Being a widow – it gets old really fast.
There are days and weeks and hours where I want to scream out to the universe or whoever cares:
“IM SO OVER THIS!!! WHEN WILL THIS WIDOW THING END???”
But it wont end. He will always be dead, so I will always be his widow.
And truly, it is my honor, because it means we are forever connected.
But living day to day life as a widowed person, trying to fit into a world where I am a total misfit –
its hard. And it gets old really fast.
You know what doesnt get old though?
Meeting other widowed people. Connecting with widowed people.
Going away for a few days to a place called Camp Widow and feeling the safe and warm feeling that being surrounded by love brings.
Discovering new workshops and presentations to hear, to check out – hearing new messages and receiving new tools, from others who have walked this road.
Sitting by the pool and swimming, relaxing – sharing time with my love, who is not widowed, and who comes to Tampa camp with me as my guest.
Feeling thankful that I have a partner who has the kind of heart that he would enter this crazy widowed community with eyes wide open.
Feeling loved knowing that he has found his place here too, in this lovely community filled with empathy, future, and hope.
Seeing my widowed friends making strides, getting through struggles, finding real joy.
Making widowed people laugh , with my presentation. Their laughter is always my favorite sound.
Feeling like I belong. Feeling calm and at peace. Feeling like I can do this. Feeling like the person I lost to death is being properly honored ,
instead of ignored.
Feeling the bond of lifelong friendships, built on loss and pain. Knowing these people have my back, and I have theirs. Picking myself up again and again, because of their strength. Seeing evidence that so many others have created beautiful, complex lives after loss. Knowing that I can too.
None of that ever gets old.
This was my 20th or 21st or 23rd time attending and presenting at Camp Widow.
I dont know anymore.
Ive lost count.
I will keep going back.
25 times and 32 times and 100 times.
It heals me. It gives me hope. It fuels me to keep on living.
There is nothing quite as beautiful,
as being washed up on the shore,
after having been through the tsunami –
and seeing others there too ,
holding each others hands,
speaking each others hearts,
and awaiting each other’s arrival.
when shared with others,
is cut in half.
Like water and air and oxygen,
this connection with my widowed family,
is a necessity.
Even though it is built on our collective death experiences,
our friendships and relationships are everything to do with