"We Now Interrupt This Program..."

From Fractured Memoir to Fractured Heart

I have been posting bits of my fractured memoir on this Substack since the summer, but in early April, my partner’s cancer journey with Stage 4 Melanoma began to escalate into something we had not yet imagined. A sweet cousin created a Meal Train for us, and then my writing shifted into “updates” in that context. Below is my most recent “update” for Meal Train. If you want to read earlier ones, you can go to https://mealtrain.com/g6v55o - no need to donate anything in order to read what the last days of my partner’s journey were like. I will go back to writing my fractured memoir, but I’m not in a rush to do anything right now. You’ll have to be patient.

You can only do so much cleaning and organizing on the first few days of your widowhood. You seem to float from room to room, and as you gaze at the surfaces of walls and furniture, details arrive declaring the physical absence of your mate; this in turn floods your nervous system, and you just have to stop and breathe. Eventually you will feel the dizziness from moving too fast, both emotionally and physically, catch up with you. You have been running a marathon with your mate and your son for the past 18 months (actually longer than that if you count Sam's bumpy journey from age 15 on). Now you have to move slowly, not just because the body is uncooperative for more than that, but the grief of this journey whispers (and sometimes shouts) at the edges of just about everything you do in a day.

The trauma has not been incessant. There's been many bits of delight, unexpected revelations, and surprising growth in the messy creases of it all. I’m grateful to have some of the tools that are needed for processing grief: breathing meditation has been important and writing as I am doing now, but this grief is deeper, wider, and sharper than any I have known. Surrendering and responding to things instinctively seems the way through in this transition time, and that might mean screaming in the car or being overcome by shuddering tears when Sting’s “When We Dance” starts playing unexpectedly on my car stereo. At the same time, I’m discovering that the jagged blades of this grieving can be mitigated by gazing into the face of my beloved (via my inner screen), feeling the warmth of his smile radiate through my entire being.

There is still so much I do not know about this loss of Bob’s physical presence, but I do know that it will not serve me or Sam, to remain stuck in a place of deep loss for a prolonged period of time (of course, I know that I cannot control this). I will have to trust in my muses as I write, draw, dance, prune & plant, and do the things that will move the emotions through and out. You who are reading this, get to witness this process, for however long I share it and however long you want to accompany my words, and hopefully it will help you transform whatever suffering you are carrying or may carry in the future.

Bob was a seed planter - his non-profit, that he started back in 2007 or so was called SEEDS (Social Ecology Education and Demonstration School), but his seed planting went way beyond what his non-profit’s intentions or scope. Like one of his Buddhist names that was given to him at the International Buddhist Meditation Center in LA, Sonam Tzangpo (I may not have that name correctly remembered) that means, “one who opens the doors for others,” Bobzho, in his under-the-radar manner, has been doing that his whole life, opening the doors and inviting people into a process of self-evolution in their critical thinking, their healing, and their spiritual truths.

In the last 10 months, since Sam returned home from Oregon, Bob was deeply engaged in germinating seeds in Sam’s spiritual and emotional core, doing daily ceremony based in his indigenous roots of Eastern Woodlands Cree and Tsalogi nations, and counseling him daily, even when Bob couldn’t get out of bed. Sam was suffering from intense PTSD, due to a roommate’s suicide (Sam was the last person to see his young roommate before he went on a walk, never to return), and other difficult issues that arose during the Pandemic. During this period at home, I’ve seen how Sam has begun stepping into his own power, how those well-tended seeds have been sprouting, bit by bit during Bob’s illness, and now especially in this time of intense emotions, he’s become skilled at moving them through.

When my friend, Amy Wolff, who has known Sam since age 9, came over from Vashon Island to sleep over on our couch the first night of Bob’s physical absence, she asked Sam how he was doing on Friday night (Bob was “lying in state” in his Buddhist robes adorned with magnolia petals in the next room). Sam said something like this (forgive my paraphrasing), “I had a very deep, close, and loving relationship with my dad that is very rare and precious. I’m enormously grateful for what we had and will continue to have.” How awesome that he has found his way to that level of understanding.

My years of honing a creative process is helping me trust in the unknown. For the past 18 months, I knew I couldn’t prepare for this, so every moment is an improvisation, a dance with Bob’s energy that will continue to circulate in every part of my life.

Sam and I are both very grateful for the deep collective strength and loving spirits offering their hearts and healing energy. Both within and outside of our peripheral vision, we feel you.