There was a very popular WordPress blog posting a week or two ago, in which the blogger wrote about his dislike for the phrase “I’m spiritual, not religious”. I was intrigued by his post and the discourse that followed. Since the death of my husband, one of the many struggles I have had, has been with “faith” and my beliefs. I did not grow up with religion, but I have always felt spiritually connected to “something”. I remember using the same phrase years ago; it was a good way to describe myself. I am not sure I would use it now, but I was a little taken aback by the many vehement attitudes against it. The last sentence pretty much sums up the blogger’s opinion,
“It is perhaps one of the emptiest phrases ever developed in the English language.”
Next to the garage of the house I grew up in, there was a discarded tombstone. I was a curious kid, and somewhat morbidly intrigued. It just seemed strange that it was there, so I asked my dad about it. I don’t remember his exact response, but knowing him, he probably explained that it was for someone who had died, but then with certainty, probably assured me that, no, there was no body buried under our garage. But I couldn’t seem to let it go, and even from a young age I expressed my questions artistically, so I drew a picture of it. (Though it should be noted the dates I put on the tombstone were Born 1329 – Died 1977. Apparently the guy lived to be 648 years old. Just goes to show that even from a young age I was a not a “numbers” kind of person). Continue reading
Losing a spouse messes with you in so many ways. Some are very weighty issues, and some seemingly shallow. This past week I had a social week, including an invitation from friends of my husband’s to meet for dinner. As I got ready, I found myself getting very stressed about what to wear.
I’ll admit, figuring out what to wear is not a new issue for me. I like fashion, but I also like to feel that what I am wearing is “appropriate”. For me, continuing to put effort into how I look seems to help in my healing process. Even when my husband was ill, I tried to at least put on the “appearance” of outward “positivity”. And after he died, I knew I wouldn’t be showing my grief by wearing black, it just didn’t feel right. I guess it’s a crutch, a false bravado, that if I try to look good, I will eventually start feeling good – and though seemingly superficial, it’s one I am clinging to for survival. Continue reading