I am sitting in my darkened house, feeling a bit sad that I had to cancel my classes at Stitches East due to the flu from hades that invaded my lungs this week. When you're ill you are a walking Typhoid Mary that should be quarantined away from all decent (and indecent) folk. And yet, you crave contact and comfort when you feel vulnerable and in pain, some kind of human touch. So as I was wallowing in these thoughts and hacking up a lung, a little voice that's been in the back of my mind got a little bit louder... perhaps it's time to resurrect the blog.
Every day the trajectory of our lives is changed by events, most of them small noise adjustments along our flight path. We adjust and maintain, deciding whether to alter slightly or get back on track. But every once in a while a real game changer comes along, something that changes our trajectory so dramatically that we can do nothing but fly off in the new direction, helpless to adjust our speed or get back to our path, without a guess as to where the new path will take us.
February 21, 2013, my trajectory changed. This was a big one, the biggest one ever. My beloved Rustle, the love of my life for 25 years, suddenly passed away. It is breathtaking, cataclysmically mind numbing, to be thrust into this situation. The disorientation and pain is so great that it feels like there is nothing else, your new reality feels like an atom bomb in your psyche. And, in fact, although I am no longer imploding, I haven't yet really caught my breath. I would love to find my way back to that original path where Rustle and I exist in the same plane, but we all know that isn't possible. The truth about trajectories is that they are fundamentally a function of time and we cannot undo the changes, we can only adjust.
At first I was so disoriented that I wasn't sure whether my trajectory had changed or had, in fact, stopped entirely. When I discovered that I hadn't stopped in my tracks, I wasn't sure what parts of my old path were intact and coming with me on the new path. Would I still be a knitter? Would I live in Eugene? Would I sell all my wordly possessions, buy a winnebago and move to Tibet? Suddenly all possibilities were open, I had 359 degrees of freedom left to me and one degree heartlessly denied. It is both awesomely fierce and awesomely frightening to have this much freedom. It feels groundless, meaningless, weightless and even sometimes a little exhilarating.
Out of this void of widowhood, I have to find my ground, my meaning (I could stand to lose a little weight, so I'll let that part continue to fly).
I have had as many ideas about my future as there have been days since that event... x10. I was going to get a puppy, a pony, a new car. I thought it would be grand to live in a tiny home built into a trailer that I towed around behind me wherever I went. I could move to a farm. Or perhaps I would move to a new city, Portland? Los Angeles? Chicago? Paris? Timbuktu? I could buy some income properties, I could buy a new camera, I could buy some new shoes. Some of these possibilities are still on the table, one or two have actually become reality (hello shiny red fluevogs!), but most of them have been entertained and set aside and, for the most part, I am glad that I haven't (yet) done anything super crazy.
I wasn't sure if I would, could, should share this story on the internet. I spent a while thinking about it, then a while more. I have spent 8 1/2 months deciding that, yes, I do have the courage to share a tiny bit of my life again with my readers (if any of you are left out there reading blogs, or reading my blog).
So here I am. On my new trajectory. Don't know where I'm going, but I need some company. I hope someone out there is still listening and willing to share the ride...