Two years and four months  ago I stretched out across my bed. Matt walked in with a manilla folder and said he wanted to go over some things before his heart surgery. Etched all over it were dates, names of doctors, and notes he had taken during conversations. At the top:

April 27th

1. Aortic Valve Replacement
2. Reconstruction of Aorta

​He went through each page with me and explained what to do if something happened to him and he couldn’t take care of it. It bothered me we were doing this. He was only 34. There was no reason except for blatant pessimism for us to go over this with such detail. As the kids shuffled around us, playing with their toys and jabbing their fingers on the piano next to our bed, I teased him that if he were taking this that seriously he should give me the password to his computer. Seven years prior I was using his computer and it crashed…deleting all of his files. I swore I didn’t have anything to do with that happening except it being pure chance I had been the last one to touch it, but alas, I was never quite trusted again.


He hesitated at my request for the password.

I laughed in delight.


But then he gave me the password.

Laying on my side with my head resting on my hand I looked at the papers. A wave of realization swarmed above me and crashed down. I looked up at him.


“You’ve never planned your life past 35, have you?”


“No, I haven’t.”


Tears created a blurry film over my eyes. My heart dropped and a hollow feeling took over the back of my throat. How could I just realize this? After eleven years of loving him, of hearing him talk about needing this surgery in his mid thirties, and living with a man that savored life but was haunted by time?


This mentality he had about life is one of the main things I loved about him. When he was nine months old he had heart surgery that saved his life. It left a large scar that said to him, “Do not forget you are mortal.” When he was nineteen he was in a horrendous car accident that took the life of his friend. Prior to that accident he spent a good amount of his teen years wondering what the point of his life was. 

Though the accident brought tragedy, from it he went through his own spiritual rebirth.  A song he wrote called “Some Kind of Accident” explains:

And your life wasn’t for nothing.
And you lay covered in blood.
   -Emotional flood.
Consequences of actions you created yourself
A story to tell, a story to tell


God smacked me,
Me in the head,
Got my attention
Oh with the dead
Find my purpose
And I’m so thankful.
Now I understand.
I can move forward and now I have


A new direction and a newfound hope
Sometimes tragedy even, can change you, help to cope
A great testimony that I hardly give
There was a purpose, a story to tell


Testimony again, testimony again.
​

I thought he was preparing for death based on a probability that was not likely at all. Technology is amazing, doctors are healers, bodies are miraculous, and God can accomplish anything. I was his Pollyanna, believing all would be well. That’s what he loved about me. So while I punish myself for not seeing the truth, I also realize that what I was, is what he needed.


For a normal, young couple I do not believe it is ordinary for you and your spouse to have recurrent conversations about “when they die.” He mentioned it so much in jest, in earnest, in sorrow, but mostly as fact that I began to tune it out. Like a funny quirk that one of Doris Day’s movie husbands would have. If I didn’t treat it that way it would crawl under my skin and make me mad. As if he were saying to me I didn’t love him.



But I can tell you that as much as Matt’s death shocked me, I was prepared.


He planned for the possibility there might not be a tomorrow.


We bought a house we could afford on a single income,  just in case.
He wrote journal entries that fill up drawers.
He archived songs and poetry he wrote.
He took so many pictures only a computer could count how many there are.
He created tangible evidence that he was here. 
He spent every moment making connections with people and telling them about his love for Jesus. 


He told me everything he wanted.


I knew on his death certificate for occupation it would read Musician.
I knew he wanted a casket and for his life to be celebrated.
I knew what instruments he wanted to give to each of our three children.
I knew that he wanted me to fall in love and marry again.
I knew that death could not stop him from his desire for me to be happy.
I knew that he would take care of me, whether he inhabited a body or not.




Two weeks before the heart surgery he became very ill. I forced him into the car and to the hospital. Each time the doctors came in our room the news became worse. And we didn’t talk about it. He knew what was happening. I refused to confront that possibility.

Four days after being admitted he died while a room of medical professionals tried to revive him. They continued while I screamed and cried, my body flung over his legs telling him not to leave me. When I finally realized he could never live in this broken body, I told him I loved him and it was okay to go into the light, but to please always be with us.


As I laid my head down in defeat, they called his time of death.

7:47.




They asked if I wanted to spend time with him. I became angry.

Steely, infuriated, and defeated, I replied in a voice with so much weight:

NO.
​
He is not there anymore.
​

* * *
​

The months after he passed it felt like a constant emotional circle.

​I would be strong, a survivor, a single mom rocking the shit out of what was left of my life. There was always a deep, never-ending sadness, but I could handle that. But the moments I couldn’t process or I tried to push aside became a rock and those rocks stacked up higher and higher. In the beginning one rock on top of the other was just too much. Then I could get three, five, ten, fifteen…but the rocks still fell. Sometimes it was a song. Some nights it was while I did the dishes looking at the clock thinking, “He should be coming home from work now.” One day it was while I walked from the car to my front door and I fell to the cement walkway and sobbed into the warm, rough sidewalk.

To even try to summarize my grief to you feels like trying to tell you about ten lifetimes in one sentence.

Even if I had the words, I could never describe what I endured.

Loss is double sided—because it is a great unifier—the emotions of loss are universal, but each one is individual and different so it is also isolating. I do not know what it is to lose a mother, a child, or friend, so I could never and will never compare my loss to yours.

None is more, none is less—they are different.
Each wholly earth shattering.
Each fragmenting your heart.
In it you stand alone.



After four months I decided to take advantage of the free grief therapy sessions my insurance was giving me. I walked away from my third session pissed off because all I had done was tell him my story, give him website advice, and taught him how to use social media to connect with his grandkids. What angered me the most is I thought if I went to therapy I WOULD STOP FEELING SAD.

I was wrong.

Sadness and grief is the price you pay for pure love. For the most part we leave this world at different times so it’s going to happen if you let yourself really, truly love. The pain was horrific. It was embedded in me, it was part of me. This deep sadness is an underlying note that constantly hummed deep in my stomach. My biggest fear was that this pain would never go away. I called my friend one night unable to even talk because my sobs took my breath away. I told her I didn’t know how to feel sad. I didn’t understand this emotion and it didn’t feel right in my body. I wanted it GONE and there was no way to get rid of it.


When you are in those moments people tell you it will get better in time and you do not believe them.


But I will tell you, I hope I give you some kind of relief  to tell you that YES, it will get better.


That deep chord of sadness will buzz and hum so strong for months, but over time it becomes fainter until you've grown so used to it you can’t hear it anymore. You learn to live with it and keep moving.


    And then I discovered the magic ingredient to healing:

                                              gratitude.
​
When death brutally grips its hands on life there is a darkness, a fog, a weight that washes over you. But it makes you realize the true value of life, love, and simple joy. My soul was awoken. I could see with eyes that were mine, but they could now see new dimensions. I could see so much beauty it left me in awe. My grief let me feel the deepest of dark emotion, but its gift was that now I could feel the highest point of joy. I could see magic in the once mundane.


I wasn’t a radically new person with a drastic personality change. The core of me was the same and always will be. I was now an expansion of myself. I had been awoken.

This clarity enlightened me and expanded my understanding for the questions of “why did this happen?” I could see the ripple effect of Matt’s death on everyone. In life he made an impact, but in death, oh, I could see even more. We all changed. We all saw with new eyes or at least we were awakened to some part of our self that we were blind to before.  We all had a choice at that point to let grief heal us and change us or stay the same.

​Most of us woke up and there was no going to back to being asleep. 

​

Grief  was my new companion that would not leave until I had learned all that I needed to.

As I surrendered to its lessons, seeds of happiness were planted. I could not see their stem or leaves, but I knew one day I would see them again. 

​I continually imagined me standing on train tracks, my feet fastened to the ground, waiting for a train to hit me. But it wasn’t a train really, it was a gush, a blast, a force. It was a rainbow of sparkling light that contained happiness. One day it would hit me whether I was ready or not and there would be no turning back.

I prepared for that moment, I looked forward to it.


As the humming of constant sadness faded I began to feel that I yearned to experience more joy. I knew that all my husband had ever wanted for me and our children was to be happy. I found myself finding new ways to bring light to my life. I spent more time with friends and building relationships than I ever had before. I was braver in my decisions and opinions. I became liberated when I realized the worst that could happen is death.

Because even in that, that is not forever.

When life is done, what is left? Love.


Love, love, love.


I wanted to fill my life up with it. I didn’t want to lay on sidewalks crying anymore. I didn’t want to be frozen in time, frozen in an emotion that erodes your spirit.

I wanted to be resilient, ever-growing, and alive.

I wanted to love.


And so, I gave myself permission to date.


It was a winding psychological path to get to that point. I argued with myself because at first I said no, I will never even think about being with anyone else. When people said to me, “You are so young. You will meet someone again,” I was repulsed and wanted to yell at them. Matthew Chan was the love of my life, no one could ever take his place. It also felt to me like they were saying my love for him wasn’t strong, that death could end it. I KNEW that love does NOT die; love does NOT end. Our love story is one with no ending.


While I knew this and still feel that love does not end, I knew that God put me here on Earth to love.  I had learned by Matt's example that you have to take the time we are given and fill it up so that at the end when we meet our maker we can say, "I used my whole heart."


I knew that if I were to date I would have to be open to the possibility of anything. I did not want anyone like Matt—what we had could never be recreated. What was, is sacred to me. I wanted something new, but I was resolute in the idea it had to be magic.


Magic should never, ever be compromised.


With a desire for change and overflowing hope, I sat down and wrote out what I wanted in a man. I had to be clear with myself as well. I did not ever want to get swept up in emotion and forget what was important to me. 


“Please, this, or something better, God,” I said aloud.


I began to date. I decided each person I spent time with would be an adventure and my goal was to learn something new about myself—what I liked or didn’t.  To remind me that every step forward was indeed a major accomplishment, I wrote on a sticky note:

​

​
With that, I learned my barriers. On one occasion I learned I was afraid to watch someone walk out the door for fear they might never return. Another I learned that you cannot make magic from dust.


The effort I had put in thus far was very little compared to friends that have dated for years before they found the love of their life, but this was an awful lot of soul-work for a heart that had one year prior had been broken in half.

​But then one day, tired and exhausted, I went on what I was ready to call my last date before I took a long break,— I met Adam.

* * *

​
​The day I met Adam I had only spoken with him once on the phone. Seeing that we lived so far from one another he found a place that was equal distance for us— a restaurant on the  Long Beach pier. We sat next to the patio railing overlooking the ocean while lights twinkled and music softly played.  

He was tall, handsome, kind, intelligent, thoughtful, and funny. Sitting across from him at a table for two I should have been more nervous. His intelligence by far surpassed mine, he was little bit older, and had seen the world—and yet, I was so comfortable and at ease with him.

He made me feel like I could just be my authentic self.

After a year of being The Widow, I wasn’t.

I was just me.


I eventually delivered him the dreaded information, because it felt like lying if I didn’t. As much as I did not want this to be who I was, it was a big puzzle piece. Trying to have even a casual interaction without mentioning this detail can make conversations really awkward. I was just really, really hoping he didn’t become fascinated in it like a previous date had. As sweet as that man was he couldn’t stop asking questions and it made it really uncomfortable for me--as if it were a test to see how okay I was talking nonchalantly about the most horrifying experience in my life. But Adam took in the information, said he was sorry, and then he didn’t dwell on it. When it came into the conversation there was room for it, but it was not the focus.

He was focused on me.


Adam impressed me with his thoughtfulness—he was always considering of the wellbeing and feelings of others, particularly me.


When we had talked on the phone prior to our date we had joked about how I would be more than happy just to go to a buffet. Somehow Jello and Cool Whip tastes the best when they are sitting next to salad and cottage cheese. After dinner a dessert showed up that I had not ordered—Jello. We laughed and I was astonished to find that he had called earlier that day to request they make it for our evening. It made me laugh to think of the poor person who had to run to the store to buy it and make it for this fancy restaurant that would never, EVER present this on their menu!


The little things kept adding up. The whole became greater than the parts. He walked me to my car and did the most romantic thing:


He didn’t kiss me.


Yes, be shocked. The most romantic thing he did was not kiss me.


These other dates I had been on, the men always leaned over for a kiss and it left me in the most awkward position possible because not once did I want to. Here was a man that I clearly liked. We had spent hours talking and laughing and now here we were holding hands walking to the parking lot, but he knew from my body language that I was not ready for that. He had thought of me before him.


He told me to follow him out, and as I took my turn to pay for my parking, the man told me that it had already been paid for by the gentleman ahead of me.


Swoon.


Each of the dates following contained even more of these sweet actions. He took me next to a fancy hamburger restaurant because I told him those were my favorite things to eat. Next he planned a whirlwind of a date—he met me at Dana Point (and had already paid for my parking pass) with the most elegant and complete picnic I have ever seen. As he pulled out each item I laughed, because I had never had anyone pack such an extensive setup or meal for the beach. We watched the sun set, the stars twinkled a show, and the moon beamed on us. We walked over to the hotel lobby near us which just happened to be having a small art show with sketches and paintings from Renoir and Picasso. We drank a drink on the patio of their bar. We talked, and talked, and talked. And I couldn’t get enough of him.


We talked every night and made dates every week. I began to fall in love with him. I felt so guilty in the beginning. Here I was doing something that scared me with the faith love would come if I believed it would—but this soon? This strong?


I’ve always believed that there are many soulmates in our lives. They are in your family, the people you fall in love with, and your friends that feel like sisters. I knew it was possible for me to meet another, but I never imagined I would love another man so completely. I came to realize that Matt was my soulmate and we were perfect for where we were in life. But now I was different. His death had changed me, whether I liked it or not.

Every time I looked at this man I was so moved by the beauty of his soul and how grateful I felt to be loved by him that I would repeat silently to God, "Thank you for Adam, thank you for Adam." 

I once wrote about how I felt as if in my marriage we had been creating a crystal bowl, but in Matt's death it had shattered. I wanted to learn how to pick up the pieces without cutting myself, how to hang them in the sun and let rainbows fall all around me, and to learn to dance with the beauty of the past while creating a new future. It seemed like a wish that might never come true. 

But it did. 

It was hard: I bled and I have scars. But I hung those crystals up. And I danced. 
​

And then God sent me a gift; he sent me Adam.

​And then Adam took my hand and twirled with me in my room of rainbows. 

He embraced our past for all that it was, because that is what made today. We may have come by way of sorrow, but that path brought miracles and finding each other was one of them. 

I believe our past may have been fated, preordained by God for a greater purpose that I cannot understand in this lifetime. Accepting the mystery of what happened and moving forward is what faith required of me and has more rewards than I could have ever imagined. I have learned my heart can grow, that there always is room for love. There are no limits. 

Today I am happy. I am so content. Each day is brimming with things to be grateful for. 

With Adam our home is full of love; it is multiplying. 
He loves me and I love him.
He loves our children as his own. 
He loves their father, because in this beautiful puzzle the present could not be without the past. 
​
There is so much love. 


I learned I never had to do this by myself. My family, friends, and strangers let me fall into their arms. I believe we each contain a spark of God; in you I saw Him. You gave me love when my heart was broken, you held me while I wept, and you listened while I poured my words out to your ears. You told me it was okay to be happy, that it made you happy to see me love again. Thank you. 

This morning after I dropped the kids off at school I parked the car and headed inside. I abruptly stopped when I spotted two yellow birds happily singing and sitting at the top of my tree. Beneath them was a hummingbird sipping sugary juice from our feeder. It flew up and around those two yellow birds and then dashed over my head. Tears fell from my eyes. Hummingbirds in this house symbolize Matt's love. 


I knew that God would take care of me, but I had no idea how beautiful my life could be after.

I never could have imagined this. This is so much better than anything I could have hoped for. 

Last year Adam and I found heaven on Earth on the foothills of a Swiss mountain. 
As darkness settles in each night we say goodnight prayers with our children. 
We eat every dinner by candlelight, because he's a romantic. 
He plans adventures for the four of us that require planes and trips up mountain roads.
He makes me stop working and leads me by my hand so I can catch the sunset with him just in time.
We laugh, we share, and we plan. 


       We give thanks for the past,
                       savor the present,
                 and we are open to the future.


Because no matter what, it's going to be beautiful.
​My fairytale isn't over. 


Especially with this new bundle of magic on its way. 

I am thrilled to show you a book I illustrated for Klutz, a division of Scholastic. As described in their about section, Klutz creates award-winning, premium activity books for kids and kid-minded adults.
​

In the book I show you different ways you can paint an illustration. In the image above it is fun to try different techniques! You can use an ombre effect for a sunrise or use a bleeding technique and a white crayon to create a starry sky. 

Below is a video of my 5 year old daughter painting the mermaid picture. She did a great job! 

On a personal note, Klutz contacted me last year to work with them. It had been six months since my late husband passed...and being asked to do this was such a blessing. It was a dream I had always dreamed coming true. It was focused and something I really could lose myself in. I remember painting at night after my kids had gone to bed and staying up way too late to finish work before deadlines were due. 

A couple weeks ago I showed my work at the Hello, Sunrise Market and had this book on display. I kid you not--little kids were drawn to this book! They would walk over to it and couldn't put it down. It was the BEST feeling!!! 

My favorite part was when my friend brought her daughter by and had me sign her book for her. I started to write her name in it but wrote it wrong.

I told her I could fix it.

We all make mistakes, but as an artist you can use your creativity to fix them and somehow your work comes out even better because of it.

I scribbled out her name and turned that into the grass. From it grew a grouping of flowers. 

She was so pleased! Her mother told me not long after she had made a spelling mistake. In classic artist fashion she made the best of it and turned it into a bed of flowers. 

Honestly, as I said it, I was just trying to console her. But hearing how she had done the same as me struck me and stuck with me. 

This is my absolute favorite painting from the book!

The colors are vibrant and when you add salt on top of the wet blue paint it creates  a unique effect as the salt absorbs the water around it. Leave the salt until it dries and then brush the grains off. 

There are fun tips on the ways you can display your artwork or further projects you can make with them. 

There are two pages that are perforated so you can send them as postcards in the mail or display as smaller works. 

​This collaboration was a dream come true!

I LOVE hearing how happy it makes little girls! I love to see how they imagined the colors and the creative ways they paint them. I love hearing that grown women are buying this book and treating themselves to time painting. 

Paint away, dear friends!

If you post it on instagram be sure to post the hashtag #watercolorcrushbook and feel free to tag me! 

Oh, I have learned many things this year and months past. ​

 
To surrender
To accept what is.
To let go.
To keep a light of hope in my heart.
To have faith.

And my proudest lesson?
        To move past Sorrow. 


In order to do this I had to acknowledge that there was a possibility that life ahead of me could be beautiful.
 

I could sit beside Sorrow. Sleep with it. Cry with it in my car. Lay on the sidewalk and let it wash over me. It planted a seed in me and it grew and grew and grew. I could have let it inhabit me forever.

I never wanted it to live in me or around me.
But it is a price you will inevitably pay if you love.
​Sorrow stayed and would not leave till I learned from it. It is a contrary relationship—because while it took me to the deepest depths of sadness it taught me truths that I could only learn from it alone.

When I learned what I needed to it was time to release it from my soul.
                                     Its time was up.
And even though I know it will visit me again in my life, for now it is time for it to leave. 

The final step to saying goodbye? I had to start imagining a life where I was ALIVE. 
 


Death taught me something wonderful:
It said, "Do not take Life so seriously."


I thought about it.
I asked myself---in life what is the worst that could happen?
I could die. They could die. 


Death, you don’t scare me anymore.
You are an illusion.

But Sorrow, you are real. You are my teacher. And as much pain as you have made me feel, I have profound gratitude for the lessons you taught me. 

      Sorrow,
    because of
                you
           this is what
                       I know
               and how I will live: 
 
I will play. I will risk colds to jump in rain and puddles with my children. I will dance in a sparkling dress, with sequin shoes, and a glitter belt. 

I will know my worth. I will order what I really want on a menu, not just the cheapest thing. I will not settle, because magic is real. And I am worthy of magic. 

I will be authentic. That means being a truth teller: pouring my heart out on a bright screen or white cold pressed paper. Most of all that means listening to my heart. 

I will put myself in new situations. I can, have, and will--drive further than I’ve ever gone alone before, sail high above sparkling waters, fly to foreign lands, and so much more.

I will be vulnerable and open to the rebirth of a new life.

I will live for today, because that is all I have. I am promised nothing more.

I will say yes to love. No matter what loss has occurred death and endings are only illusions. There is life after death and love after loss. Love is always worth it. 
 

I am ready now.

​ 
Love and Life, I am here. 

I was talking with a dear friend--a fellow dreamer--and it got me thinking about things. ​

Today I found myself telling my friend I can time travel.

 
As a kid (and even now) I have loved any book or movie based on it. I love the idea of time not having to be linear. For as much as I like rules and to follow them, when I disagree with them--I love to the bend them.

Just when you think you have me figured out I will surprise you with my complexities. This is one of them.
 

As for my new found supernatural ability....


A few months ago I was driving down the freeway and passed the hospital that I had first taken Matt to on the four day process of him dying. And while other times I silently cursed that lone building or simply did my best to ignore it, that day it was different. 

While I was driving next to it, I was also inside. 

I was in there.

He was in there.

In some other dimension our two scenarios were side by side, coexisting.

Waiting on test results, staring out the window watching the day slip by, feeding him ice water from a q-tip looking stick with a tiny pink sponge on the end.

I was scared.

Because he was sicker than I had ever imagined and the doctors were puzzled.

Nobody had any answers.

 

In that 3 second spans of me whizzing past that building I was transported in time and into that stretch of a day.
 


I can walk into a frozen yogurt place that just cleaned with bleach and want to gag. It sends me silently in my head whirling back to when the nurse walked me back into his hospital room that was permeated with the harsh, cutting smell of it. It makes me look at myself standing above him, rubbing his arm, telling him the reasons why he has to stay…and not knowing whether or not I should tell her he will never open his eyes again.


I spent a lot of those hours in the hospital awake. By his side. In a place where time is of the essence, but all there is to do is wait. I had no patience for reading and nothing was more important than sitting by his side smiling and being his comforter. I was doing my best to be a light of blinding love. Unintentionally, one night I stared at that box full of latex gloves more intently than perhaps anyone has.

I went to the doctor's a month after he passed and the sight of that box of gloves made my teeth start to literally chatter. 
 
 
So now it is clear to me that the gift I had always fantasized of having is something I can actually do now.
 

I can time travel.

 
Sometimes I wish I couldn’t.
 
 
This must be what happens when your emotions are stirred. When your senses are shocked. When your life is changed.

The experience rouses your senses and magnifies them, thus making it impossible to forget.

The images do not fade.
The sounds do not muffle.
The smell does not dissipate.
The feeling of his scared hand in your scared hand cannot be forgotten.  
 

And while I know that in time I will learn how to refocus this gift to positive things, sometimes it sends me back to the saddest and scariest days of my life.


 
This month has been my best yet. I think I am finally getting better at stopping the time travel. When I feel the mind buzzing, force pulling sensations I slowly talk myself down from its vortex.


I hear my sweet angels telling me:
     
            Let it go.
         
                    Do not travel here.

                                      Change course.  
                                 
                                                Travel here.

Travel to that time you played that corny love song and forced him to slow dance with you in the backyard. Feel his hands around your waist. Feel his scruffy face against your cheek. Feel your hair flying from your neck as he twirls you and you can’t figure out how to twist back so you both end up laughing at your clumsiness. See the glittering stars, his sparkling eyes (albeit rolling eyes). Hear his voice, the hollow sounding music coming from your cell phone speaker, and your children laughing as they ride their noisy tricycles around you. Feel the safety of his arms and the kiss that was lovely but one of many like a field of flowers—so easily dismissed because there were so many, but treasured now as a single flower for its striking beauty.

Feel your heart’s content at the comfort of knowing this love is endless.


Know that it still is.

 
And as I settle back into Now I have a pile of tissues, but I am thankful because I have more of those kinds of memories to time travel to than ones that include bleach and beeping medical instruments.

These memories have warm sand beneath my feet, pink sunsets, the vibration of music being created by freckled hands I love, and the sound of our babies laughing. These memories are full of so much love they could warm the earth. Surely they could sustain me the rest of my days here--though I know our God is generous and there will never be a need for that.


But how lovely to know.

 
I am arriving upon the point in my journey where I can choose where I will go in time. When I do travel back to scary or sad times, it will be a choice and I will be visiting to learn something.
 

When I stop and step back I realize how amazing it is I can do this.

How magical it can be.

I am thankful God gave me eyes to see, hands to feel, ears to hear, and a heart that delights. More than that, for those moments. Most of all, for a timeless, transcendent love. 


Because of this, 

            I can time travel. 







*Update:

This was written 6 weeks prior to the posting date. Writing this was so incredibly healing for me that almost immediately I was able to control my "time traveling." Sometimes I do not even know how I am feeling until I begin to write and the mere act of doing so awakens me in some new aspect. 

Thank you for going on this journey with me. 

Today I am happy.

I am happy!!!
​
 
Last night my mom and I drove to Seal Beach for my niece Cora’s farewell party before she heads off to Montana for college. I always love my time with my mom. She is my best friend. And she is always honest. I braced myself when I asked her:
 
Have I changed?
 

And she thought about it and said no.
 

Part of me was surprised. Another part was relieved.
 


She explained:

You haven’t changed. You just did what you have always done when a challenge comes your way: you take it by the horns and you deal with it. You calmly take the challenge or task and you handle it. Remember when you would wait till the last minute to write your essays in college? And I would be freaking out and you would tell me it was fine, that you work best under pressure anyway. And you would do just fine and it would be amazing.

This is just another challenge. 
 

 
Earlier that evening when I was standing at the kitchen table with my back to guests, I scraped the last of the onion dip onto the crumbs of  leftover chips. And I listened to everyone. I felt separate. I tend to flow separately from the current everyone else flows in.
 

But when it comes down to it, I always have.

 
That was okay with me then. And I think I am still okay with it.


Every morning on my birthday I have woken up and expected to be different. As Matt and I said “I do” on a windy Hawaiian shore I expected a major shift to occur. When I gave birth to Calvin I expected to see with new eyes. 


Every time I was shocked at my sameness.
 

I had somehow assumed that out of all the events in my life this one would make me different. That last year I was a caterpillar and because of this I was turning into a butterfly.
 
.
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But maybe I was always a butterfly.
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And that makes me so happy!

Because I like who I am.


What a comfort to know that my true self cannot change.


The core of me cannot be altered.

I can learn, my heart can grow, but the true essence of who I am is a constant.
 

And as I drove the last street to my house the brightest and largest streak fell from the sky. A falling star is an occurrence that Science informs me is nothing out of the ordinary. But I don’t believe it. How could I be looking at that sky in that exact place, in that specific moment and see that glorious, surprising streak of magic? What are the chances of that?
 

It was my love.


And I laughed!!! I smiled and I felt happy!

Because I am still that girl he fell in love with.
I am the same girl that he loved to surprise.
He still loves me.
He still surprises me.
And he always will.
 

So today I feel so happy with my realization:
 

I was always a butterfly. 

I was born with wings. 

Sometimes when I look back on the past it feels like a beautiful crystal bowl that was dropped and shattered.
 
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It shattered the day my husband died.
 

The last 11 years of my life included my love, so every memory somehow includes him. When I pick up each piece to remember it, it is beautiful, somehow even more precious, but its edges are sharp and they hurt.

Sometimes they cut me and I bleed.
 

And every day I am reminded:

My life is no longer a beautiful crystal bowl.
 

I did not even know that is what we were creating. When you look at the tiny pieces, the little memories that make up an era of your life it all makes sense how it became complete. But when you are in the midst of making it you don't even realize what you are making. Now don’t assume my bowl was perfect—no, it was not!


But it was mine, and it was lovely.
 

Its broken fragments are too precious to throw away. How easy it would be to sweep it all up and be done with it. If I didn’t have children I am pretty sure I would leave this town we made our home. This is the place where he grew up, where we fell in love, bought our home, raised our children, and are surrounded by family and friends. And this is also where he is buried. 

 
Right now I still have all those precious, oddly shaped pieces strewn on the floor and I don’t know what to do with them.

 
Do I shut the door to where they fell and walk away?
Do I pick up the pieces? And hurt myself over and over and over again?
(….when will it stop hurting?)
How do I pick them up and not bleed?
(I am getting better at…so does practice make perfect?)
 

I know what I want.

 
I want to string the pieces and hang them in the light and create dancing rainbows around me.

I want my past to bring color and joy and stop cutting me.

I want a new beginning, I want the sun to shine just right through those prisms.

But can I begin again with my past swirling around me?

It is woven so intricately into my life I will never be able to run away.
 
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Being that it is the Christmas season, these pieces are the sharpest. I want to shut the door so badly!!! But I have two sweet faces that count on traditions and normalcy. So for their sake I will have to be brave.
 

I will have to learn how to balance letting go and holding on. 


This will take courage, and all I can do is hope the rainbows will be worth it. 

This new art print is now available here.