When I started writing this blog a year ago, I called it “At 62” for several reasons. It was the age I was at the time. It was the age that all three of my husbands left this earth. And because of that, it was the age I had to pass successfully.
I am now, blessedly, 63. Now what?
When Al died, I wrote grief essays. Some of them were used in grief groups, and I felt honored by that. This blog was started, not as a series of grief essays, but because I figured there were so many others like myself, reinventing and rediscovering ourselves in our later years. That rediscovery might be by choice, by fate, or by age. But there’s a commonality to the journey.
Grief has definitely been a part of these essays. But so has happiness. I’m praying that future entries will contain even more of that emotion. Michael played a huge part in the content, and he likely will continue to do so. But so will others who touch my life.
As this first year (once again) on my own ends, I realize several things. First, I’m never really alone. I might physically be so, but my saints and guardian angels are always with me. My friends are but a phone call or a short drive away. Catlin’s grin fills my FaceTime when I need to see my girl.
The fog of grief is lifting, for the most part. I still have days that I simply cannot be productive. I want my energy back, that unrelenting energy that enabled me to keep up with Mike’s incredible pace. Grief has taken that away, and I miss it. And I’m learning that when it’s not used, it’s difficult to reclaim. But it feels good when I find it again. I’ve spent too many evenings either lost in thought or caught up in mindless video games, all to avoid focusing on healing. I do sense Michael is leading me to make certain choices, to see things that need to be done around here, things that I wouldn’t know to notice. I’m seeing life more as he saw it, in so many ways. It’s new for me, and often surprising.
I’m comfortable in my own skin. I’m still working through physical pain and stiffness with my hip, and some days are arguably better than others. I’m settling in and drawing the parameters of my new life – building a new network of friends and connections. Making the list of projects – Rebuilding my consulting business. Rediscovering my love of beads, and finding new creative things to do with them. Sorting through the mass of stuff we brought here with us, curating it to sell and to keep. Organizing. Unpacking the boxes we never got time to empty. Exploring this part of our country. Traveling. Learning new skills. There is so much on the to do list, that I will never live long enough to do it all.
Much of this is on hold right now due to our national quarantine. But our country will eventually open up for business again, and I’ll start to stretch my wings beyond our mountain.
Michael left me with many lessons, both learned and still to ponder. One of the biggest, I think, is the power to live in the moment, to simply savor where I am. To plan for the future, but to live fully and enjoy today. My current life may not be what we planned, not what we imagined, and it’s certainly not with the man I loved to distraction. I never thought I’d be starting over, once again, at 62 years of age. But there are so many overwhelming blessings to celebrate each and every day.
So in the end, as I turn 63, I’ve decided to keep my blog title in honor of the four of us – Jim, Al, Michael and me – and adjust the closing slightly to reflect who I am becoming. No number to the years. Praying for as many as God blesses me to count. And so very, very thankful for those who have helped to shape and mold me over these many turbulent, exciting, adventurous years.
Walking forward wrapped in love…at 62 – and beyond.
At 62 