I’m the hearts in clouds,
The wind in trees.
I’m the water you swallow
And music you sway to.
I’m yesterday, today and tomorrow.
I’m color, light and warm
Sunshine on your face.
I’m the burning in your heart.
I am The Fire! I live.
You are the light
In the darkened sky.
You’re the queen who
Refuses to wear her crown.
The singer who’s forgotten
The words.
You’re the photos you
Attempt to take.
The yoga on your
Best days.
You are Ice! You’re alive.
I hold her like a darling baby.
She’s precious and I must care for her. I’ll feed her and watch her grow. I’ll witness the sparkle in her eyes and welcome my soul to expand in the light of her face.
She’s arrived at a time when the world is smothered with fear. Hope is here after the Fire. She’s here within the mess. Through prayer, Hope has shown up in my life again.
A long time ago, we were friends, but she played with ego and witnessed death in a dark alley. She quieted in the face of fear.
But today, once again, I embrace Hope. I hold her gently. I let her sit with me and lean her head against my chest. I’m consumed by my love for her, especially with all that’s wrong outside the door.
Hope is in my hands. She’s asking me to dance, claiming every song is her favorite. So quickly, she’s taken over my heart and swirling in my mind.
She asks me to explain nothing, only feel. I feel alive.
I didn’t just lose my boyfriend. I lost the man and relationship I spent five decades looking for, the one that fit me—in all of its imperfection. I lost my sense that I belong in that special club for two.
I never really believed in “the one,” but of all the men I’ve known and loved none of them knew me and loved me the way Kevin did. He said the same thing about me. The cool thing was both giving and receiving unconditional love, living in a no-bullshit zone.
Now, a year and a half after his death, I’m back to the bullshit. The people who think they know me may, but I don’t feel truly known or able to reveal myself fully because what I am now carries such sadness.
I spout off about grieving taking as long as it takes, but I’m pissed off that it’s taking so much of me.
I’m no longer in despair every moment. I set goals. I go forth. I attend events. I laugh and mean it. But, the backdrop of it all is the desire to go back to being with my beloved.
The truth is the extraordinary events without his presence on earth rarely stir me as much as the seemingly ordinary events like watching TV, talking on the phone, or sharing coffee did when he was alive.
Kevin was my man. He once said he wanted me to look at him like, “I know he’s an idiot, but he’s my idiot.” I did—when it came to my less-than-favorite of his tendencies, as he did mine.
I didn’t have to convince myself to overcome my feelings or force feed myself into affection, conversation or presence.
That’s always been an issue with me—being told what I should feel—often by myself and certainly by other men.
Kevin respected my feelings, even the irrational ones. I wasn’t put off by his bullshit, not after we went from friends to our all-in relationship.
God, please forgive me for wishing another one of those fools I loved would’ve been the one who died instead.
I guess all I can do now is love myself the way Kevin loved me—with appreciation for my femininity and humanity.
What would Kevin say of this grief? He’d hold me through it, as I did for him with the grief he carried over his mother’s death.
She died in 2012 and in 2014 it was still eating him inside, although few knew the extent of his pain, although many must’ve imagined, knowing how close Kevin and his mom were.
Now he’s with her. It’s lovely. And, it sucks.
It sucks that Kevin is not here for his father as he committed to be. Around Thanksgiving in 2015, Kevin was in Tampa with his father when the doctors considered cutting off “Coach’s” big toe due to diabetes. Kevin was relieved when his father bounced back and basically told his sons to get out of his house and hit the road.
Kevin made it clear to me when the time came, he’d be there—in Tampa—for his dad, even move there, whatever was required. I respected that.
Of course, Kevin couldn’t imagine he’d be dead when the time came. Or that his dad and twin would truly be scared when Irma hit Florida recently.
Or that at age 86 Coach would conclude doctors cutting off his foot was the right move. So, now that’s happened.
I can’t imagine having a foot cut off, but I suspect Coach would say losing his son was harder.
I didn’t just lose my boyfriend. I lost knowing the people he loved were better off because he was there for them—physically present without being asked, speaking directly, kidding and seriously making life easier to manage.
I feel helpless—for a foot that’s been cut off and a twin brother who’s shouldering the burden Kevin would’ve willingly carried.
I miss him more than ever. I miss him for the others who miss him more than ever.
This is the journey. This is the chaos of emotion one doesn’t master, but learns to live with like a missing limb.
“Your real life, your whole life, is worth getting your heart broken a few thousand times.” ~ Martha Beck
Take a vacation with Grief. Take the trip. I’m not talking about going somewhere, but getting to the bonfire of your broken heart.
Take a vacation with Grief the way you would with a dying dog. Let Grief snuggle up to you in all her juxtaposed, shell-wrecking emotions.
Pet Grief. Look into her eyes. Release your tears under the weight of her tender touch. Put your hand to your heart.
Make your time with Grief matter.
Is Grief’s size similar to that of dogs? Does small Grief linger, biting at our ankles for 17 years, while large Grief makes its presence known in every room, until its departure is so profound it’s as if all the furniture has been removed from the house?
I don’t know, for Grief’s size can’t be measured, not its timeframe determined.
Grief is as large as a Great Purines and as small as a teacup pup. She bites, but she loves.
Grief is the guide dog assigned to us, suddenly at our side, when someone we love dies. We’re so unused to having her, we often trip over her.
We don’t know how to care for this dog named Grief.
Feed her. Feed her your attention, time and affection. Let her fetch memory’s ball and bring it back slobbery.
Don’t put Grief out. Not only does she belong to you; she’s chosen you. Of all the dogs in the world, this Grief is yours.
Try to leave her out back and she howls like she’s in heat.
Just when you think you’ve trained her and invite her to escort you into the world, she’ll drop an extra-large pile of poop on your friend’s white carpet.
Or, when you believe Grief has made her peace with other dogs—finally!—she’ll snarl like a wild animal.
Grief is a dog. Logic isn’t her forte. English doesn’t make sense to her.
Sure, she can learn a few words. Grief knows Sit. Down. Food. Water. Walk.
She loves to walk in the woods and needs to drink water.
Grief will be by your side as you pray and meditate and write.
She won’t complain about your choice of music or the sound of your voice.
Grief wants love and attention. She requires your time.
Sure, you can lock her in a kennel and only serve her basic needs.
But, that’s not why you were given this dog named Grief. She’s your companion who requires sensitivity.
What feels like a burden can transform into a gift.
She’s vulnerable. Walk slowly with her. Nurture her.
Love your Grief like an old dog who’s dying.
Caring for Grief can be an honor.
“And when you have reached the mountaintop, then you shall begin to climb.” ~ Kahlil Gibran
She said, “I’m sick of people telling me what I’m ready for or not ready for.”
As if anyone else knows, right? After a break-up, divorce or death, deciding to move forward is an individual decision.
Or sometimes, it just happens. I went out with my sister and a friend one night and suddenly months later, I’m trying to decide if this guy is right (for me).
I never made a conscious decision to start dating after my beloved’s death.
I did determine to stop saying, “Every other man is going to be such a f*cking disappointment!” I wish I could stop feeling that way.
I wish I could be ready to allow a man to replace the irreplaceable. Of course, that will never happen. How nice it would be to invite a man into the space that once held me like a hammock swinging at the beach.
It’s still a stretch I’m not sure I’m ready for. It’s been a year and a half since my Fire (as I called him) went out of this world.
He called me Ice for 25 years before he melted me with intimacy and we became us. After his departure from earth, part of me froze again. Then, shattered. You know what it’s like when you drop a bag of ice on the cement? In grief, I’m that ice, and forever his.
He (still) wants for my happiness in the way that I ache for his presence.
Maybe I’m not ready for another man. However, if I wait until I’m totally solid again, I could turn into one of those women who swear off love. Wouldn’t that be a shame?
From where she stands now, it may appear easy to the outside world. Nope.
I remember her first date with another man and how she crumbled the second she got away from him, like I did after my first date with someone other than my beloved.
Those dates weren’t with less-than-fine men. They just weren’t ours.
Jayne had great love with her husband, Tom Gerlach for triple decades. They never stopped holding hands, laughing, and navigating life in unison—until his life was over.
She went on, the way one braves Mt. Everest. Moving forward tested her.
Now, five years later, my sister’s in love with a man who fulfills and ignites her in fresh ways. She’s different now.
Not just different from the 18-year-old who pledged her love to a man a lifetime ago, but transformed through the experience of grief.
Grief drops us. The pieces that once fit easily are lost and new parts form.
We determine to be ready for life without the one thing that matters more than anything. Then, we say, F*ck it! I’d rather die.
Fortunately, or unfortunately as it feels at the time, we know better. We could never willingly inflict the pain of loss onto our loved ones.
So, we determine to be ready, to turn the page to our next stage of life. We do this over and over again.
We take baby steps when we long for gargantuan leaps. We smile and laugh and find ourselves caught off guard when the tears engulf us again.
Grief is kind of like being a teenager; emotions are raw and we’re growing, but we can’t see it. Like a teenager wants to be grown, we want to be woke.
Who’s to say when we’re ready? Just the quiet voice that whispers, Yes!
“When good men die their goodness does not perish, but lives on though they are gone.” ~ Euripides
Dear Kevin,
Thank you. Thank you for embodying your authentic self and welcoming me to be the Alice Lundy you saw—not just my best self, but the real me: raw, vulnerable, smart, beautiful, jealous, funny, a writer worth reading, sexy, determined, feisty, intuitive, angry, weird, stubborn, free-spirited, and a terrible singer, but a great story-teller.
You knew who I was back when the only thing I cared more about than selling books was the truth, and I assumed it was clear and simple.
So, I held truth against you for 20 years and you let me without pitting alternatives against me, as you could’ve easily done.
Thank you for carrying our 25-year friendship and calling consistently, despite me taking it for granted and leaving you hanging, sometimes for weeks. My obliviousness, along with all the times I tried to set you up with other gals, matched your persistence.
You doled out invitations, starting way back in 1989 with the first party you took me to out in the country at your friend Ed’s, when I was escaping my ill-fitting life with my first husband and you were partying like a rock star.
You dismissing hard drugs before we became a couple opened the door for us, and divulging the details about your troubles swung it wide.
I’m amazed at how you evolved as a man in the years we walked separate paths. You came back into my life carrying a brand of manly emotional courage I’d never known.
You braved our love by going deeper than you’d ever gone. Early on, I couldn’t imagine it wasn’t your M.O. or a kind of show, but you showed me!
Your colorful personality, passion and resolve earned you your nickname: Fire!
Your creative questions and present listening, as you navigated knowing me on a soul level, left an imprint of intimacy actualized.
I cherish the memories of our challenging conversations on subjects like race, death, politics, religion, and education.
We sucked the marrow out of life. In our less than two years as a couple, we did a decade. As your friend Garry said, “Of course. I saw it. God opened up time so Kevin could have that experience before he left this life.”
True, and I would’ve loved to keep riding with you until the end of my days.
Thank you for planning for us, making way and expanding our everything.
You taught me to wrestle with our differences without dismissing me or letting me run away.
Thank you for always encouraging me to run back into your arms, like the time I jumped in my car and took off down the road, in a furry bound for nowhere, so mad I was unaware my parking brake was on.
You said you were sorry and, “Come back home,” as if it was ours.
Thank you for knowing and acting on your ability to apologize as a man and not letting me belittle or bullshit you, which I once had a tendency to do.
Kevin, thank you for sparing me the one truth I would’ve sworn I could handle—your friendship with your ex. You were right, even though you were so f*cking wrong for lying to me.
Thank you for coming back to me after you died.
You came through your brother Glenn’s body and hugged me—as only you could do—when I went to your house and crumbled on the bathroom floor.
You told me the perfect things to pack at 4 am, after I overslept and stood in a fog from trying half an antidepressant the night before, leaving me unpacked and unprepared for the flight to your memorial service in Tampa. Because of you, I had exactly what I needed, no more and no less, even with the unexpected detour and change in weather.
Then, two pennies (one dated 2014, the year we got together) appeared on a table in the airport, on the hotel room bed, in my car and other places.
Back home, as I walked into church alone to my bones, you sang “There Must Be 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover” and made me laugh.
The day I looked up out of my sunroof to dry my tears before yoga class, you sent your heart in a cloud, as you’ve done dozens of times since, because as you say, you can no longer send flowers.
And the smell of your cigars (the only ones I ever liked) while I’m on my mat? Nice.
One night under a full moon, you led me through the woods on a path and told me it would continue to unfold if I just keep walking. I’m trying.
Thank you for filling me with your love and divine lessons—most of which you never intentionally taught or articulated.
One of my favorites is: never argue for your limitations. I’m working on it.
You mirrored to me the things I needed to see in a way I didn’t resist, which is rare for a rebel like me. I’m forever grateful.
Thank you for everything you left me: the tangible gifts of a killer (your word) wardrobe, the Tanzanite bracelet, my Kindle Fire, little black jam speaker, piles of legendary love letters I’ll forever treasure, and especially memories of our time together bursting with crazy, sexy, cool, even in the mundane—morning coffee, car rides, and the sound of your voice.
Thank you for kicking cancer’s ass before you and I became Fire & Ice and sharing your conviction that your mother brought me into your life so you could have the kind of relationship she desired for you.
Kevin, it was my honor to give you that gift. Your arms were my home.
You said it was destiny, not fantasy. You delivered real.
If you had to leave me, thank you for preparing me with an overflowing bank of love and your belief in me as a woman and a writer.
Although we both wish you didn’t have to go, I (almost) appreciate how you slipped out in your sleep. That’s the only way the angels could snatch you!
You know I thought I could endure standing by your side if cancer ever tried again or watch you wither with old age, but that’s not how it went down.
We had no warning and maybe that’s best because we had no fear.
You said our love would “just keep getting better” and I believed in your certainty. We didn’t see it coming, did we?
In one of your voicemails (yes, I still listen), you told me you couldn’t imagine your life without me in it. Ditto, but here I am.
Oh, how I absolutely despise your death! Yet, I (try to) believe it to be a part of our divine destiny, as you make it known to me.
Thank you, baby. For staying with me still. Death can’t divide Fire & Ice!
From the one stuck on this side,
Your Icey
“Pure and complete sorrow is as impossible as pure and complete joy.” ~ Leo Tolstoy
(#2) Dear New Man,
I’m sorry to tell you, but whatever you do, you’ll fall short. Not because there’s anything less about you, but because my broken heart insists on comparing you to my deceased beloved.
With him, sacred love sweetened my everyday into ecstasy and then, in a blink, I was brought back to normalcy.
To you, Kevin is a name, a man who loved me, someone who died and left his mark on my life.
To me, he’s everything. Still. It’s unfair. It’s wrong.
He was the most right thing in my entire life—not just in hindsight, but while we lived our love and relished each other.
He proved the reward for my fortitude. He ignited my authenticity, welcomed my weirdness, and still encourages my joy, happiness and success, wherever I may find it.
I can’t stop looking in the rearview mirror. I ache for yesterday.
I strive to move forward with you, New Man. I see your character and kindness. I’m awed by your congruency.
I yearn to feel with you the way I felt with him. I only know I can’t force it.
I have a friend whose taste buds have gone awry after her sister’s death. Maybe my feel buds have gone numb.
I try to put myself in your position and imagine how you feel. I think I’d be gone. Part of me wants to say it’s your own damn fault if you stay, but please don’t go.
It’s not fair, it’s not right, what I offer you. Only truth. It’s all I have.
The truth is I don’t trust my feelings and sometimes what I feel is nothing.
I see you. You’re here. I’d like to celebrate. Lucky me.
Instead, I contemplate. I try to remember my resistance to Kevin in the early days, but our early days came decades into our friendship after dozens of phone calls and a history of conversations.
When he called to tell me his mother died, he cried his vulnerability into me and I drank it full.
I called him on road trips. There were many between the time I left my ex-husband and after I landed in Ohio to live with my sister. Kevin and I talked about divorce and death, his ex-wife and current girlfriend, the guy I was seeing at that time, and how our lives had changed since the early days back in Champaign, IL when our friendship formed, in spite of me.
I took Kevin for granted for 20 years. I don’t want to do that again—to anyone.
Maybe the resistance isn’t about my deceased boyfriend, any more than it was about my sister or the distance with Kevin.
Maybe it’s just my nature. Maybe you and I don’t have a future. Maybe we do.
Right now, all I know is you’re the new man and I’m still undeniably in love with the old one.
He may have died, but my love for him didn’t. People tell me to stop looking back, but that’s like telling a girl at the beach to stop watching the waves.
Yesterday blocks my view. Yesterday also taught me we can’t imagine the packages love will arrive in.
So, I remain open to surprise. I’ve always found it by feeling my way.
If you choose to go on yours, I get it. This is new to you, too—building a relationship with a woman who’s in love with another man, a dead one.
Oh, New Man, I feel for you. That’s compassion. I care for you. That’s appreciation and gratitude.
Still, every time I go to unfold the map to my heart, it points to yesterday. Where there lies a sacred love that was blown out like a candle in the dark.
The only thing I can swear is I’m looking for light.
“Grief is like the ocean; it comes in waves, ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim.” ~ Vicki Harrison
Other times, she insists on being the center of attention.
As an indeterminable amount of time rolls on, Grief makes larger circles before she gets back to you. But, she always returns.
The more time that passes, the more shocking her arrival seems because you—of such faith—believed Grief already had her way with you.
The truth is she’s just getting started. Grief is a force—both softer and harder than death. She’s only given to the living. In fact, the more alive one is, the more likely to experience her.
See, Grief is Life’s little sister. She’s a tag along. Death is their brother.
The longer you hang around with Grief and listen to her, instead of assuming she’s a nuisance, the more she reveals her wisdom and light.
Grief is nothing we imagine her to be—not enemy or friend, not a season or a time.
She’s both sickness and cure. She’s resurrection. Grief is a thousand stairs to climb, but she’s worth every step.
“You ask for what you want and you pay for what you get.” Maya Angelou
Sure, I was probably in a hurry and running late and only listened to the part that said, “After 49 years of challenging relationships, you’ll be blessed with crazy, sexy, cool sacred love and your heart will be full.”
I doubt I read the fine print—the part about him dying.
I’m not a fine print gal. Details and contracts? Yeah, yeah, where do I sign?
Like the time I put my precious belongings in storage and moved to Mexico. I didn’t read the tiny words that stated if I was late with my meager $30 payment my stuff could and would be sold to some guy named Daryl. Oops.
Then, one of the most important contracts—a marriage certificate—I resisted signing the first time because I knew there would be a few uncomfortable clauses in there. Turns out, the officiant and the best people have to sign, but guess who doesn’t? The bride and groom. Maybe I mentally used that as my out. I didn’t sign a thing!
Oh, but on round two, I knew. I was committed, ready, in love, no doubts. But damn, I couldn’t see how that future would play out.
I’m not disregarding my responsibilities, but I believe it’s all been a part of my divine destiny: the love and the loss, the success and falling on my ass, sweet summers and brutally cold winters.
Sometimes I think, why me? A part of me knows.
I came here to love, learn and grow into a compassionate heart, surrendering to life’s seasons in order that I may be a more full, authentic, feminine force for good—using my voice, listening, standing beside those whose ride is bucking them like a bronco and leaving them flat on the ground with the wind knocked out of them.
Sometimes the most soothing words aren’t advice, stories or questions, but simply, “I’m here.”
Yes, I’m here. I signed up for this.
“Life is a continuous balancing of love and loss, because in order to have any loss mean something, we first have to have something we truly value.” ~ Alexandra Stoddard
On the front of my 9×11 hardcover calendar book it reads: “2017 is a good year to have a good year.” But, am I?
After losing a loved one, this is the brave dance we do. We wrestle, grapple, fight, resist, and take ownership of our grief. We acknowledge, admit and attend to the full array of feelings which arrive with sorrow’s storm.
Many choose not to undertake this step. They prefer denial and bucking up. I don’t blame them. I’ve been there. I’ve tried the detour.
Folks are free to choose any path that works for them.
However, this time, I just can’t go around. I’m in the mess as much as I was into the relationship with the man I love who died a year and a half ago. A man I called Fire who burned bright right up until the night he died unexpectedly in his sleep (damn heart attack!).
He said to me, “I’m all in,” and he was. Until he was out. Not by his choice. Nor mine. I was all in, too.
Since his death, I’ve grieved like it was my profession.
Grief has been an honor, a spiritual opening and a building of my emotional biceps. And yet, even athletes don’t stay in the gym all day.
A friend recently asked me, “Do you think it’s true that the greater the love the deeper the grief?”
I said, “Yes, with a caveat.” (Because I love saying that word.) I had great love, as did my sister. So did the woman standing before me asking the question. We each still experience deep grief.
And yet, I don’t think the longer and harder one grieves is the measure of their love. With hard loss comes pain. How people cope is as individual as the paths to love.
For me, grief is a challenge, gift and opportunity bestowed upon me by the grace of a sacred love I was lucky enough to live. The aftermath is wretched. And it’s beautiful. In this moment, I vow to do my best to grow from it.
There’s no right way. There’s no wrong way. There’s only grief.
Alice in Authorland 