trajectory

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...

Comments

[Kim in Apex]

Thanks for sharing. You have been missed. Love the shoes!

[Leslie C]

You are one courageous lady. We're here. We're reading. Welcome back. Leslie

[Gale Schulke]

I am so looking forward to the day I can meet you. Probably stitches West.

[Lorilee B]

Flu- bad. Fluevogs- good.

I am sorry we won't all get to see you this weekend. Next time. Hugs.

[Kat]

Alive. Listening. And ready when you are! Much love to you!

[AlisonH]

When you're taking things one step at a time, a perfect pair of new shoes can help somehow.

(I actually have a new pair close to that color myself. This is an utter novelty for someone with 6.5 EE feet where there's so little to choose from but I found them.)

[Andrea]

Sorry to hear you are sick and missing Stitches, but glad to see a blog post from you!

[Cathy]

It is very good to hear from you. You've been in my thoughts often over the past months. I hope you find peace as you continue your journey towards your new "normal" and find your path forward.

[Gail Mowry]

Thank you for being able to share with us. Take all the time and energy to decide what to do or not do. The flu will pass and Thanksgiving will be upon us. One of the things your friends can all agree on is that we are thankful for knowing you.

[Saralyn Harvey]

Sending you so much love, lady. Thank you for sharing. It's really good to hear people speak up and be honest about the grieving process and building a good life after loss.

[Kristine Boncer]

Dear Janel,

I've missed you here.

KristineB

[Lynn]

I've missed you here, too. It was so good to see you at SOAR! And I'm sorry. I think our hearts all ache for you. I hope you find a new path (you certainly found wicked awesome shoes to walk that path!).

[Katie]

Known and unknown, your friends are here.

[Lori Lawson]

You have been through a tough time and you have been missed. Will look forward to reading about your journey in this next chapter of your life.

[Anne M]

What it means to you is the most important, but just dropping in to let you know that your journey means something surprising and important to me, too.

[Chris de Longpre]

Still here. So glad you are too!

[KathyH]

Glad to see you're posting again, what a nice surprise. Feel better.

[sprite]

You have been missed. I'm glad you've decided to come back to share with us.

[Mary Jane]

Right there with you - thanks for this.

[Renee]

What a loss you've sustained. My mother died in March (the last of my immediate family) - and I know what you mean by the false starts and spurts. Thank you for sharing your loss and your gift of clarity.

[Rachelle - Warming Crafts]

I still miss my grandpa who died when I was fifteen; many years ago. We never really forget our loved ones who have gone, but it becomes easier over time to keep living with that loss.
By the way, I love the shoes!

[Theresa Robinett]

Glad you are back as I have missed you and what an entrance you will make with those shoes!
XXOOT

[KathyN]

still here, still listening, and sending gentle hugs.

[Sage Goode]

What a tremendously difficult time ... and what courage you have found. and what great shoes!

[steph]

This made me cry, and you wrote so beautifully. Sending hugs for your loss. Your readers are still here if you want us.

[Karen B]

Beautifully written, thanks for sharing. Love the red shoes.

[Cheekyredhead]

I'm glad that your finding your way. I wondered how you were doing every time I looked at the book shelf across the room from knitting chair. It's where my copies of your books live.

[Susanne]

Yes, still listening. Thanks for sharing, and those are really awesome shoes.

[Karen Frisa]

Wonderful to see you posting again! And I was so happy when I saw that you're teaching at Stitches West. I'm glad that the healing is happening...

[Llewelyn from Ravelry]

You are brave. And inspiring. Thank you for sharing your pain and observations. I am new to the blog and interested in your path.

[Sharon V]

I am so sorry for your loss. I know that the void slowly, but surely, lets in little peeks of light until you can back on your feet. I pray that you heal well.

[Barbara]

Still here, still listening. It was good to hug you at SOAR.

Great shoes - I am off to search the internet for some red shoes of my own.

[Bookaholic]

Still here, and glad you're back here too.

[Anita]

you are in my prayers as you find your way anew.