Be Like Kevin

Alice Lundy3 Comments

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Call. And call again. Take the calls—even when you’re driving to dinner with your girlfriend and looking for a parking space. Take the call, especially if it’s your dad. Not because he’s 85, because he’s your dad.

Connect with people. Laugh. Let your funny be infectious. Don’t be a hater. Speak your mind. Apologize when you screw up. And mean it. Move on.

OWN your anger. Be forthright, but be gracious. Love women. Really love them. And music. Listen to music-LOUD! Especially the 80s. Hard rock. KISS.

But take Etta James and the candles. Yeah, bring that old boom box to the beach. Play the game Washers.

Read. The Bible when you feel nudged. Take pleasure in reading. Find your guy. Kevin’s was Lee Child, but he also read Mark Twain, JR Moehringer and Alice Lundy.

Give people nicknames. ICE! ICE! ICE! Let it be your way of honoring them.

Pray. Out loud. In the morning. While drinking coffee and watching birds with your girlfriend.

Say, “I LOVE THAT!” often. Say, “I love you.” Write it. Write letters. Send Valentine’s Day cards with love to everyone.

Enjoy good food. Make memories, like taking your gal to Tony’s, where you used to go with your mom. But, also go to dive bars. Bring home Taco Bell sauce packets that say “Marry Me” and present them like a bouquet of flowers.

Seek love. Be romantic. Be real.

Follow your passions and applaud others. Take care of your business, but don’t be so serious. Make work fun. When it’s not, refocus. Readjust. Decide what you want and go for it.

Change. If you want to. Become better.

Be at peace with yourself. Take care of yourself. LOVE YOURSELF. And especially, BE YOURSELF. Kevin was totally himself, not imitating a soul.

Be emotionally courageous. Say: This is how I am. I have a temper and I can be selfish, but I’m the man for you. Yeah, be a man—in the best sense of the word.

Support your team and Diva’s team and your people. Show up. Be on time. And have some style!

LIVE your life. If it ever comes to your door, kick cancer’s ass!

Speak a different language with your brothers—one your girlfriend couldn’t understand if she wanted to. Make your cousin a brother and make the word BROTHER mean something. Make friendship and family mean something.

GO ALL IN. Whatever you’re doing: sex, drugs, rock-n-roll, sales, wooing a woman, loving your mom, hanging with friends, frying fish, developing relationships, telling a truth, listening,… damn, Kevin could listen.

I know he could talk, but he could really listen.

Open doors. Pull out chairs. Hug. Hold your partner tight through the entire night. Kiss too hard and love like this is your last chance and you want to get it right.

Buy little gifts. Don’t expect so much from others. Give because it makes you feel good.

Tell stories. And make them good!

Hang with your boys. Be wild when you’re young, but never grow old. Get out of the house, but spend time hanging at home, just chillin’.

Be like a kid. But be a man. Face life head on.

Be like Kevin, but you can’t. There was only one. So, be like you—the one Kevin loves. Still.

 

 

Surrendering to Love

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Marianne Williamson says, “We do not surrender to another person so much as to love itself.” Surrender? That’s a word Kevin used in one of his early letters. I’d tried to submit to love before, but had I ever surrendered to it?

Nope. Usually, I tried to control or reject love. I tried to dismiss Kevin by comparing him to previous men. He wasn’t having it. He asked me to believe and surrender to the FIRE!

He asked—not demanded, expected, manipulated, or sold me on putting myself second. He put me—not first, as so many men did in the beginning—but equal, my desires being as important as his were strong.

Hell, yes, I surrendered—not just to the love, but to the relationship and the man. I opened myself to fresh love. I let go of outcome. I never had a man love me in such strong ways that softened my edges without weakening my boundaries.

Kevin said I could trust him. I learned to, as he learned to be more trustworthy. We were each other’s mirror. Not pedestal mirrors—you’re so beautiful, smart, perfect … Those people aren’t mirrors.

Yes, Kevin saw me as beautiful, sexy, and smart and he told me. His actions matched his words. He saw my scars and loved them, too. He was the opposite of a crazy maker. Kevin helped me let go of my crazy and own my weird.

He looked at me sideways if I said I’m sorry for disagreeing, or for being me, as I once had a tendency. He made my apologies unnecessary and my desire to flee disappear.

The depths we went to, the conversations and experiences we packed into two short years was more than the previous 25 years of friendship—even though we’d worked and partied together and talked on the phone for hours many times.

Mathematically, it doesn’t make sense. Kevin’s friend Garry said, “God slowed time down for the two of you so Kevin could have that experience.” Garry said, “I knew it the first time I heard him talk about you. Then, when I saw the look in his eyes and when saw him with you, I knew.”

Those guys knew each other since they were 17. Garry knew. I knew the depth of their connection, too. That’s why after Kevin passed I gave Garry the watch I’d given Kevin.

Now full circle, Garry’s telling me about time and God’s ability to do ANYTHING, praying that God close the gap between heaven and earth. He calls Kevin and I husband and wife, saying that’s how Kevin felt.

Garry confesses his conversations with Kevin—now, after his death, like me. He tells me what Kevin says back, like I’m experiencing. Garry says he and Kevin go walking together, like we do.

Damn, I don’t feel so crazy or alone with this religious man who also touched the depths of Kevin’s soul—and still does. They were brothers, black and white, accountable to the word.

So now, somehow, Garry is my brother and I’m his sister. He calls me and prays for me—fully present in his faith even on the phone. Garry tells stories, laughs, listens, and confirms.

I’m not crazy. Kevin was all that. Time slowed down. I surrendered to love and to Kevin.

He was the FIRE! He didn’t burn me. He didn’t go out. He keeps saying, “I’m here, Icey! I’m here!” Again, I surrender to love.

In Another Room

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This, this is what I’ve dreamed of: waking up peaceful, happy, energetic, a hot cup of coffee, sitting on my deck under a blue sky, my foot touching my Black Lab as she reclines at my feet, my journal, a pen, this glorious moment.

Then, it hits me like a thump in a V-8 commercial: five months! Five months ago today I got the news that Kevin died in his sleep, like angels snuck him to the other side. Sudden, unexpected, a heart attack.

But, Kevin’s a salesman and somehow he’s convinced the powers that be or just gone and done it in his own crazy, sexy, Fire! way. Anyhow, he’s here! He tells me that over and over and I know it to be true.

He’s just like when he was alive. As he says, it’s like he’s walked into another room. His personality and love are the same. The feeling I get when he’s here is the same.

But, the physical reality of grief and loss insist the sadness is more real.

Maturity involves holding opposing ideas. A part of my spiritual journey is embracing this new form of relationship with Kevin.

I believe in life on the other side. I’ve been to more psychics than doctors. That’s my evidence—all the times my mother and brother came through.

Each of them has also communicated with me directly from the other side, but nothing like the FIRE! I feel I’ve entered a new world. In the midst of my dark grief, Kevin shares the light of his love. I haven’t so much resisted it, but relished our moments and conversations while wanting to show the world, to prove this is happening, but why?

As Kevin points out, I never needed to prove our love while he was alive. He told me to trust it. I did.

When he began to fret because we lived in different cities, I focused on how fortunate we were to really spend time together when we were together. I told him we’d merge when the time was right—when I get a book contract.

Is it possible to take on that attitude now and acknowledge our situation? He’s in a different dimension. He died. “On the other side” never made more sense. It’s similar to living in different cities. Maybe we practiced for this.

Maybe we can continue our relationship on this new path. Why not? He’s as willing, optimistic, and loving now as when we first got together. He encourages me to let him love me, to believe he’s different and we just keep getting better. He’s been here with me during most of my breakdowns since his death. He holds me and comforts me.

He’s in me, a part of me. I love the idea of “twin flame.” This experience is beyond amazing, like my eyes opening to a new world, like falling in love all over again (in the midst of agonizing grief).

I’m accepting, loving, communicating, dancing with, and listening to my lover who now lives on the other side. To recognize the signs is like honoring a wedding ring’s meaning rather than showing off the sparkle.

It’s a mind blowing privilege Kevin and I get this gift of communicating even though we’re worlds apart.

The words and love are no less powerful. This experience is beyond amazing if I allow it and quit comparing it to the past. That’s how he helped me open up to his love in the first place. “I’m not those other guys.” I set aside the rules I created from fear and found the most fulfilling love I’ve ever known.

We pray for miracles, yet evaluate, question, and try to disprove their arrival. I didn’t have time to pray for Kevin’s life. I didn’t know it was in jeopardy; he was healthy.

That’s what I tell myself. He just turned 58. He had the most fantastic physique of any man I’ve ever known. He worked out and ate mostly healthy. He had energy—wore me out!

However, he overcame colon cancer in 2012. The truth is, each time he had his cancer check-ups, I braced myself. I prayed. The first time I questioned myself. If what his doctor said was right, that cancer often comes back, could I handle it?

I’d been by my mom’s side as she battled cancer and died. It had only been a couple of years since my sister buried her husband because of cancer. I didn’t have the most optimistic mindset.

So, I prayed. I prayed Kevin’s health continue. I prayed he be cancer free and we share a long life together. I prayed for God’s will, and I vowed if cancer found a home in Kevin’s body again, I’d be there by his side fighting the bullshit and listening to his every wish. I made my private, solemn vow, picturing it, readying myself mentally, and solidifying my love.

I never told Kevin. I didn’t have to. He was praying the same thing—praying his health remain and we could keep on living and loving.

The last time Kevin visited my house, we sat on my couch. He said, “Icey, I don’t know how long I’m going to live. I’m not a young man. I hope I live into my 80s like my dad, but I just want you to know—all the time I have—I want to spend it with you.”

Looking back, one might think, maybe he knew? No, I don’t think he knew, certainly not consciously. What he knew was how great that moment felt (after all the challenges we’d each endured, it was especially sweet), and how quickly it could all be taken away.

Like Kevin’s friend Megan Boken, a volleyball player who was shot and killed for her cell phone. She was 23. Her life ended. Just like that.

Like Kevin’s mom. She was doing well after her stroke a few years prior. It was Thanksgiving. They shared a family celebration in Florida and went to sleep. Kevin was tired. He’d been drinking. He slept on the couch. His mom tried to wake him. He dismissed her. He was so tired!

In the morning, she was no more. Kevin’s heart broke into a thousand pieces, the pieces of a son held together by his mother’s love.

Kevin called me. We were just friends back then. Once you’ve experienced losing your mother, you know how to be there and listen when another faces that fate.

So, we both knew death. We knew life. When we met in our 20s, we were certain of our individual power and ability to control life.

By the time we came together as a couple, we knew life is fragile. We’d each been through some shit we’d no longer tolerate—from life, others, and especially ourselves. We wanted love, but our souls weren’t for sale.

We didn’t just fall in love. Our souls merged. When Kevin came full on into my life (because that’s how he did it), he returned my innocence and opened me to my femininity. He believed in my dream. He got me in the way no person ever has.

And I got him. I saw the shit I would’ve judged another man for and I let it slide with delight. At other times, I stood up to Kevin in the way I always wished I stood up for my truth, ideals and opinions. He heard me. What a fantastic blessing!

Everyone seeks to be heard, to tell their story without being judged, condemned, dismissed, advised, matched, or made fun of. Not so easy, eh?

Kevin and I rolled out our truths and histories throughout our friendship. When we graduated into boyfriend/girlfriend roles, we grew into our best.

I don’t know what to call him now. My dead boyfriend? My boyfriend who died?

He hollers, “Call me the FIRE!”

FIRE! FIRE! FIRE! I love you!

“ICE! ICE! ICE!”

It’s the same. It’s different. He died. He’s alive on the other side. I’m here, embracing his love, a new attitude, my life. It’s meant to be lived in all its peculiarities. And, I don’t care if they call me crazy.

 

 

 

Just an Old T-shirt

Alice Lundy8 Comments

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Just an old t-shirt,

All I asked my sister for,

Her husband’s old t-shirt,

Her husband who died.

Was it only three months ago?

Now, I know why a man

Said to my mom just weeks

After my brother died,

You’re not over that yet?

It wasn’t callousness or ignorance.

If you don’t own the grief, you

Push it as far away as possible.

That crap’s contagious!

Man, it can bring you down.

But, when you own it,

When that grief is yours,

You’re busy bracing,

Trying to balance, breathe.

Craning not to be crushed

By grief’s weight—

Makes everything heavy,

Even just an old t-shirt,

From a guy who’s not here anymore,

But is everywhere in this house.

Once he wore that old t-shirt.

He’s the only one who wore that old t-shirt.

It was his old t-shirt. Now,

I’m going to wear it, dye my hair in it.

I’ll stain it and it will never be the same,

Like everything else.

 

 

 

 

 

Do You Have a Man or a Boy?

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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Women—

He’s a grown man. You know that to be true, but how do you treat him?

Women don’t want a man who always gives advice or solutions. They don’t want someone who tries to control or manipulate or create an agenda for them. They want to be respected—as women.

I’m not judging. I’m just saying I see plenty of women putting out a vibe that says otherwise. That is, if you believe as you are you shall receive. Every action creates a reaction. Every word has meaning. And intention, even unvoiced, is felt.

When someone tries to control or manipulate me, when they want me to behave a certain way, because they believe their way is the right way, I tend to resist.

So women, I insist you consider yourself when condemning your man. I’m not saying don’t disagree, but he doesn’t need a hall monitor, a permission slip to make decisions, or a daily lecture on communication.

He’s a grown-ass man!

But, he acts like a child! You say. Maybe. Maybe you should ask yourself—do you have a man or do you have a boy? How did you attract that?

If he’s a boy, let him go. If he’s a man, let him be a MAN. Step back. Stand down.

I’m not saying lose your ground, but be his lady, not his mother. Be a woman. Watch your man shine.

A Spark in the Tunnel of Grief

Alice LundyLeave a comment

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You’ve got to own your grief. It’s part of the package: deep love/deep grief, immense loss/intense pain, unique love/special grief. Your love hit by grief is unlike anyone else’s. Yet, it’s the same.

You can’t recognize the universality until you acknowledge, feel, wrestle with, allow, respect, resent, release, and then gather the gifts of your own pain.

If you spend your life resisting and denying sadness, focusing only on the positive, you resign yourself of many of life’s most valuable experiences, the kind of challenges that make way for one to grow into a stronger, wiser, more compassionate individual.

That’s why I own my grief (not because it’s so fun!). Because I’ve been here before, one of the many dark holes in my life. The dark holes lead to dark tunnels where I’ve tripped and fallen, crawled and clawed in the dirt, cursed the dark, and begged for the light.

When it didn’t arrive in a nanosecond, I considered ending it all or finding a way to live in and make peace with the darkness. Yet, I kept moving forward toward the light, even when I was unsure if it existed or if I’d lost the ability to see it.

Still, I kept making my way. I caught glimmers that made me think I was close. But, in the tunnel of grief, there are many holes, hills, and ladders—like the game of Chutes and Ladders. In the tunnel, it doesn’t feel like a game. It doesn’t feel like winning. It feels rigged, like being lost in a foreign land without a map.

Then, randomly in the tunnel, when you least expect it, you find a flashlight or a candle and matches. Wahoo! I’ll find my way out of this! Then come the huge strides forward, right before the flashlight batteries die or the wind blows out the candle and you drop the matches in the water.

Shit! But, oh my God! Water! There’s water. And a strangely foreign feeling of elation and determination rises like hunger.

That feeling carries you far in the dark twists that await you in your tunnel. What you may find, as I have, you don’t seek and then suddenly get greeted by the light. Isn’t that how we want it to be?

La la la! Then, I felt no more sadness, no more darkness or pain.

I wish. I so fucking wish it went that way. Maybe for Pollyanna, who I spent years trying to emulate. Maybe for all those gals who call themselves princesses.

For me, the light out of the tunnel comes in flashes—at first like falling stars, easy to miss and nothing to grab.

Rather than getting out of the tunnel, the darkness fades. It’s hard to measure because you’ve come so far in the tunnel in darkness.

The tunnel is like a shell around you. Or maybe it’s like a birth canal.

Here’s what I know: there’s light out there. Unfortunately, I can’t command it. But, I believe. I seek. I wait, notice, and embrace the light when it arrives.

I pray to someday reflect a little back into the tunnel. May I be a spark.

Trying to get up out of the Casket

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Believe in your dreams. Make your own path. Make your mark. Let them know you lived. Let them say you fucked up or let them say you hit it big, but damn, give them a reason to talk. Live a rich life. Losers aren’t the losers in this world; the people who choose not to play are.

Go for it—your dream, goals, love, marriage, art, kids, travel, writing, a degree, a business… What calls you is your true north. Go! Boldly. Trust. Have faith in something or someone. Hell, the more you believe in, the better. Love at first sight, the American dream, you name it.

What’s your four-minute mile? Run it. You know all those people who believe in you? Prove them right. You know all those cynics? Fuck ‘em!

You know those people dying? One day you’re going to be one of them. Could be soon. If you’ve got something you know you’re meant to do, you damn well better do it. Is there some gift you’re supposed to deliver to the world? They won’t wait forever. When 50’s horizon is behind you, you start realizing guarantees aren’t a good bet.

Life is for living, loving, laughing, learning, enjoying. You can’t live someone else’s life. Their rules won’t fit you and vice versa. Find the common ground, but make sure you’re not just following the common path because it’s easy or you’re afraid or nobody gave you permission or you don’t know how.

It’s your life. Figure it out. What do you want? Not some dream that impresses. What’s your dream that presses on your chest if you imagine today is your day to die?

Don’t be someone who dies saying, “I wish.” Be the gal trying to get up out of the casket because you love your life so damn much.

 

Skipping Winter

Alice Lundy1 Comment

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Pain. It’s part of life. Yours. Then your sister’s. Then yours. Then your nephew’s. Yours. Then your friend’s. Your siblings’, parents’, and strangers’.

Pretty soon, you better learn to manage this shit. Or make peace with it. You can’t keep pretending things are going to smooth out for good at some God-approved time and la-la-la, from here on out, we’ll have only spring!

Somehow, absurdly, optimistically, we keep thinking we’ll skip winter. Or, may they all be mild. Some years, we might like to go to the beach. So, make it warm, but not too hot. Eighty-five and a breeze, please. No rain.

I used to say, “I hate it when it rains at the beach.” Now, I say, “If I’m at the beach, I’m happy.”

The first time my boyfriend Kevin took me to the beach in Florida, I told him, “If I’m depressed someday or on my deathbed, just bring me back here and set me in a chair to be soothed by the ocean waves.”

He said, “Okay.” In that moment, I pictured being old with him. It was the spring of our relationship. He was falling for me and I was following behind.

All those 25 years I knew him and never considered dating him. Ha! I thought he was a player, until he decided to get serious with me.

I watched Kevin crack before me like a coconut. Inside: purity—the rich white meat of his soul. The juice of his spirit ran free without his personality protecting him. I couldn’t have imagined the magnificence that man carried. Or that he could heal my scars and nourish my heart.

Did you ever want a clean slate? To be able to get into a relationship with your long lost hopeful innocence rather than a long list of things that could go wrong?

That’s what happened when Kevin’s shell cracked. Mine did, too. He was a bad boy gone good. I was a woman at peace with herself—finally.

We walked through the seasons in love, holding hands. Then came his death, sudden and worse than the coldest, darkest winter in Minnesota.

I thought I said no more winter! Ah, “we plan and God laughs.” Yet, because of Kevin, I hold out for spring. And summer. And fall. I embrace it all.

Rising like Sunshine

Alice Lundy3 Comments

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Sissy the Cynic snuck in my head and started telling me how my life sucks and nothing I’ve done is working.

You little ungrateful bitch! Let me tell you how hard I’ve worked and how beautiful my human, painful, miraculous life is.

First of all, I’ve been through some shit. And, I’ve always taken time to reflect on the role I played, lessons I learned, and how to do it better next time.

See Sissy, this 5.1 version, 50-freaking fantastic, feminine power is just getting started. On the other hand, you my dear are on the way out.

I’ve spent a lifetime building my character. How dare you imagine you could use Kevin’s death to your advantage?

No, you won’t. I will. I’ll use Kevin’s death as a catapult into my future. This experience doesn’t defeat me; it deepens me. Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean I can’t grow from it. Just because I didn’t deserve my beloved dying doesn’t mean I can’t make the most of it—my way.

Not for Kevin, with him. With his love, I’ll rise. With Kevin, my Fire! I’ll burn like sunshine.

I don’t deny the night. I’ve been here before. I know blackness, the stumbling and the holes I fall into. I also know the hands and hearts holding me up. I’ve seen the brightest stars on the darkest nights. I’ve stayed up late and risen early to greet the darkness, to witness stars and miracles.

Seven or eight stars sprinkled in my sight after my brother died. It still gives me chills.

I could list the miracles and signs for you Sissy, but cynics don’t believe. They belittle ideas and dreams and try to discredit faith.

In the morning—every morning of my life—the sun rises, no matter how dark and grim the night before. You may not always see the sun, but she’s rising. And, so will I.

RAPED, THEN BETRAYED

Alice Lundy5 Comments

How many times can a woman feel betrayed after her rape?

Every time someone questions how it happened “so easily.”

There’s nothing easy about being physically pinned down by someone stronger than you, having your body entered by someone you did not invite while your arms are held above you and your legs and body are positioned by his power.

How many times can a woman feel betrayed after her rape?

Every time someone suggests she should’ve reacted differently.

We respect grief and people’s right to do it their own way. But, with rape or sexual violation, we only give validity if a woman immediately goes to the police and says, “I’ve been raped.”

Is there no understanding of the internal schism in a woman’s psychology when she’s been violated physically, sexually, and emotionally? Over 70 percent of rapes are committed by someone the victim knows: schism.

How many times can a woman feel betrayed after her rape?

Every time a woman is doubted for how she got into the situation and how she handled the aftermath betrays the fact that she was raped—a violent physical act whereby the aggressor completely controls the victim.

Yes, she’s a victim—even if she wasn’t threatened with a knife or gun.

When I was young, I used to joke, “If I ever get raped, they’ll find him because he’ll be the guy with his dick cut off.”

And there it is. I thought what many still think: 1) I’d never let it happen to me. 2) If it did, I’d destroy him. I’d react to violence with violence.

But, I’m not a violent person. I’m strong. I’m smart and I can be damn persuasive. Still, at age 23, I was raped by my boss. My boss raped me.

He didn’t have a knife or a gun and I didn’t say no; He didn’t ask.

He threw me down physically. He physically overpowered me. He didn’t persuade me to have sex with him or scare me into it. He took my body with his body. It’s an act of power and violence. Yet, he didn’t punch me, slap me or cut me. He attacked me with physical force.

How many times can a woman feel betrayed after her rape?

A woman is betrayed again every time a so-called evolved man who believes in a woman’s right to choose chooses to believe that somehow she chose this. Or let it happen. Or reacted poorly after the fact.

We’re so bent on not having a victim mentality in our country maybe we’ve forgotten women who are raped are victims—not forever, but in the moment.

Shame on you for shaming her, not believing her, and betraying her belief that you trust her and she can trust you with her truth.

How many times can a woman feel betrayed after her rape?

Maybe that’s why rape is the most underreported crime, why victims of incest and even sexual harassment don’t tell. It’s easier not to.

Who wants to be betrayed all over again? And again. And again.