Posted by: carolyn / through a widow's eyes | January 13, 2016


This line, from a NY Times book review, caught my eye:
“All our lives are seamed with tragedies that gleam, like quartz, with petrified beauty.”

There is deep pain in love and loss. Of course. But there’s also pain in being closed off, shutting down, choosing not to be open to possibility and happiness and wonder. In deep grief I chose to lean into pain over numbness, over distraction, over all the ways of keeping it at bay (which don’t even work anyway – drinking and eating and working and shopping and exercise and sex. The pain is still there, waiting to be examined, when you are done with all your exertions. And by you, I mean me.) I don’t want to live there, in pain, but I do believe that the only way out is through. Being in that dark, dark place taught me that to lean into love/pain/love was to heal myself. Eventually.

I will always choose leaning into love, in all its manifestations. Pain being one of them – where there’s no love, there’s no pain.

My mom’s ancient cat died. We know, when we choose a pet, that we are just setting ourselves up for heartbreak down the road. Do we stop? No. Because the joy they bring daily is worth the pain when they go. Or is it? Apparently so, because we welcome Molly, Mom’s new kitty, into the fold. The house was just way too quiet without her.

Love is all there is, in all its many forms. Love has so much to teach us. It cracks our hearts wide open.
Wide the fuck open. Bring it.

Posted by: carolyn / through a widow's eyes | January 6, 2016

is, was, is

My husband Jeff’s birthday is, was, is January 6.
Twelfth Night, Feast of the Epiphany, “Little Christmas”, he would chortle, rubbing his hands together gleefully, eyes shining in anticipation.
The last birthday he was here was on a Tuesday. He was too sick to open his presents until Friday. I never got to make the special dinner I had planned for him.
In the bright afternoon of that long-ago Tuesday, we went on one of his favorite outings – we drove to Old Orchard Beach, sat in the car facing the frigid beach, and ate his favorite lunch: pizza slices with crushed red peppers and Pier fries doused with malt vinegar and icy Coke slurped through a paper straw.
I remember feeling restless and wanting to walk on that cold beach, but he was too weak from cancer or chemo or both, so we stayed in the car and rested, the sun glowing golden through my closed eyelids.
Later that afternoon I crouched beside him on our bed, holding his hair in one hand and a basin in the other, as he gave up that pizza and fries. His favorite. He never had them again.
As expected, January 6 is one of the hard days for me now. This is the seventh one since he’s been gone. It doesn’t get easier. Lots of things do, but his birthday is not one of them. In the early days I thought maybe by now I wouldn’t still miss him so much. I was so, so wrong.
This year on January 6 I’m treating myself to a long massage from a dear lady who croons quietly, and anoints me with scented oils, and rubs my body with her strong hands as the sun streams in her window and glows golden through my closed eyelids. I’ll drive south to Old Orchard Beach in search of open space and snowy owls. I’ve got the freedom, time, and inclination to walk miles down that cold beach if I want. I won’t eat pizza and Pier fries, though, probably ever again.
When I was married, we always left the Christmas tree and all the decorations up until after Little Christmas. Now that I am oh-so-single, I kick that green-needled bitch to the curb on New Year’s Day.
I guess all this is just to say, we can never know when or why somebody might be having a hard day, for a million different reasons. I learned this lesson the hard way, and although it is easier said than done, I preach it constantly: Be kinder than necessary, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle you know nothing about.
Posted by: carolyn / through a widow's eyes | December 2, 2015

like so much smoke…

Last night I dreamed that my Jeff was alive, and planning to leave me. This dream went on and on. He had decided to divorce me because for decades he hated the way I picked up the messy room and put his dirty clothes in the laundry basket. (!) He’d been planning to go for a while and finally couldn’t take another minute. I was astounded. Crushed, broken! Then pissed. I said to him:
“After all I’ve been through for you, this is what happens?!”
and burst into tears. This referring to the years since he died, all that pain, all the heartache, so many years of complicated grief, clinical depression, utter disability. Even in sleep, deep in dream, I knew this was absurd. It was such jangled ill-logic I woke myself up, sweating, sheets tangled.
I had dreamed about him the night before, too.
Another chapters, hours long dream that drifted away like so much smoke as I was trying to capture it in a notebook upon awakening.
This after dreaming of him maybe once a year.
He’s been gone six plus years.
My life is pretty good now, after a long, long time of NOT. I am once again a (mostly) fully-functioning adult human woman. I can work and pay my bills (on time, even!); I can feed myself and run a household; the brain fog of early widowhood has mostly dissipated; I no longer feel I am a danger to myself or others when I drive. Occasionally I sleep through a whole night. Not often, but sometimes. The drinking is largely under control, and I usually do not have to rush out of the grocery store empty-handed and in tears any more. Most grieving people could tell you they face these and other trials.
I feel a little unsettled right now with various aspects of this new life, but it’s nothing tragic. Of course, it’s coming on Christmas (they’re cutting down trees), and his birthday is in early January, but aside from that, there’s no particular anniversary or other trigger that might bring about these unsettling dreams of my long lost love.
“What the hell, baby?”
Is what I would say to him.
If he were here.
Which, of course, he is not.
Posted by: carolyn / through a widow's eyes | November 28, 2015


Screen Shot 2015-11-28 at 9.57.22 AM

Turkey stock is simmering fragrantly, fire is glowing merrily in the wood stove, and my girl is ensconced under a comforter with her laptop and kitten. Outwardly all around us is a peaceful haven.

But last night the world lost an important puzzle piece. Suddenly lost a man who held many other pieces together, bravely and quietly, without ever drawing attention to himself or saying a word. He was a linchpin, a keystone upon which many people depend. His family is immeasurably poorer today for this loss which echoes outward like a ripple

“in still water/ when there is no pebble tossed/ nor wind to blow”.

Damn, a hushed standing-room-only crowd sang along to this verse just last week: a funeral which all wished there was no need to attend. Is there no end to this? Of course we know there is not, until it’s our turn to go. Some of us will be lucky enough to die as we lived. This is such a man.

Right now it’s hard to imagine how the family can go on with this gaping hole in the center. They will, because that’s what people do, somehow, against all odds. How on earth they will manage without him, it is far too early to say.

But if your world was not rocked by something unimaginable last night, something no one saw coming, if you didn’t have an unexpected phone call or police knocking at the door, consider yourself even more fortunate than ever. Then say a little prayer for your family and another for this other family who has to figure out a whole new way to live this morning. Namaste all. Blessings and much love to the family. Safe travels, Charlie.


Posted by: carolyn / through a widow's eyes | November 24, 2015

Thanksgiving, past and present

They told me you just can’t predict what the triggers will be.

First weekend of November: at the theater, contentedly waiting in the buzzing capacity crowd for the play to begin, I was suddenly stricken by the sight of a play program advertisement for a gourmet cheese shop that my husband Jeff, now gone from us, wanted to patronize before what was to be his last Thanksgiving. Ever the gracious host, he wanted the best for our gathering. After the last treatment of his first 12 chemo cycles, we stopped in and spent a lovely hour there, tasting samples and chatting with the friendly staff, buying a few tidbits and promising to return the following week. We never did get back there.

In moving my suddenly, inexplicably tear-filled gaze away from the painful printed ad, my eyes were distracted by a gentle motion a few rows ahead. It was the hand of a woman, idly stroking her mate’s neck and shoulders, which were clad in a shirt just like one Jeff used to wear. Oh, it is ever thus! I cry over the strangest things, but the constant is the crying. My friends and family now are quite used to the sight and know it is fine to avert their eyes and continue the conversation, or give me a friendly squeeze, and it will be over soon enough, until next time. Someday these episodes will spread out, and fade, and then eventually will come the day we will say, boy, remember back when we used to cry over stuff like this!

I guess in my heart of hearts, I knew last Thanksgiving that he would not be here this year. I worked so very hard to make a lovely day for him and for all of us gathered together that day, and by all measures, succeeded in that effort. This year my girl Anna and I will drive over the river and through the woods to the welcoming home of the last remaining Flanagan, his sister Karen, who was with us the last week of Jeff’s life. I don’t know what I would have done, how we would have coped, without her here, and we are now as close as any friends or sisters could ever be. Indeed she and Anna and I did walk through the valley of the shadow of death, and we did come out the other side, and we will never be the same.

I have never been more grateful, more aware of every blessing and tiny scrap of kindness and grace, both accidental (perhaps a sunset or a flock of birds) and purposeful (any number of examples from any number of people near and far). The kindness of other people is making me a better person than I ever would have been without this. And whether or not this makes me a sap, I wish fervently for everyone to notice their own moments of beauty and goodness that their own worlds contain. Before Thanksgiving, in time to be properly grateful for your own pieces of wonder and grace. I will end this musing with a favorite quote of my brother’s, from Kurt Vonnegut:

“God damn it, babies, you’ve got to be kind!”

C. Stephens, November 2009

Posted by: carolyn / through a widow's eyes | November 12, 2015

This, I got.

Yesterday was surely just one of those days.

Do you have them too?

Veil thin days.

I could see no cause for this: no anniversary, no particular sadness, no burning question needing an answer.

–  As if there is any answer to be had.

Yet this day I found dozens of hearts, after a long spell of none for days and weeks.

I felt followed, watched over, by my late beloved all day long, for no particular reason.

This phenomenon is super weird for me.

I don’t believe in heaven, don’t really think he is watching me (Gawd, I hope not, really! Awkward!)

But when I feel his presence, it feels as real as the sun and the rain and the actual living people who walk and talk with me daily.

I got Nothin.

But I got this.

I posted on Facebook a picture of a heart shaped stone I found. Friends chimed in. Many of us living with loss struggle with these feelings, these questions. If we are reality-based secular humanists, as I am, it is hard to reconcile what we think and what we feel, what we believe and what we know.  What our minds insist upon and what our bodies resonate with as our truth.

A widow: “The most baffling part is wondering if that feeling is real. I’ve decided that I will choose to believe.”

Another widow: “I had many signs at first and then none.”
A third widow: “I don’t know. For myself I mean. I have a sister who thinks every penny she finds is from our mother and every deer she sees is her son, and she is a devout Catholic who lights candles and follows the rules and I just am not like her. Sometimes I feel his presence but frankly I don’t really want to be just plain stalked from the afterlife.”
[Amen to that, sister.]
She continued: “But you sure do find a lot of hearts.
Posted by: carolyn / through a widow's eyes | October 20, 2015

soul food

Something about the first frost brings out the cozy bunny in me. Don’t laugh.
This has been a summer of rewarding hard physical work and walking in beauty <—days
and heading for the nearest sunset at swimming beach +/or with friends on the bar patio <—nights.
But the last few days have been much cooler than before. The afternoon sky is turquoise with purple clouds over impossibly yellow birches and blazing red maples: if it was a painting you would never believe it. My yard is full of fallen acorns and abandoned lawn chairs, and that two cords of firewood heaped in my driveway is calling me home.
This summer has seen some great home-cooked feasts, exceptional restaurant meals, and creative picnics, but also far too many messy cheeseburgers gobbled in the car, grilled cheese tipsily prepared at midnight, or cold cereal shoveled in while watching late night tv. Bad ideas, all. Not to say they won’t all happen again, because we know they will.
But that firewood won’t stack itself, and the earlier sunsets make a pink backdrop for a chore that I always enjoy anyway.
Last night I stayed home, for a change, and was it ever sweet! I lit a fire in the wood stove, cleaned all obvious surfaces, opened a bottle of my favorite wine, and after darkness fell, cooked a week’s worth of meals from the bounty that farmer’s market provides. At this best time of year, it is even sweeter for being finite.
From the last of a leftover crock-pot pork shoulder I made two casseroles of green chili, sweet potato & shredded pork enchiladas to freeze for colder, darker days ahead. The sweet potatoes and the green chilies are from Snell’s, my farm of choice, melded with soft slow-cooked onion and broth. With some spicy red or green salsa and grated cheese on top, baked til bubbly, welcome indeed these will be on some colder night than this.
My grown girl and I both got cauliflower and it was taking up way too much room in the fridge. I made a big cauliflower gratin for tonight. It used a whole head of cauliflower, gifted by Carolyn: she dangled it temptingly from her hand and wondered if I could find a home for it. Yes, ma’am, I sure can! Rich and thick with sauteed onion, browned nutritional yeast in with the flour, and whole milk, it tastes much cheesier than it is. I usually do make this with lots of grated whatever’s-about-to-go-moldy, but after tasting, decided this stood well enough alone without any cheese, just a bit of nutmeg, lots of pepper, and some smoked paprika and sea salt. This makes a fine vegetarian dinner, but I like it with a broiled piece of fish, or the best deal in town: the “fish medley” from Free Range Fish & Lobster: chunks and end cuts of all the best meaty fish: salmon, halibut, sword, monkfish. I like to broil this medley with capers and tomato.
And maybe toss some bright, bitter greens with Mom’s favorite blueberry vinaigrette to round out the meal.
With the other head I made a sweet and hot cauliflower potato curry. Been hankering after this for weeks. As I prepped, my girl drifted through the kitchen and grabbed a handful of chopped raw veg from the colander, just like she did when she was little. To coconut oil fragrant in the big skillet I threw in scallions, shishito peppers, long red Italian peppers, and the cauliflower with fresh young ginger and garlic (all from market). I sauteed whole mustard seed, cumin seed, coriander, yellow curry, then added diced red potato, bright fresh green beans, chopped pears, and apple cider, also chick peas for protein and texture, then set on low flame to simmer. The house still smells like curry this morning. Froze some for another day and the rest I’ll eat all week. Plain in bowl, over basmati rice, and maybe the last bit will get made into samosas wrapped in flaky dough. These also freeze well and bake up crisp and savory in twenty minutes.
The rest of the chickpeas I made into a little salad for today’s lunch: chopped peppers, tomatoes, olives, avocado, and some olive oil and vinegar transform a sad bowl of knobby tan beans into a tasty, crunchy, protein-rich snack.
When I turn on the oven to bake the gratin, I’ll put together a fast dessert/snack/breakfast, my best apple crisp. What? It’s got lots of fruit, whole grain, a bit of fat for absorption of all the goodness in the apples and oats. Plus it might be my favorite thing on earth, and the world right now is full of apples.
Apparently I really needed to nourish myself, for a change, because I went to bed happy and soul-satisfied. Even the dishes are done, dry, and put away. That never happens!
What are YOU making for supper? Or to feed your soul? Which is the same thing, really.
Posted by: carolyn / through a widow's eyes | October 3, 2015


It’s been a week more trying than most. It’s been a week of fear and pain and sadness and worry, and it’s not over yet.

Last night I went down to my local watering hole for a taste of the milk of human kindness, and maybe just a wee dram of that 12 year old Irish whiskey that goes down so smooth and makes the world seem kinder than it is.


I go to the pub to see my friends, have a little spirited after-work conversation, some human contact before going home alone to the cat. I can drink at home – and have! – so when I go to the pub it’s for the people in it. I’m proud to be a regular, and not because of what’s being poured.

I spoke just a sentence about my week, my family’s troubles. Instantly enveloped in hugs. Kisses. Pats and rubs of back and shoulders. Followup texts in the night.

I counted afterwards, because that’s the geek I am, and because it was so amazing to be cared for that way. I got fourteen hugs, from people who really meant it. Who GETS that, in the course of a day? More than one “I love you”, nose nuzzles, kisses on lips and cheeks, reassuring commentary from a nurse who knows, a bit of teasing. Kind questions from someone I love, so kind I had to say “Don’t be so nice to me or I might cry.” He has seen this to be true, and refrained. Kindly. A hug sandwich, with me in the middle, a girlfriend on either side holding me tight. Who would even ask for such a thing. And yet, I got it. What a gift. It changes the situation not at all, but it surely changes me.

Love and connection. It really is all there is. Scratch the surface of any one of these people and you’ll find their own stories of sadness and pain. There are stories I know and ones too private to share in a bar. Yet there they all were for me, giving the only thing they could, the only thing there is. I am so grateful. Maudlin, yet grateful.

Posted by: carolyn / through a widow's eyes | September 22, 2015

upta camp

Spent a long weekend upta camp. I always feel like I have FAR too much to do to drive up there, forgetting each time that

1) it’s a mere 3 hours – an easy cruise up the coast – and
2) once I get there, I never want to leave.

I go to The House That Jeff Built (Mostly)™, which can and does eviscerate, build up, infuriate, and enfold and nurture me, all at the same time.

It’s always a bit of an emotional whirlwind there, in our still unfinished cabin, with his guitar picks still in drawers, his notes still in books, but didn’t cry once, hardly!

I went with Jeff’s sister, who I love dearly, count as my own sister, and never get to spend enough time with. She misses him too, so there’s that. And my bestie came also, so I was surrounded with love, support, and girlfriend camaraderie, the best! We did some chores that had been hanging over my head for far too long. All done now, onto the next project!

We worked up a sweat in the field, then swam in a lovely tree-sheltered clear brown tannic pond, the only ones there on a Saturday afternoon. (September 20 for those keeping track of swims.) Water so soft and mineral. We hiked a tiny mountain, an enchanted forest trail, all ferny mossy fairy landscapes with a spectacular view at the top of ocean near and mountains far.

Ate some good meals, drank some good wine, slept some good sleeps, sat on the porch and watched birds in yonder trees. Aaaah, life is so damn sweet. And it is our duty to make the most of it for those who cannot.

Route 1, Sullivan, Maine Looking south toward Mount Desert Island

Route 1, Sullivan, Maine
Looking south toward Mount Desert Island

Posted by: carolyn / through a widow's eyes | September 16, 2015

last swim?

September 15th. Pushing the envelope for late summer swims, we arrive at the beach at suppertime, low tide.

The sand is nearly empty. A handful of dogs run joyfully at top speed. A few wet-suited humans bob in the surf, shiny and dark as seals. Not a good sign. Our work clothes drop into a pile on the damp sand. I’m in tank top and underwear. We pad barefoot down the long strand, stick a dubious toe into the froth. “Into the dark, mysterious Mother,” says my friend, bracing herself. We remind ourselves of the Ani DiFranco lyric

                                  “We are 78% water, even our pumping hearts.”

Although daring greatly, our toes recoil from the bubbly small waves of the mighty Atlantic. For the first time in months, the ocean is cold.

I mean, it’s refreshing! Invigorating!
We wade gingerly into low surf. Still unsure. I have never regretted jumping in. But I have never regretted NOT jumping in, either.

I can’t feel my shins. I’m still not sure if I will dive into a dark wave, or retreat back to the beach, salty and sticky only from the knees down. A small wave splashes a critical area, the tipping point is reached, passed. The decision is made for me; I might as well jump. I jump.

The smallest of gasps escapes us; we are mostly glad to be here. To be wet, to be swimming, under a big pale sky, alone now in all the big ocean.

We sink into the medicinal broth. Bob up to our necks in green salt. Surrounded by swirling seaweed, we call to each other like great sea-birds.

“It’s like eating bitter greens! It’s so biting, but so delicious, so good for you. From the first bite you can feel the the nutrients seeping directly into your bloodstream, feeding you, nourishing.”

It’s an Epsom salt bath, only cold, and the dark, dark green of faraway island pine trees. It’s a seaweed massage. We are nurtured, held by the cold water; we feel the core heat in our bodies rev up to compensate. We are ocean-buoyed. Above the waves our washed feet, held aloft, glint in the late sun. Our spines un-kink, relax into weightlessness. We soak like matriarchs, bathe our work-weary limbs: stiff ankles, aching shoulders. Dark opaque waves carry us. We are kick-ass old ladies who can still catch a wave. So we do.

We stay in the water until the big houses along the cliff cast long shadows across the sand. We drive home through slanting golden sunset, past burnished marshes. The first of the migrating geese rest in cornfields. We are glad we came.

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