Hello, it's me

My youngest son asked me such an important question yesterday that I actually shuddered. I was telling him that I was not writing and that I have not written a word in what has felt like months. I have not painted either. I have done a craft or two but not much since they were here for Christmas. “Mom, what are you afraid of?” My heart sunk. I am not afraid, but I feel so guilty. For so many years I have been here for my Dad 24/7. And then just like that, he died. There is no more cooking, cleaning, bed making, snack preparation, ironing his shirts, going for a ride or doctors’ appointments. There are no more fights over him eating too much of the wrong foods and not even of what “he should be” eating. There are no more car shows, cafes for breakfast, or dinners out at our favorite restaurants. There are no more questions why he cannot get on Facebook, or find a message on his iPhone. At the ripe old age of 89, he is just gone.

We had a solid schedule. I went to bed pretty much an hour after him in the evenings and I rose hours before him each day. In the early mornings I would get up start the coffee and take out the dog, and feed him. Then I would fill my cup by going into the living room lighting a candle and start my writing practice. Thanks to Beth Kempton and her book, The Way of the Fearless Writer. Some days I would be writing for hours before I would hear him move about. Other days he would interrupt my writing which would in truth annoy me. I would think to myself, well I guess tomorrow I will be up by 4:00 am instead of 5:00 am.

What I would not give for him to annoy me once more. I have lost my best friend, and I have been so wrapped up in grief that I have not made time for me to heal. He would not like this. He would not like me going to bed so late and just waking up whenever the dog wanted to go out. He would not want me not painting, when he enjoyed looking through the paintings that I was doing each night. In the mornings he would look on the big open hutch in the dining room to see what I left to dry overnight. He would ask why so many birds, or houses, or whatever my latest obsession was. Then there were the greeting cards which he really loved. He would look at the packaging and ask me about each one. Which would give me reason to put one or two away that he really liked for the next holiday, birthday or just because. When he died I found a draw full of cards that I had given him, he saved them all.

Dad had a habit of underlining almost all of the key words in cards that he gave me. From as far back as I can remember there was always those unlined words. I too am a card keeper, and I have kept many cards throughout the years especially those of my children. I have always been a card giver as well. Dad had the most beautiful handwriting for a man that I had ever seen. Of course through the years like everything else his handwriting became less perfect than it used to be, but I could recognize it anywhere.

Last night I stayed up late but I stayed in my studio and I made cards. With a huge sense of accomplishment I got into bed and slept through the night. After dinner last night I thought those cards are not going to paint or write themselves, and I intentionally shut off all the lights downstairs and ventured up to a space that I have not yet really made my own. I moved things around from when my granddaughter was here at Christmas as I made my studio her special place, before I have ever even made a craft, painted a picture, or ventured to the front room to write. Yes, I have a beautiful space that I have created , that is still a mess and not I have not used. I filled the front room with things that I love including my desk, books, and antiques. Then I just starting piling other things in the room until it was not usable. My iMac sits on the desk, along with my old laptop, podcast equipment so that I can read stories to my Grandchildren and send to them, my new laptop is still downstairs which I am writing on now. To be absolutely honest I had to look up the password because it has been that long that I have used it. Upstairs in the studio my overflow of this and that is stacked on my big table up there still wrapped in paper so that my granddaughter could make all the mess she wanted without ruining the table. Clothes hang behind the curtains, clothes that need to be put into a closet that I have still have to construct so that I can move into the first floor bedroom, Dad’s room. He used to say that I would be happy when he was gone because I would have a closet. He was wrong.

The house was built in 1813- it was originally built as the general store - the upstairs bedrooms are nothing more than two very small dormer rooms with no closets. There had been a big closet in the hallway straight across from the stairs, now turned into a 1/2 bath so that you would not fall down the stairs in the middle of night if you had to use a bathroom. There is one step up to the studio which was an attic space because it was either so hot you could not breathe or so cold your would freeze. Dad had a split unit installed and the walls are now insulated. This was my dream to have a studio that I could create in and also use the little office space that I created to write while looking out the window to Main Street. The idea was to get me out of the dining room so that I did not have to move my paints, paper, and whatever craft I was working on each morning so that we could have breakfast. The living room I wanted to use as a place to relax (Dad had the den to relax in which was right next to the kitchen). I didn’t want my printer and all my papers, computers and such to take away from the beauty of this space. I needed a down-time space to read a book or watch a movie, or simply entertain without having to move or hide all of this stuff.

Today, as I write this I know what I must do. I must create the space upstairs to make me want to create and paint. I need to straighten it up and enjoy it. I also need to do the same with little office area. I hired a college kid to take down all of the Christmas decorations which took me over a month to put up. I think that I will do the same with the upstairs. I can hire someone to empty the crates and boxes so that my supplies are where I can find them and bring downstairs anything that needs to be donated. I have tons of things still left to get rid of as I have been purging up a storm. The library thrift shop has benefited greatly with my purging. I try to bring a bag or two each week.

Well, I did it . I wrote without stopping for 50 minutes. My gratitude as always to the London Writers’ Salon for providing a safe environment for all writers each weekday morning. A place where we can be in our thoughts and in our spaces knowing that many others are writing as well. It has been a lifeline knowing that it is there for me.

Thanks Dad for everything. You are missed beyond words.