Half

Half.

This tangle ball of grief is a strange place. Each thread is a world and dimension all its own with concave surfaces, prickly textures, and hairpin turns that take me to the most unexpected places. There are times I feel lost in the tiny filaments fraying from a single thread, like I am in a dense forest of trees. I think I know something for certain based on a previous experience, and then I realize I know nothing. I find myself lost, misplaced, or displaced in a land that should be familiar or at least navigable. 

One knowledge set does not necessarily transfer to another similar situation. Having experienced both, divorce and death of a spouse are not the same. Divorcing a spouse is different than the death of a partner even though in both situations the relationship dies. The relationship changes, transforms, and the way it once was is no longer.

We can come out of the other side of an intense loss holding the gemstones of truth in our hand. When we encounter another person in the midst of a painful state we recognize, we can reach into our proverbial pocket and jingle those truths like gold coins in our hand feeling the power of knowledge that comes from experience.

Sometimes it is a comfort when we offer these truths to another, letting them know they are not alone on this shared path. And, we must also consider that what became our beacons in the dark may not be the same for another. When we show up empty handed, our presence and acknowledgment of another’s pain is a comfort. Our presence and comfort are enough. 

It is funny when your own words come back to you. It is a surprise when you have to see the other side of a truth uttered in one circumstance only to realize it has no value in another instance of loss. I had a friend who was married but not in a partnership, not in love, and not loved. I used to tell her how capable she was, how many options she had, and that half was a lot. Materially, half of what she and her husband had was a lot, and more than enough to give her the freedom to choose something else, choose her own adventure. Even when half is not a lot, sometimes it is enough. Enough is enough to begin again. And, I can imagine and have witnessed when half of nothing is less than nothing. Starting from nothing must certainly be terribly hard, and still it is a place to start again. People do it. 

Even in a healthy partnership, it is never split down the middle, equal all the time or maybe ever. It is more likely equitable, and that balance of each getting what each needs fluctuates. Sometimes, one partner carries more of the burdens throughout the entirety of the relationship, and this may be an overt agreement. It may be what both have accepted as true in the love shared. It may never be discussed, only lived. 

Half. 

I have been sitting with this idea of half in terms of our partnerships. It is not black and white or exactly the same in the unfolding of any given relationship. Half is a lot or enough. Half doesn’t even matter sometimes when you desire to stay no matter what in the partnership or need at all cost to exit a relationship. Staying in that love is enough. Getting out is enough. 

Half, when you do not want to let go is definitely not enough. So, now I must eat those words I spoke so surely to my friend who was preparing to leave her marriage. It is not an ultimate truth after all. It needs an adjustment. It requires a sometimes. 

Sometimes, half is a lot or enough. Sometimes, it is not.  

I have been living with half. I hate it. I want it whole. I want it all. This thread is a conundrum. In the time before Edmond and I were a pair, I walked away from a relationship with half, and made it a whole for myself and my children. I figured it out, rearranging the halves and parts into an entirely new order. I even called it my New World Order.

This time is different. I did not want to subtract or divide what Edmond and I were. How do you divide love? How do you cut away the thing that grows between and out of two people? It is one thing, and it exists beyond the manifestations of this world. Our partnership was split in two by some accident or destiny neither of us saw coming. So half feels like not enough, not nearly enough. 

And, I am trying like hell to rearrange the furniture, organize the drawers and cabinets, and make a new order. My goals are practical, functional. While the spaces of our home and life are finding a new order, I also cannot bear to let go of his things.   

I miss you so much and wear your things hoping I will be more like you, feel you. I wear your shirts, jackets, gloves, and baseball hats. Most are too big for me to fill, except the baseball caps. Those I have to adjust to the next notch because you had a small head, or maybe I will concede finally that I have a big head. I moved the rest of the firewood from the shop deck to the rack we built together that is near the front door. I purchased a truck bed full of firewood. I unloaded it piece by piece onto the pallet on the shop deck. When we used to do this chore together, you loved it. I loved doing it with you. You did the bulk of the unloading, carrying five or six pieces at a time. I did not do half of the work by a long shot as I carried one log in each hand following the path, following you from the truck to the deck over and over. Carrying all of the logs this year, doing it all myself, I missed you and your strong body that worked so swiftly next to me. And, it felt good to be so physical and repetitive in these motions. It was good to see the firewood stacked, work accomplished, finished. The hauling of logs exhausted some of the sorrow, squeezing it out of my body through sweat and tears. You could do repetition and detail so easily, meditatively even. I am trying to be like you in this way now, too. 

Finding my footing, my way, is an experiment. Repetition and detailed procedures that require focus are way to stay between the ditches, provide myself with some bumpers. Sometimes, I cannot find the edges inside the tangle ball of grief, and I am in pieces, scattered and aimless. But the focused tasks of sweeping the front porch, sorting his tools and hardware, and cooking from a recipe give me a place to be purposeful alongside this grief. I can find the edges more easily, a guideline. I feel like a monk or a nun. Every moment of every day is a prayer and a longing, both a way to stay where I do not entirely want to be and a connection to Edmond and All that Is. I throw my wishes and sorrows into each motion of the task. These secular and practical actions hold me here, give me a reason and meaning, and I also infuse these tasks with love I have for Edmond. I have a place to allow the grief to flow. 

I am never not grieving you. I have one foot in the world of the living and one in the realm of the dead. I can hardly stand in our closet lately. I keep wearing the same three things so I don't have to search through the clothing that hangs there. I reach in and pull out the past. Everything I touch reminds me of the last time I wore it. Memories fall from the fabric. The dress or shirt or skirt takes me to the long and lovely anniversary dinner in San Antonio where I wore my new ring after you had asked me to marry you again, or to the fabulous meal at McAdoo’s in New Braunfels when I was supposed to be in New Orleans but the weather cancelled my flights, or to Gruene Hall where we saw Hayes Carll last year and so many times before.

I took William and Ellie on Friday to Gruene Hall to see him. He opened with Beaumont, as if you had arranged his setlist to begin with the song you and I sang to those two nearly every night as we put them to bed, William in the bottom bunk and Ellie in her crib. I miss you. I love you.

I lost one of my AirPods, the left one. It somehow fell and wedged itself under the console in my car. When I reached in, I felt it but then lost it and bruised up my hand trying to get to it. I have tried to retrieve it with the vacuum and even with magnets. It is lost, or rather, it is there but I cannot see it or get to it. It may be in the other realm with Edmond for all I know. I only have half of the set. No more stereo listening, now I have an ear in two worlds. Sound sources are from two different places. In my right ear through the AirPod, I hear whatever audiobook or playlist I find that can take me from this reality or soften it. And the other sound source enters my left ear, the sounds the world offers me and everyone else, calling us to the next thing. Half here, half there.

In the same week, I also lost one of my favorite earrings, the ones I bought myself for Mother’s Day this year. These earrings dangled turquoise pieces almost to my shoulders and made me feel cool and beautiful. These earrings have caused people I pass to notice their sparkle and shimmer instead of my sorrow and grief. I lost the one that had been dangling from my right ear; now I only have half a pair. 

Sometimes, half is not enough or a lot. One earring feels lopsided, not cool, or put together. One earring is what I feel like on the inside, and what life feels like on the outside. Where is its pair, its partner? I searched for a long time. I also do not long for the earring nearly as much as you might think, but that is only because I know the longing I have for Edmond. Nothing compares and an earring is not nearly as precious as a partner. 

We are entering that time of year, one of the most liminal spaces of the winter solstice. Half a day and half a night have been gradually changing places in terms of more and less. We are two days away from the longest night of the year, when darkness takes up the most time and space.

Last year on the day of the longest night, I was upstairs in my studio with my last client. There had been several cloudy, cold, and rainy days leading up to the evening of December 21st. Our solar batteries were running on sparks, and so just before my client arrived the studio/office lost power. There was a glimmer, a silver sliver of light left in the gray day. We wore our coats for extra warmth, and I lit candles. Darkness fell. We had the entire counseling session by candle light. Winter solstice brought us under its hush, and we whispered as we communicated through her session. It felt like a long prayer. It was one of the sweetest darkest nights I can recall.

This year, there has been sunshine leading up to December 21. I have hung so many string lights and fairy lights. It has been a bit of an obsession. It has been such a dark season these last eight and a half months.

I find myself doing things like you. I want to be like you, more detailed and more focused. Maybe if I cultivate the part of us that feels lost within myself, I will not feel so broken in half. I am beginning to follow complex instructions to assemble furniture or fixtures. I follow recipes in order and purchase and use all the required ingredients. I finally bought myself new running/walking shoes, and bought the same brand you used to wear. I even started wearing them untied, laces tucked in like you did. It is quite comfortable, actually. I want to learn to shoot a handgun. I want to know your rifle, the one you used most of the time when you went to the hunting lease. I did not have much desire to do so before you died, but now I do. I want to feel what you felt, and I think I am getting close to being ready to go to West Texas, to the place you so loved to spend time. Maybe because I must remain here without you, I will learn to hold both of our desires and ways of being. Maybe all of the ways you brought balance to my life, I will learn to bring in myself. Maybe then, I will not feel so lopsided.

Last night I dreamt you handed me a single spiral earring made of white gold. I had to bend the outer most spiral backward over itself to create a hook so I could place it in my earlobe. I looked around the room we were in and in a particular small dish on a dresser searching for the other earring. But, there was none. You stood still and steady as I circled the room until I realized that there was just one spiral for one ear.

There is only one spiral. We are all on it. Perhaps, Edmond and I are folded into one spiral more than ever now. What if I can only see half of everything? The rest is in the shadow. I suppose I might be living in the reflection half. Maybe half is a lot.

I love you. I miss you.