I have done a lot of work on myself over the last two years since Suzanne died. This morning, I had a revelation.
My attention has still been scattered. The revelation came when listening to a podcast about brain science. It dawned on me that I must apply my attention to what has become most important to me. This means placing it on activities and relationships that serve me—and not just what I “think” I need to place my attention and focus on.
In the last two years, I have made some seriously life altering choices. Originally, I was going to call this post “Bad Decisions”… But “Accepting Choices” actually seems more appropriate.
Over the last two years, I have found that on numerous occasions, I have “bitten off a lot more than I can chew.” It has been extremely difficult to chew on some of the things I have chosen to do—mostly to distract myself from my grief—which makes it even harder to swallow. No more. Things are starting to give, and I have started to learn the power of saying “no” to things (especially those that are distracting me from my grief and my feelings)… Unfortunately, I’m still a novice.
I am writing this not just because I have not written for a few weeks. I am also writing it as a sort of apology.These last few weeks have been extremely challenging for me. As a solo parent, entrepreneur and widower, sometimes I feel like my “lives” clash, and managing them is messy… In general, I am doing reasonably well. In my business, I launched a program designed to help men (widowers especially) rediscover their purpose in life (post loss).
The reason I chose to write about breathing, and specifically exhaling, is because it is something that we (humans) can take complete control of using our conscious mind. But, we also never have to think about breathing because our unconscious mind manages to keep us doing it whether we notice or not.
Two years ago today, the light of my life went out. It was the day that Suzanne left this earthly realm and became universal energy. Today is the second anniversary of her death and at this very moment, I’m hurting. A lot.
Often, our gift to this world–the thing we are here to do–is the thing we tend to fear or dislike the most. Scary how that works. I wanted to be a writer. Here I am… writing a blog, not a book.
What did you want to be when you grew up? I used to ask pretty much everyone I knew. For Suzanne, it was a criminologist or a forensic scientist (long before becoming fashionable, or used as source material for TV shows, movies and true crime dramas).
Twenty five. Twenty-five years. Next week. We only made it twenty-three years, two weeks and one day. Suzanne died on August 19, 2018. Our 23rd anniversary was August 4, 2018. This was a photo we took at dinner that night: Will I ever reach a 25th anniversary? Is it one of those things that I […]
For eleven weeks, before restrictions were lifted and we were still supposed to be sheltered in place here in Southern California, I held a daily 30-minute live broadcast on Facebook. Each day, I chose a topic that meant something to me—and that I thought might resonate with others. These daily broadcasts were meant to thoughtfully engage and help connect people in the time of CoVID.
Two years ago, today, my wife wrote this. I just can’t write anything more…
Since I’m finally feeling vaguely human for the first time in almost a month, I thought I would take the opportunity to say a huge “thank you” to all family, friends, friends of friends and people who barely know me, who have rallied to support us over the last few difficult weeks. Everything happened so quickly and aggressively that I had to accept that chemo, narcotics and goodness knows how many different antibiotics, anti-nausea and anti-anxiety drugs were a necessity to try to gain some control over what seemed like a runaway train.
At the behest of my new partner, I have started to read fiction again. The second of her recommendations is a book called “A Gentleman in Moscow.”
I am currently reading and enjoying it. Set in post revolutionary Russia, with lots of flashbacks to an earlier, more gilded age, the book is the story of a singular man—a count—who is placed under house arrest.
In the year after our twin daughters were born, we got a golden retriever puppy we named Charlie. Everyone always says they have, “the best dog ever,” but Charlie truly was. When the girls were young, they could pull on his ears, his tail, his fur, just about any part of him and he would never so much as complain, growl or groan.
