I am doing great.
I am still grieving.
These statements are both fully true. That’s the dichotomy of being a widow. There’s this awesome “bigness” in my soul that leaves room for all kinds of grey scale, for contradictions, not just black and white.
I am enjoying the springtime. I’m feeling motivated to get out more. I’m loving the sunshine. I bought new tennis shoes for working out. I’m thinking about my new place and dreaming about maybe doing a little yard work and maybe even *gasp* cooking in my kitchen.
I’m also still heartbroken. I’m still sad. I think about the “maybe somedays” a lot. They range from the silly to the gut-wrenching: “Maybe someday I’ll be able to buy my favorite ‘Mac Prolash’ mascara again instead of the ‘Splashproof’ waterproof crap that clumps, because even though I no longer cry every day, I never know when the waterworks can start,” to “Maybe it’s not too late, maybe someday I’ll actually get to hold my own baby in my arms.”
I feel the weight of expectation on me, to hurry up and get over it. I’m pretty sure that this is my own problem, it shouldn't matter to me what other people think. I've committed since the beginning to not hurry. I mean, I think it's great that it's obvious that I'm doing well. I had a sweet client say to me the other day “But you’re better now.” And it’s true. I am better than I was. But that doesn't mean that I'm all better. It’s like a bone that gets broken. Once it’s broken it’s always different in that spot. But it’s stronger there. That’s the cool part.