# The School of Letting Go



## qwertyportne (May 23, 2014)

“Live fully, love well and let go.” ~ Jack Kornfield
​Long before they carried her out of our bedroom, I knew she was gone.  Later, at the hospital, the doctor came into the waiting room and began his long-winded greeting, but I interrupted him with "She's gone."  "Yes." he said and left me with the social worker.  "Mister Dean," she began, but I interrupted her, too.  "What am I going to do without that woman?  She's the only reason I'm not dead, broke or in jail."  The social worker just hugged me, quietly, without words.  As comforting as her silence was, it foreshadowed the silence I would suffer in the days and weeks to come.

When I got home, the emptiness of the house and her sudden, unexpected death came over me like a black crushing wave.  Sitting there in that overwhelming silence, I remembered a line from a poem by Stanley Kunitz in which he recalls "the trauma of the lopping off ."  Yeah, cut off.  From her.  From one another.  From life.  She was my life and she took it with her.  As if it had disappeared.  Or never was, because I no longer had her to remember it with.  

Sitting there in the dark, I remembered the lyrics from one of my favorite songs, Bluer than Blue: "You're the only light this empty room has ever known."  I tried to get my mind around the terrible truth that she wasn't coming home that night.  Or any other night.  She was gone.  I had lost the light.  Her.  It seems silly now, but I remember going over the other things I had lost, like an inventory.  Life with her was like a dance.  There was music, touching, moving together.  We took turns leading.  I had lost the dance.  We had connected early on, and talking was a big part of that connection.  I had lost her voice.  I had lost the warm, non-judgmental comfort of her presence, the familiarity, the acceptance, the knowledge that I was loved.  No longer would I see her smile, rub her cold feet, smell her hair or feel her touch, her kiss.  No more walks in the park, holding hands.

In one of her diaries, after suffering from a migraine headache, she had written "Bill nursed me back to health.  Felt better by late pm.  Showered and Bill got me a frozen yogurt.  Sometimes I wonder what I would do without him.  Boy, I don't want to find out."  And she didn't.  But I found out what it is like to do without her.  Night after night, I would crawl into bed and push the button on the answering machine to hear her voice one more time, to let it resonate with places inside me I never knew were there until she wasn't.  

One night, as I pushed the button on her answering machine, her Siamese cat leaped into my lap and begin purring contentedly.  It suddenly came to me that she was purring because she still had me.  I just as suddenly understood that there was no detour around this gauntlet of pain.  I would have to walk through it, one gut-wrenching, heart-breaking day at a time.  But one day I'd exit this long dark tunnel and have my life back, a whole person, functional, centered and able to love again.  Perhaps even to purr.  Without her.

It wasn't easy.  Grief turned out to be more about finding myself than about losing her.  I had given up shaving, eating, making the bed, washing the dishes, brushing my teeth, running my trails in the mountains, riding with my friends -- my routine and my attitude walked, hand in hand, right out the door and I had no desire for either to return.  My woman was gone.  All that remained was the desperate need for her to still be here with me, and I didn't want to give that up.  But another part of me knew that I didn't want to cure this dis-ease like an alcoholic, struggling against my own nature, that craving for what I could not have, her.  I wanted deliverance, not recovery.  

But I began with recovery of my daily routine, hoping deliverance at a higher level would follow.  Her cat listened as if I were talking to her, interrupting only to remind me that I had stopped petting her by putting her paw lightly on my face.  But it was more like a conversation with myself...

Every morning when the sun comes up, let your heart come up with it.  Make the bed, open the curtains and let the sunshine in.  Then read the newspaper while the coffee is brewing.  Turn the radio on and while it plays the music you both loved, tell her how sweet it was to be loved by her.  Thank her for making you want to be a better man.  And for helping you to become one.  After breakfast, take your vitamins, the ones she laid out for you every morning.  Then wash the dishes and take the cats outside so they can stretch their legs and their chi, terrorize the birds and snatch that gopher in her garden.  When you get them back inside, take a tail count and brush all five.  She would never forgive you for losing even one of them.  How empty would this house be if they were not here when you got back from a run or a trip to the store?  They need you, and you need them.

On Mondays, wash your dirty clothes.  She spent her last bonus to replace that old washing machine instead of buying something nice for herself.  So remember that she told you to fill the little cup to the line, not to the brim, to add bleach after the washing starts and to not forget the softener.

On Tuesdays, get over to the Haystack Hill trail.  She started saying goodbye to you there, and just because neither of you knew it then, it's no excuse to avoid the benefits of running that trail now.

On Wednesdays, go to Trader Joe's before the flat bread is sold.  Don't forget the sweet onions and the albacore in the red cans.  If you get the blue cans, you'll hear her remind you that the extra salt isn't good for the cats.

On Thursdays, do the Moon Country trail, then come home and tend to her garden.  You always helped her with that, so put that back into your routine.

On Fridays, put the Bee Gees in the CD player and turn it up to just below the threshold of pain, like she did, and clean the house.  If the neighbors don't like the Bee Gees, they can buy ear plugs or seek professional help for their musical ignorance.  Remember to feed her hummingbirds and water her plants, indoors and out.  Yes, you told those silly flowers that she was gone, and they just smiled like idiots, but do it anyway.

On Saturdays, go run the Lykken trail.  You never felt lonely when you were up there alone, and you need to do something for yourself, by yourself.  Get out of your head and into your body.

On Sundays, take a walk in the park, the one down by the college where she fed the ducks and watched the kids play baseball.  Maybe she'll join you.  Maybe she won't.  Just let it be Sunday.

Every evening when the sun goes down, don't let your heart go down with it.  Make dinner,  then clean up the kitchen.  She did and would brook no argument from you, so just do it.  

Watch the news.  She did, and always helped you get around the spin on what was really going on in the world.  Remind yourself that it didn't end.  

If the blues sneak up on you, call Tom.  If you're lucky, Paula will answer and you'll enjoy some sensitive feedback before he gets to the phone and pushes the conversation away from your comfort zone to his.  

Light the candles next to her picture, pour the wine and remind yourself that more than one glass will only make it easier to feel sorry for yourself.  Tell her you're finding the courage to keep your promises to her.  That you're taking care of the things she loved -- the cats, the house, her garden and you.  Tell her you're sorry you can't rub her cold feet or brush her hair tonight.  She'll understand.

With my daily routine once again in place, deliverance became possible, and revealed itself as a hunger to turn to poetry, as I had done so often in the past, as a key to unlock the me inside myself, to ferret out thoughts and feelings I didn't know I had...
The bed was empty this morning --
even with me and the cats in the covers.
You weren't in the kitchen, either,
brewing coffee or cooking breakfast.
No, I didn't find you there.

And you weren't in the garden
tending your flowers.
I told them you were gone,
but they just kept on smiling,
like idiots.

I looked everywhere but nowhere,
then fed your hummingbirds --
watched them zip, hover and zoom,
work the feeders, and fight for territory.

Wish I could fly away,
with you, right now, this morning --
but my heart is too heavy,
my wings too broken.

We were soul mates!
How could you be finished with me
before I was done with you?
Whose eyes will see you smile?
Whose hands will rub your cold feet?
Whose fingers will brush your hair?
Soft, long and the color of peaches in Spring.
I can still smell it.

The Cosmos saves everything
by changing it.
You changed in a heart break,
a change so sudden, 
so complete
my breath ran away.

It may never return,
but I too, am saved,
for you changed me...​
A few days after I wrote that poem, I remembered a letter she had written four years before she died.  One evening, she had walked into our office with an envelope in her hand, leaned over and put it in our safe.  "This is for you." she said.  "You must promise not to open it unless I die before you. OK?"  I remember saying "I promise." but with my poem freshly put to paper, it was all I could do to read the words she had put to paper all those years ago:  

I want you to know that I have loved you with all my heart.  Find someone to spend the rest of your life with.  Someone who will make you happy.  I hope to see you in the Bardo or in our next life as Jennifer. Neither of us believed in life after death of any kind, bardo or otherwise, but I had frequently kidded her that I'd come back as a woman named Jennifer and fall hopelessly in love with her all over again, whether she came back as a man or a woman.  She would always laugh, then, with her hands on her hips and that look in her eye, say "I won't be a lesbian, even for you.  Come back as a man or forget about it!"

I was so attached to her look, her feel -- the way she smelled, the sound of her voice.  I couldn't imagine loving anybody else but her.  Gradually, one sunrise and one sunset at a time, I understood she had not asked me to find someone who looks and sounds and feels like she did.  She had told me to find someone who would make me happy.  I began to see that she was the reason I could love again.  Deeply.  With real intimacy.  And without making comparisons or feeling that I was cheating on her.  Like I told the social worker the day she died,  she was the only reason I wasn't dead, broke or in jail.  In life, she validated me.  How many times had I told myself that I must have some good qualities because she loved me.  Not just any woman but her, that woman.  And now, from the grave, she was saving me again.

I remember promising her and myself that I would not sit in sack cloth and ashes for seven years.  Or seven months.  As hard as it was for me to swallow, I could no longer deny that she was dead, that I was  alive.  Did I love her and myself enough to let her go?  Knowing I would always be married to her in my heart, not on my finger, I removed my ring, placed it in her cedar chest, and logged on to match dot com.


----------



## apple (May 24, 2014)

Well, thank you very much.   I'm crying, right now.  What a heart wrenching, beautiful love story.  She sounds wonderful, and so do you. Thank you for sharing those poignant expressions of your love and loss.  I understand.    My best to you, apple


----------



## Gumby (May 24, 2014)

I echo apple. Tears and all. Thank you for sharing this with us, qwertyportne, it's very beautiful and moving.


----------



## Pandora (May 27, 2014)

From the moment you spoke to me qwerty I knew you had learned much in life, now I know what it is. True love, truly unselfish love. Bless her heart and yours.


----------



## qwertyportne (May 28, 2014)

Thanks to all of you for your generous comments. Never thought I would share this memoir with anyone, but about a week ago somebody replied to a thread here at WF, saying poetry was more powerful than other kinds of writing, even literature. I'm probably putting words in that person's mouth but I think that was the gist of the post. Well, I've often said that prose is _about_ something, whereas poetry _is_ something. But memoirs can be a powerful, passionate kind of writing too. And you all know how much I'd like to see more memoirs posted at WF. So I posted this one, as much to inspire others here at WF to discover the power of memoirs as to gain a bit more closure on this one. Thanks everybody. Sorry about the tears. After all these years, me too...


----------



## Pandora (May 28, 2014)

What is extra nice about your memoir qwerty is, it makes us appreciative of the moment. I copied and gave to my husband to read, he has enjoyed much of your work, like me. This one so special, I swear it makes us love each other more. That is powerfully nice, yes.


----------



## patskywriter (May 28, 2014)

Nice. Really nice. I really enjoyed reading this.

I appreciate that that you were able to retain your sense of humor. When my little brother died, my mom's gentle humor helped me get through the funeral.


----------



## Misty Mirrors (Jun 1, 2014)

I cried a lot when I read your story.
I had to put down my smartphone several times and wipe my eyes dry.
The story is written very well. I didn't see any spelling mistakes or awkward expressions.
I am 68. I am a man. I have not found a love like that. Maybe I still will. I hope I will. I hope that you will find a new love.


----------



## Ethan (Jun 1, 2014)

Beautiful piece wonderfully expressed, there was emotion, honesty, pathos without even a touch of self pity or over indulgent schmaltz. This was touching and heartfelt writing at it's best, a very moving piece you should be very proud of. Well done!


----------



## escorial (Jun 1, 2014)

emotional turmoil for sure.


----------



## Misty Mirrors (Jun 2, 2014)

Like I said  ...   great story.
However I would change the title into something shorter.
Like "A Loss", "New Start" or "Painful Lesson".


----------



## Firemajic (Jul 14, 2014)

Now I understand...This took courage, my friend--alot of courage...
I love the raw honesty that took nothing away from the beauty...Peace...Jul


----------

