many yogis out there who are NOT thin and bendy and muscular and all that spandex-hyped bullshit, and those yogis are just as qualified and authentic as those of us who can roll through splits and do pushups all day.

Why do we have to fucking judge other people so harshly? SO WHAT if your arms are too short to allow you to do a jump through?  So what if your breasts are too big to do a fully vertical Salamba Sarvangasana?  SO WHAT?  You do what you have to, nay, what you WANT to do as long as you’re okay with it and you’re not hurting yourself.

Which brings me to sluts.  (How’d you like that segue?)  

While I was ranting a bit on FB about Body Shaming, I decided to throw in the fact that I am feverishly disgusted with Slut Shaming, too. Someone asked, “What is Slut Shaming?”  I could write pages about it, but this little YouTube clip sums it up quite nicely.

RIGHT?!?

One of my dearest friends is a tiny bit older than me.  She is a beautiful single woman who has raised her two children to adulthood and likes to go out and have a good time.  She pays her bills, takes care of her family, holds down several jobs, is clean and clear and wonderful in every possible way and she has no intention of getting into a relationship.  At all.  She has a good time being herself and going after who and what she wants.  She’s a blast and I adore her!   She also loved Brian with all of her heart.  She knew how amazing he was and how deeply we loved each other and how pure our love was.  She also told me, before I went to Chicago, “Boo, you go out there and get you as much of what you want as you want to get.” Interestingly enough, my therapist told me the same thing, although he used words like Living, Experience, Boundaries, Exploration, Celebration, etc.  Even more interestingly, my parents told me the same thing.

What did or did not happen in Chicago is my business (that didn’t happen,) but I will tell you this: it was a very awakening experience.  I went out and introduced myself to people I had never met.  I felt no fear nor any shame nor any desire to be anything I am not. I simply felt free to be me for the first time since Brian died. I had a blast! I met artists and promoters and purveyors and just generally awesome people.  I had conversations with people of whom I still don’t know their name.  We talked.  We laughed.  We shared stories.  We had drinks.  We took pictures.

 

 

 

I have no idea who these guys are, but they were fun and up for a photo op.

So what does this have to do with sluts and shaming and strength and survival?  Well, I’m not sure I can connect all the dots for you, but I will tell you this: I would cut off both my legs and one arm to spend every day kissing my husband for the rest of my life, but he is never ever coming home.  I will never kiss him again.  Ever.  He is dead and I am still here.  I will also tell you that I have always been a highly affectionate person: I kiss and hug ALL my friends, each and every time I see them.  I’ve been that way since I was a teenager.  I am physically affectionate, but that doesn’t mean that I’m looking to date (I’m not,) or for a relationship (I’m not,) or that I have moved on from Brian (I never ever will.)  That said, I still struggle every day with the “what would so and so think” of how I am moving FORWARD (NOT moving on.)  I worry and I stress tremendously that our friends and our family members will think that I’m dishonoring Brian, when in actuality, I’d rather die than dishonor him.  Might I kiss someone?  Yes, why not?  I always have! Brian loved that about me.  And, let’s just throw this out there since we’re being honest, he loved it when I kissed my girlfriends (girl friends, folks.  Don’t read anything into this.)  We were always on the same page – we were each other’s everything and neither of us ever did anything other than give a friend a friendly peck in 14 years.  Ever. But I know that if I were the one who died and he were the one sitting here alone, I’d want him to not feel so isolated.  I’d want him to have fun, I’d want him to feel alive, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wants that for me right now.

Enter shame.

There will never be another soul that will take my husband’s place.  I have no desire to have a relationship with anyone, nor am I in any place to have “relations” with anyone (although, believe me, I’ve turned down many offers.  Guys are strange.) Yet, I get a feeling from many people that I shouldn’t be living.  That I should be staying at home and not having fun and not meeting people and god forbid, not kissing anyone.  No one has said those exact words to me, but I am feeling it. Maybe that’s ME projecting, but that says even more about how pervasive this whole “shaming” business is!

I’m realizing that no one has a right to say what is right or wrong for anyone else.  I have been guilty of doing that for so much of my life, I see now.  There is a difference between stepping up and saying, “You’re drinking / drugging / partying too much,” and saying, “You’re living too much.”  I have to decide how I feel comfortable living and so do you.  No more shaming!

It takes incredible strength to stand up for who you are.  It takes immeasurable strength to be able to do that in the face of adversity, be it on the mat, back stage, or in a coffee house.  Let us all be kind with one another and realize we’re all on a journey.  Some of us have a rockier, darker road to travel than others.  Sometimes boulders come crashing down on our path in the dark, but we’re all just trying to find our way home.  Let us be open.  Let us be honest.  Let us stop shaming.  Let us be strong.  Together.

 

I Want My Mojo Back

Just as an aside, if you don’t know Scott H. Biram, you should.  He’s got an incredible story.

Last week was a rough week.  It was my birthday week and that has traditionally been a huge celebration for me.  Brian always made sure that it was a big deal (because I love my birthday,) and this year it didn’t even seem right to have a birthday at all.  I got my hair done, had a wonderful birthday brunch, wrote a few things, met with some old friends, and I met some new friends, too.  While it was all wonderful and I’m so grateful for the love, something was painfully evident to me: I have lost my mojo.  It’s long gone.  I’m not sure I’ll ever get it back, although I hope to hell that I do because this life without  rots.

For the majority of my life, I have known exactly who I am, where I stood, what to say, what not to say, how to be me, how to handle situations, how to stand tall.  That’s not the case anymore.  So many things are going on inside of me that I don’t really feel comfortable talking about, primarily because I’m feeling the need to have very strong boundaries right now, but also because I just don’t have the fucking words.  I feel like I’m an awkward freshman in high school all over again when, honestly, I never felt that terribly awkward as a  freshman in high school.  Yes, of course I was awkward, but I didn’t feel like it (she says to the readers who knew her then.)

Now I’m all assholes and elbows over here, tripping on myself and being a fool.

Brian didn’t make me who I was, he was just the mirror who showed me who I was.  I don’t have that anymore.  I feel strange in certain social situations, especially when I’m with new people.  I make so many damned mistakes!  I know that I’m going to make mistakes, I expect to make mistakes because it’s how we learn and grow, but knowing and expecting it doesn’t provide any more grace when it happens.

Stumble, trip, fall.

A friend of mine tells me that the year after a loss as great as mine is the “Lost Year.”  It’s almost a year that doesn’t seem to count because I’m still trying to figure out how to find my footing on this wildly spinning rock hurtling through space, although in reality, it’s probably this year that counts the most.  I think she’s right and it’s giving me vertigo.

What do I say?  How do I act?  Who am I now?  Who do I want to become? I just want to be me and I don’t know who that is anymore.

I want my mojo back.

Maybe I’ll find it in Chicago.

Anarchy: my most requested playlist to date.

I am always being told that there are no rules for this grief thing, that everyone does it their own way, in their own time, that whatever I’m going through is okay.  I agree with them.  It’s total anarchy over here.  I’m sure that some of the choices I have made – or are contemplating making – cause folks to think I’ve lost my damn mind.  I want to ask those people the following question: did I ever truly have it?

It’s no secret that I’m not your typical yogin.  I like steak, I like to have a cocktail, I like motorcycles, tattoos, bearded men, bar room brawls, I can cuss like a sailor and make inappropriate jokes. I’m also the kind of yoga teacher that cares more about what an asana feels like rather than what it looks like.  What feels better for me might not be what feels better for you.  As long as you’re not going to hurt yourself (it’s my job to prevent you from doing that,) get in touch with your inner self and do what feels right.  Break the rules.  Rule yourself! Anarchy.

All of this came to a head a couple of weeks ago when I realized that there is no way I will please everyone all the time and there are times that I will please no one, so I might as well do what pleases me. I can’t care about what anyone else thinks as I’m grieving my husband.  As long as it feels right to me, it’s the right thing to do.  That might look like staying in bed all day.  That might look like going out and meeting new friends.  That might look like getting a new tattoo.  That might look like riding down the highway on the back of someone’s Harley.  That might look like any number of things, and here’s the thing: I get to make my own rules.  The process is sort of Anarchy.

I’ve been watching Sons of Anarchy a lot recently.  There’s some release in watching people act out the feelings I have deep inside that I can’t safely act upon.  It’s cathartic.  Whether that means watching people express feelings without fear of repercussion, loving fearlessly, or getting revenge for someone hurting your loved one, seeing it is better, for me, than acting upon it.  The other great thing about SoA is that it has an amazing soundtrack.  When everything started coming together, I made a playlist that was almost 100% of songs from SoA. The only exception is one song from Shooter Jennings and one from Frankie Miller.  As it turned out, folks responded like gang busters to this playlist and, since I’ve been asked several times to share it, I am going to post it.

Fortunate Son — Bob Thiele, Jr. & Lyle Workman

He Got Away – Noah Gundersen and The Forest Rangers

John the Revelator – Curtis Stigers and The Forest Rangers

This Life (Instrumental) – Domink Hauser

Someday Never Comes – Billy Valentine and The Forest Rangers

Travelin’ Band – Curtis Stigers and The Forest Rangers

Girl From the North Country – The Lions

Gimme Shelter – Paul Brady and The Forest Rangers

15 Million Light Years Away – Shooter Jennings

Sympathy for the Devil – Jane’s Addiction

Higher Ground – Franky Perez and The Forest Rangers

Jealous Guy – Frankie Miller

Bird on a Wire – Katy Sagal and The Forest Rangers

What a Wonderful World – Allison Mosshart and The Forest Rangers

Forever Young – Audra Young and The Forest Rangers

Total Running Time: 1:00.23

Lawlessness never sounded so good!