I was going to write an upbeat blog about watching Tudor Monastery Farm on PBS but I fell into a hole. It’s the deep dark ugly hole of loss. I don’t want to go there but I couldn’t help myself. Most days I feel OK. I think I am over this loss thing and then it sneaks up on me unexpectedly and gives me a sucker punch. I knew there was something wrong yesterday when I stopped eating vegetables. It was a defiant action. My mind was saying I’m going to do what I want, not what I should. Hot dogs sounded good. I had an overwhelming urge to cook up a box of macaroni and cheese. Broccoli and salad just seemed like a road too far. I do recognize that this is very infantile behavior and that I was eating over feelings but I didn’t recognize what the feelings were. This morning it hit me that it was loss, that empty feeling that no food can fix. I so wanted to share my discovery of the PBS Farm series with my sister. I have watched all the versions I can find, Tudor Monastery Farm, Victorian Farm, Edwardian Farm, Wartime Farm. It’s realty TV featuring the adventures of three archeologists/historical researchers who recreate farm life from the past. It’s British. It involves people dressing up in costumes and living like they were time machined into the past. My sister would have loved it. We could have compared notes on which version we liked the most and how we admired the people who were willing to give up modern conveniences to actually experience history in real time. We could have talked about how Dad’s experiences during the depression, when his family moved out into the boonies and lived off the land with no running water or electricity, were similar. We could have planned our next trip to some place that has historical reenactors. I don’t know if I ever even want to take a trip again if it means not being able to share it with her. ![]() The idea that I would deny myself something that I love because of this feeling of loss scares me. And the reality is I will continue to watch historical TV shows and take trips even if I can’t share them with my sister. I know I need to have joy in my life, but I hate, hate, hate the idea that I will never be able to share these things with her again. I guess this is the designated anger part of grief. This is a part of me that usually stays comfortably tucked into my subconscious not laid bare for anyone else to see. So is that angry, whiny, infantile side of me a “good” thing? Is it better for those feelings to be out in the open? I am certainly tired of walking around in a semi-daze, experiencing life through a fog of sadness. Not that I wasn’t capable of doing that even before my sister died. It is just a much bigger part of my psyche right now. I can’t be in a constant state of euphoria either. I did some research on Ruth Goodman, one of the historians in the Farm Series. She is one of the originators of the shows and spent time as a Tudor reenactor long before reality TV was a reality. She has written many books and done interviews sharing her passion for exploring history in this way, by actually living it. She is so perky and inspiring. You can tell she actually enjoys dyeing fabric with plants mixed with urine and cooking meals on an open hearth! She is doing something she loves. I really need to keep doing the things I love. I know that is the way to get out of this hole and feel whole.
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In the face of death I am compelled to take a long hard look at what I really believe. What happens when we die? Is my sister in heaven reconnecting with my parents and older sister and all the ancestors we researched together when we were working on our family tree? I would like to believe that but my rational mind is questioning and argumentative. It’s the voice of my previous housemate who found great pleasure in debating the existence of God. In some ways his challenge to the existence of God helped me clarify my belief in God rather than dispel it. I never tried to argue the actual existence of God. Better minds than me have been doing that for centuries. I didn’t try to argue religious doctrines or blind faith. I find that annoying when someone does that to me. Instead his questioning made me look for ways in which I had been touched by the possibility of a God. One of my friends once told me her concept of God was serendipity and that was something I could grasp. So often things happen by accident that have an underlying sense of purpose. When I decided to rent out a room in my home I often found new housemates in unexpected ways, including literally just having someone show up at the door before I had even put out an ad. Whenever I feel a strong aversion to doing something that I consider risky, I have learned to step back from negative thinking and reconsider it. I have had so many experiences where the decision to ignore that negative voice and take that risk has opened up whole new worlds for me. I guess I consider the “I will never do THAT” thought a sign from God and I feel compelled to listen to it and keep an open mind. The idea of heaven and an afterlife was certainly drummed into me as a child. My childhood God was not a scary dictator waiting to punish me. It was a Swedish Lutheran God, a warm fatherly figure with open protective arms. It’s a comforting thought to believe that my sister is in the hands of this God, free from the confusion and fear that haunted her as she declined. I want to believe that she has found the comfort and peace we were told about when we were kids. So since I can believe whatever the heck I want, I choose to believe it whether or not I can prove it. I have been told that if I want to make changes in my thinking I can act as if I believe something even if I actually don’t. Is that delusional? Maybe, but who cares. I am going to act as if my sister is in heaven surrounded by the people she loved. I am going to picture her alight with the glow of freedom from pain and anxiety. I am going to continue to leave open the possibility that she can hear me and send messages through random encounters with wild turkeys. (see “Are You There Linda? It’s Me Leslie” posted 2/23/2021) My sister-in-law told me that deceased loved ones can hear you if you talk to them out loud rather than just carrying out a conversation in your head. Am I ready to do that? I already talk to myself and my cat out loud anyway so I guess I can give it a try . . . in my car . . . by myself. . . when no one is looking. One of the ironies of dealing with my sister’s death is that the things that are healing, like talking to people and writing, are also the things that make me the saddest. Even when I think I have a grip on it I find myself crying unexpectedly in the middle of a phone call or while writing about a memory I shared with my sister.
I had a wonderful talk yesterday with my sister-in-law who had a completely different perspective on this. She didn’t look at crying as being sad. It’s hard for me to get my head around this but I can see the value in it. I look at sadness as a bad thing, something to be avoided. It’s not going to stop me from continuing to reach out to people or write, but it sure doesn’t make me just throw myself into it with abandon. I don’t look forward to doing something that’s going to make me feel like a wrung out sponge. On the other hand I am really aware that when the tears start flowing it is a sign that my true heart has been touched, that I have reached a point of honesty that is deep and powerful, and that it is healing as well. It’s not just a “getting the feelings out in the open” thing and it certainly doesn’t keep me from crying more the next time I reach out for my phone or pick up my iPad. It is like opening up my soul, which can be a sad and scary place. It can also be a joyful and happy place. God forbid that I would let the idea of feeling sad or afraid keep me from finding my happiness and joy. I think that is where the healing lies, in embracing this confusing dichotomy. The other day I was doing my zoom exercise class. The instructor had chosen gospel music as the theme for that day. As soon as Allyson Krause started singing “Down to the River to Pray” the tears started to come. I was so glad my image was only a small box on the screen. I doubt that anyone noticed and I was literally able to “go with the flow.” I could see my sister wearing her “starry crown” surrounded by angels. It made me happy and sad at the same time. |
Leslie Masona woman in search of her post-retirement future Guess what! By subscribing, you get notices about the latest Little Old Lady with Cats posts sent to your mailbox!
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