Until We Are Fine

Last week, I was taking too many pills. Not purposefully, but also not by accident.
This week, I’m more solid, starting somewhat anew. Still tired and afraid, but possessing a bit of momentum. Not quite hope, but an expectancy.

I’m trying to move ahead, and have several supportive friends and family members who have helped me unburden. There are moments I feel adrift, propelled by the winds of pointlessness. Then I remember others, and decide to finish buttering the bread, get the dish from the sink to the dishwasher. I decide to answer a ringing telephone. Pretend. 

It will get better, at some point. It already has. But I’m still tired and can’t sleep, still sweaty but freezing. This isn’t going where I meant it to go. 

We have to ask for help. If we don’t ask, no one knows. They just think we’re mean or shy or FINE. But we are not fine, are we?

We are not fine. 


Eat the bread. Drink the tea. Hug the child. Pet the dog. Write the poem. 

Until we are fine, or a facet thereof.


In the Air

An old, but all too young, friend passed three months ago, and I lost my words temporarily.

I’ve been feeding my secret grief with images and collage.  Soon I will share an image or two I’ve crafted with him sitting at the edge of my heart, where he’s lived for twenty five years. Not yet, though.

I will say only that I’ve seen him in certain magpies and corvids, especially the ones who have danced for me at sunset, as if they knew what I needed.

I went to the sea and threw a fossilized shell into the foam for him, knowing he loved the Pacific. My shell was from an old fossil bed, from nearly as far inland as it’s possible to get. I’m inland again, changed by my encounter with the waves and surrounded by dry and thirsty sage. But the magpies are still speaking and telling me it’s time to write again, time to let the Wyoming wind lift my grief away.

I painted today. A picture of rolling waves and sand. My shell wasn’t there, because it has made its way out to sea, free and alone like he was.

I’ve learned that my loving isn’t a flaw or insanity. It’s simply a flame inside of me. And I am reminded by Paulo Coelho that just because you miss something, doesn’t mean letting it go was a mistake. I never wanted him back. I just never expected him to be gone from all of us so soon.

Sweet dreams, my old friend. I see the magpie, and I remember.

I remember you.