Tag: alice in authorland

Flowers the Size of my Fist

Alice Lundy2 Comments

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I found a card for flowers from my now deceased boyfriend Kevin. It was used as a bookmark in Jesus, Entrepreneur, which grabbed my attention from a shelf yesterday. I even moved the card as I read a couple chapters, but I was looking at the blank side. Today, I turned it, not knowing I’d see:

Hey Ice Baby,

I hope these are half as beautiful as you are.

Wish I was there to deliver them in person.

The card came with the first flowers Kevin gave me. A dozen red roses, so classic I would’ve considered it cliché from anyone else. There’s no date. It doesn’t matter. Time took on a different tone with Kevin.

It’s all surreal now. In our chapter together, we experienced the love that clicked after all those years struggling in other relationships.

Back then, watching other couples, it seemed so easy, right and smooth. They assured me they worked hard on their relationships and I tried harder in ones that wouldn’t fulfill.

It wasn’t until I was with Kevin that what I suspected was proven true.

When you’re with the right person, everything is easier.

I knew it! Being with that special someone that fits you like your favorite pair of jeans makes even the tough times more comfortable.

See, I’ve had a lot of men and I’ve been given a lot of flowers, but none as striking as the ones Kevin gave me.

My sister and I marveled about their strong, sweet aroma. Those roses blossomed to the size of my fist and stayed fresh for weeks.

That particular bouquet came from Pro Flowers, but all the flowers Kevin gave me, even from the grocery store, carried more scent, lasted longer, and captured extraordinary beauty—like true representatives of his love.

The guy was something—not just to me. To his numerous friends and family, Kevin acted as an example of living full, giving freely and saying it all. He didn’t hold back.

We came together in divine timing after knowing each other for decades. He was my treasure after all the digging I’d done.

Our relationship felt like home for both of us. We wanted to live there.

Unfortunately, unexpectedly, he died—in his sleep. Had Kevin been awake, he would’ve tried to fight death off. Now, he’s gone.

So, I’m moving forward, with him by my side from the other side. In life, he gave me flowers. Now, it’s hearts in clouds.

And occasionally, I find flower cards as bookmarks. I let myself smile and feel how delighted I felt the day I received those roses, as happy he wants me to be now.

 

The Dance

Alice Lundy2 Comments

 

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I spent all those years—what since age five?—convincing myself of the value of independence. It was the one thing I could always fall back on: the beauty of being on my own.

Sure, I had multiple chapters of happy with men, but when things ended I knew how to bounce and become better.

After my first divorce, my stepmom said, “A lot of people say they’ll never marry again, but with you, I’m starting to believe it.” I did, too. I meant it. I didn’t need anyone and I was good at walking away.

Still, it was tiring. I wanted to learn to stay. I did, with my second husband, for over a decade. For much of it, I was dying inside.

I got the value of a relationship. I just never got the kind I wanted, the kind I wrote about, and believed in like a dream that comes true for some. I was okay with that—in a way that I have a tendency to affirm I’m fine when what I long to be is fantastic.

Little did I know, my friend Kevin had the same dream—that someday he’d find the kind of gal and relationship his mother wished for him. I had no idea the depth of Kevin’s longing because when we got together, he talked about his crazy ex-wife he hated and his not-so-great girlfriends who came before. The one previous to me was good, but that’s a long way from the grand love this man dreamed of.

Somehow in 2014, our walls fell from our friendship into something deep. With Kevin’s confidence, coaxing, and congruent actions, we both dove into the crazy, sexy, cool relationship that became us: Fire & Ice.

Our paths to that place became worthwhile. Early on, Kevin said, “Why didn’t we do this 20 years ago?”

Because we couldn’t; we had lessons to learn. I needed to be prepared to let go, to totally trust and tell my truth and be open to his in the ways I’d only talked a good game before.

Back when Kevin and I were just friends, I said, “Relationships are about compromise.” Kevin said, matter of factly: “No, they’re not.”

My god! How many times had I compromised myself, my voice, or my values in an effort to make a relationship work? No wonder my independence after a break-up felt like a vacation.

With Kevin, it all felt like a vacation from everything I’d known before. And yet, it was everything my heart and soul had pushed me towards all those years.

I wanted all or nothing: the communication, openness, honesty, passion, and fun. Kevin wanted it all and gave it all. He said, “I’m all in, Icey.”

Then, he gave me something I could lean into with my feminine authentic self, not some version I thought I should be. I lost my need to appear perfect. He loved me through my anger and fear. Trust me, those don’t always show up as pretty.

I loved Kevin through his rants. I even spoke up and cut him short. I didn’t judge him for smoking cigars or all the drugs he’d done years prior.

I understood him and that made all the difference. In his presence, my compassion muscle strengthened.

I saw his worst (when he lied) and his best (the way he showed up). Kevin knew my failures and insecurities. He didn’t let that define how he saw me.

That was the kind of relationship I craved. We were both in it for the long haul and in no hurry to do anything but enjoy our time together. I thank God we did.

I thank God for it all—except how Kevin’s life was cut short. We didn’t know he’d die completely unexpectedly of a heart attack in his sleep on March 4, 2016.

In the face of this loss, I don’t grab up my independence as protection for the pain. Nor do I think I can replace him. Some things are impossible, like what we had.

Maybe it had to be everything it was, not only the lessons we each needed to learn going in, but the lack of warning for his going out of this world.

I resisted enough in the beginning. Had I known the pain awaiting would be harsher than any break-up, I might’ve taken a pass. As Garth Brooks sings, “I could’ve missed the pain, but I’d have had to miss the dance.”

Not that dance. No way. It was my favorite.

Things Will Never Be the Same

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I expected my boyfriend Kevin at my house around noon. It was now going on 6 pm. My sister cancelled the dinner reservations.

We were going to The Melting Pot because Kevin said he’d never been. This was the night he’d meet my sister’s boyfriend. My nephew and his wife were at the house. We invited TJ because he and Kevin hit it off. Also, Kevin needed help with his car. He was bringing TJ cigars.

I needed a distraction and I wanted my bed moved. It’s a king-sized in a too small room, pushed up against the wall. Whenever Kevin visited, I was sidelined to the inside, so he could have his fan blowing on him. He liked to get all snuggled up under the blankets and imagine he was camping with the wind blowing and fire glowing.

He was my Fire and I didn’t mind making way for him.

I asked my nephew and my sister’s boyfriend to move the bed and dresser so Kevin and I both had room to get in and out. The bed was heavy. That’s why I hadn’t moved it before and why, as it turns out, my sister’s boyfriend hurt his shoulder. Anyhow, the guys finagled the angles and toyed with the ideal location.

Then it was done. I immediately felt happy with the way my bedroom looked—bigger, brighter and more inviting. Everyone agreed.

Just then, a thought ran through my head: And now nothing will ever be the same. The thought was bigger than the room. Like the wind. Like a whisper I refused to hear.

I tried to brush it away with positivity. “Kevin’s going to get here and see this and be happy we did it. He’s going to have some crazy story.”

Jayne’s boyfriend said, “Everything’s going to be ok.” I tried to tone down my glare, but my gut reaction was, “What do you know?” Still, I clung to hope.

Then, the police called back. And, nothing will ever be the same.

 

 

 

Powering Through

Alice Lundy1 Comment

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My stepmom says she’s reading on my blog that I’m just “powering through” my grief. I resist screaming, what the fuck are you talking about?! Do you mean crawling on my hands and knees, reaching for God with every stretch, breathing, just breathing?

Yes, I’m powering through by praying and wailing and landing on the floor in child’s pose. I’m walking in the woods and howling excruciating sounds like all the grief in the world has been born in my belly and released like a battle cry on behalf of all women who’ve loved. In the woods, I’m a wailing widow at an Italian funeral.

No, I’m not “powering through.” I’m being led. I’m being carried. There’s a team of angels.

Then, there’s yoga. The last time I was with Kevin we had an exciting talk about my yoga plans. Now, my plan is to get my ass to yoga as often as I can. I know this grief could destroy my body and give my mental powers over to Sissy the Cynic. My spirit is dying to be born into this moment.

Mostly, I go to yoga so I can be with people without talking to them. Even more, I go because someone tells me what to do. Normally, I despise being told what to do—and react by doing the opposite.

Normal’s in the rearview mirror, along with the most extraordinary man I ever had. Yeah, I had him and he had me. We got each other. I never enjoyed anyone’s touch, style, words, or company as much as I did this man. Spending 24/7 with Kevin was easy.

He’d tell you I don’t like a lot of people. I try to be big and spiritual, but I’ve also read Many Lives, Many Masters, so sometimes I assume if I don’t like someone, it’s probably a past life issue.

Anyhow, I liked Kevin. I liked him in the way you like your best friend in elementary school. I liked him in the way a woman likes the presence of a man because he can make her feel safe, loved and on Fire! We enjoyed hanging out, traveling, talking, and making love. He knew how to love me. He didn’t give me a break on my bullshit, but he didn’t try to destroy me over my weaknesses. We came so far in such a short time.

Now, for an hour each day, someone tells me what to do and I try. I’m in the fight. I’m still living life. I’m breathing. I’m powering through.

When Your Sister’s Husband Dies and Your Boyfriend Follows Suit

Alice Lundy2 Comments

You had a history.

I—finally—had a happy story.

You built a foundation of family and security.

I searched 50 years to find this man, the one that fit.

You had 33 years and then the warning called cancer.

I had magic moments stacking up—until they stopped sudden, like his heart.

You bonded brick by brick: your boys, 12,000 dinners, 33 Christmases, birthdays, and anniversaries, 1,000 inside jokes, and 72 secret sorrows.

He and I tried the others and took so many wrong turns that landed us right where he called destiny.

You still held hands.

We held hope.

 

The Challenge of “How Are You?”

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Grief is being unable to answer the question, “How are you?” because most people don’t want to hear, “I’m a fucking mess!” Others will want to fix you or feel sorry for you. The everyday question becomes overwhelming.

Even if you tell people to stop asking, they won’t. It’s habitual. They also really want to know because they care.

In grief, sometimes we must choose to care for ourselves. That might mean saying “I’m fine,” when you’re falling apart. Other times might invite telling the messy truth and crying the tears regardless of others’ reactions.

Still, “How are you?” can be a hard one. Sometimes I want to scream, “How the fuck do you think I am?!” but then I remember, they don’t know. Sometimes, neither do I.

Love & Death

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Ebb & flow. Effort & ease. Holding on & letting go. Stretching & releasing. Prayer, purpose, & fuck-its. Presence & distraction. Limits & overcoming. Learning & serving. Self & community. Surrendering & rising. Resisting & meeting your edge. Moment by moment. Staying with it. Embracing & releasing. Individual & universal. Tears & triumph. Grit & gratitude. Yoga & grief. Frustration & faith. Stories & realities. Change. Transformation. Agony & growth. Ownership & detachment. Rage & freedom. Purpose & passion. Emptying into fullness. Letting go to make space. Holding on for balance. Two feet, two hands, one head, one heart, one world. Experience & opportunity. Challenge & ecstasy. Heaviness & hope. Anger & angels. Now. On the mat & off the mat. Child’s pose & high mountain. Transformation & dropping expectation. Fear & facing it. The mirror & a taste of magic. Squeezing & expanding. Landing anew. Theories & truth. Desperation & trust. Doubt & doing. Never done.

A Beautiful Life, Still

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I’m sitting on my deck, leaning back in my chair, reading, plotting my success as a way to distract myself from my sadness.

Look at your life, Icey. It doesn’t get much better than this. Look at it. It’s beautiful, Icey.

It is beautiful. It’s fall and feels like I’m shedding pain with the falling leaves.

I’m stuck in between. I want to run forward. I need to get in the game.

The beautiful game of life is made up of moments. I look at my dog, the one I always dreamed of having. I’m her chosen one—first and always.

I was Kevin’s chosen one. I like that term because it speaks to what I need to be in someone’s life and it needs to be mutual. Kevin was my chosen one.

Now, I must choose again—not just a man. I must choose to live, experience and enjoy each moment, the way I did when Kevin came along. I attracted the Fire! (my nickname for him) by living life in a state of gratitude, though I’d lost everything.

Now, he’s the only thing I’ve lost. Why does it feel like everything, like the only thing that matters, when I’m surrounded by a lovely life?

Because it’s devastating to go from magic to darkness.

That’s what Kevin dying felt like. He knows. That’s why he guides me back to myself, my path, and my beauty. He wants to lift me up and put me back to my joy and my light. The Fire! wants his presence to matter and reminds me my presence makes a difference in the world. It’s not just about staying alive. It’s about living out loud. Grace through gratitude. I have a beautiful life, still. It’s not a lie; it just hurts like hell.

 

 

Writers Group

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“Take what you want,” said God. “And pay for it.”—Spanish proverb

I disappointed myself yesterday. It was writers’ group and I was one of the readers, volunteered by a fellow writer grieving his brother’s death. I felt an unspoken expectation we’d both read pieces on death, grief, and life after a loved one exits earth.

I mentally toyed with the pieces I might read, many still rough. I even started a new piece. It was juicy, but it might cause people to question my sanity, so I set it aside. I rejected all my pieces on grief.

Instead, I read one about being raped almost three decades ago. I’ve done extensive work on this piece and submitted it several places. One online journal published it, but I didn’t get paid and they’re no longer around, so how can that count?

I chose the rape piece because it’s farther away than the grief. I told myself it wasn’t ego; I didn’t need pats on the back. I wanted feedback to get it into supreme shape for publication.

Early in the day, I unintentionally opened the drawer where letters holding my dead boyfriend Kevin’s heart out to me in his exquisite handwriting hide. The juxtaposition of beautiful and horrible: because he’s gone. Reading three engulfed me in all the grief I could handle for the day.

While I blog about owning my grief, it still feels very private. It’s still raw, even though most days I attempt to convince myself I’m ok now.

When sharing grief is more challenging than reading about a personal rape, I have a way to go. I didn’t consider maybe sharing my grief in its roughness could be part of my healing.

Instead, as I printed and stapled copies, I self-congratulated my professionalism and preparation on my turn to read, rather than showing up half-assed as I judged a couple writers.

I’ve struggled with this group, although I never had a disagreement or run-in with anyone. I joined the group when I arrived in Columbus three years ago, thinking I was only here for the summer. I never quite got a grasp of what the focus of our feedback should be.

I attended a university writing program and taught writing courses, but this is my first writers group. My feedback tends to be what’s working and what needs work. Maybe I lean too heavy towards what needs work with writers who really just want to hear, “Good job.”

On the few occasions I read, the feedback makes my ego as satisfied as a dog who’s killed a rabbit. But, my ego isn’t going to get me published. I must improve! So, I wrestle whether this is the group for me. In the meantime, I’ve become attached to these folks, even formed friendships.

Still, I considered dropping out. For the last two years, while I was seeing Kevin, my group attendance was sporadic at best. Besides, I intended to move somewhere with Kevin soon.

On my drive to the first writers group meeting after he died, I started crying one of those hysterical cries complete with screaming and pounding on my steering wheel. I had to pull over. I wasn’t safe to drive. I texted to let the group know I wouldn’t be there; I couldn’t stop crying. Maybe I overcompensated for that by my choice of what I read last night.

As my friend and fellow griever read a piece about his recently deceased brother, I felt like a fraud. When this writer cried, I saw his courage.

I chastised myself for choosing wrong, for not risking. When I read my rape piece, people praised me. I wondered: is it courage if you’re hiding behind yesterday’s bravery?

One of the group leaders, Donna said she better understood the vulnerability and denial that can arise after rape. She told me my piece is important and should be in a national publication. Another gal revealed she reads my blog regularly and hopes it can be made into a book.

It’s taken me a day to allow those opinions to penetrate. I spend so much time trying to smash my big-ass ego and live by my soul, sometimes I don’t let the words sink into my heart where I need to hear them. Those gals voiced my grand intentions. The universe mirrored back to me, patted me on the back and encouraged me forward.

Of course, my ego grabbed the compliments, but today my writer’s heart hears them like the first time a lover says, “I love you.” The words penetrate and tell me to keep on my path.

So, I didn’t let myself down. I asked for a pick-me-up without even realizing I needed it. Writing is a solitary pursuit and I like it that way. Yet, sometimes writers need to be reminded we can touch the world. All it takes is a couple of people hearing us amid the cacophony. What a blessing, this writers group.

 

We Lose More than the Person We Love

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Often, we don’t realize we’re losing it until we have. In the midst of turmoil, loss and grief, we lose more than the person we love.

You lose everything about that part of you that freely gave. And so many parts of him: the shoulder where you melted, the lips you kissed to taste life, the eyes which switched on your internal light and fed you a better reality than you can imagine today.

The guy who losses his business or wife loses his pride, confidence and security. It changes the way he walks, shakes hands, even how he orders a beer. Timidity sneaks in.

When a woman loses her love, she loses her story, identity and sensuality. Her soft side hardens. Her walls of protection crumble and she stands vulnerable.

I’ve lost a few things—I mean besides my job, marriage, home, and oh yeah, the greatest man I’ve ever known. I lost my mind that protected me and told me, finally, everything’s going to be ok. The mindset that said life is fair or unfair, fucked up or not worth living slipped away in the night.

I lost my ability to be ungrateful or bitter, along with my patience (if I ever had any) for trivia or drama. Gone is my judgement for how others live their lives (well, mostly). I’ve given up my craving for attention or outside direction and faced the fact there will be no intervention.

I’ve taken on an eagerness for another’s story, a presence in moments unfolding before me. I’ve learned the value of walks in the woods and talks with angels.

In spite of all I’ve lost, I’ve come to own myself. It’s quite a gift once you allow yourself to feel it—to own your power, accept grace and the divine opportunity to pay it forward. Heck, it’s a little bit like magic.