Widow's Voice

The Many Dances~

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I used to dance with my beloved husband…

We danced dreamily, to Clint Black, to Chicago, to Elvis, to whatever tune happened to be playing wherever we were.
Oh, how we danced…his right arm around me, my hand clasped in his.

At the end of the dance, he’d always dip me back in his arms, and then kiss my hand.

I dance still, these 4 years and 10 months since his death.

I dance the Widow dance.

Sometimes I dance what I call Spirit dancing, which consists of turning on music we used to dance to, and putting my hand in his hand that is no longer there to clasp mine, and placing my other hand on a shoulder that no longer supports me.

My feet move in the same pattern and I always close my eyes, remembering back.

But mostly, now, I dance with an intangible partner that is hard to name.

Grief, but so much more.

Loneliness is a consistent and dependable partner. It’s an awkward partner, this one. Moving my feet with it, not feeling, yet feeling everything. I don’t like how Loneliness is always just there, insisting on every damn dance.

My partner named Dislocation is always there too, waiting on the sidelines. Our dance together entails quite a bit of bumping into sharp edges and uneven ground beneath us. Kind of like Elaine on Seinfeld; uncoordinated stumbling, but with flair, if such it can be called.

Heartache is a gentle dance partner. Our dance is one of synchronization, shadowing one another gracefully, our toes pointed, our hands reaching to the Universe, or wrapping tenderly around our bodies. The lights dim when Heartache and I glide out to the dance floor. We are familiar with each other and we move separately and in tandem, with no hesitation. We know each other well.

Emptiness doesn’t dance with me as much as it jumps up and down in a crazy free style frenzy, demanding my attention, causing me to wonder why it’s always there and never seems to change, or go away, even if I accept a dance from…

Adventure. Adventure seeks my hand and leads me into steps that have no particular direction or pattern, and allow me to feel unfettered and open. Where might this partner lead me, I ask myself. We slide from one type of music to another, tentative at times, but sure nonetheless, never knowing where our feet will take us. Quick tempos with swirls and dips, holding hands or, even sometimes, sending me spinning off on my own. Adventure is quick but steady and sure. We work well together out there on the floor.

My dance is a widowed dance now, and it isn’t anywhere near as satisfactory or fulfilling as it was with my beloved husband, but it is powerful and even, I think, abandoned.

And maybe, in the abandon of this whirling dervish of a dance, I’ll find my beloved somehow. Or find me. I don’t think I’ll know which until I stand breathless from exertion, breathing it all in, when the music stops.

Maybe both. 

It’s all about the dance, meanwhile~

About Alison Miller

My beloved husband Chuck died while we were full timing on the road. We’d rented a condo for our stay in southern CA, and I had to leave 3 weeks after his death. All I knew at that time was that I had to find a way to continue traveling on my own, because settling down without him made me break into a cold sweat. I knew that the only place I’d find any connection to Chuck again was out on the roads we’d been traveling for our last 4 years together. I knew nobody out on the road, I knew grief was a great isolator, and I knew I had to change the way I traveled without him, to make it more emotionally bearable for me. So I bought a new car, had a shade of pink customized for it, bought a tiny trailer and painted the trim in pink, learned how to tow and camp, and set out alone. My anxiety was through the roof, and all I knew to trust was the Love that Chuck left behind for me. I found Soaring Spirits early on, thank god, and the connections I made through SS helped ground me to some extent. I needed to know that other widow/ers were out there in my world, because I felt so disoriented and dislocated. Through Soaring Spirits, as the miles added up, my rig taking me north, south, east and west, I found community. I found sanity…or at least I learned that if I was bat shit crazy, I was in good company, and realizing that ultimately saved my sanity. PinkMagic, my rig, is covered with hundreds of names of loved ones sent to me by my widowed community, and I know it isn’t visible to the naked eye, but I’ll let you in on a secret…she actually illuminates Love as I drive down the many roads in our country, and I can see it through my side view mirror. Love does, indeed, live on~

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