As I write this article, 2-1/2 years after my husband Marty’s death, I am overwhelmed with surprise that so much time has passed. Memories of that first year are wrapped in a surreal haze and when vivid images do surface, the fog lifts and reveals my year of solitary firsts. February 11, 2009, marked the death of my husband, my mate of 42 years.

A quote on the back of the Joyce Carol Oates book, A Widow’s Story, says “of the widow’s countless death-duties there is really just one that matters:  on the first anniversary of her husband’s death, the widow should think ‘I kept myself alive.’ ”  When I read those words, I remember thinking, “I did that.”

My flight to New York for Marty’s Celebration of Life service was laden with emotions.   I remember walking with heavy legs through the airport wanting to scream, “You don’t understand, I just lost my husband.”   Sitting next to a middle-aged couple and wanting to say to them, “You don’t understand your time together is limited.”   Writing a note to Marty on the plane, telling him how alone I was feeling, pressed up against the window, weeping silently and wanting to be invisible.

The Daze

After the Celebration of Life, I turned around to find Marty to say “okay, let’s go home,” and felt a wound to my heart. I had forgotten for an instant that he was gone. That moment brought with it the realization that my husband would never be there to go home with again and that I was no longer Marty’s wife.

I don’t remember the trip back to Florida. All I do remember is the feeling that I wanted to go home.   Entering our house to no one’s arms and a “hi babe” was grim and deafening.   Yet it was also somehow comforting because it was our home, it held our things, and most of all, Marty’s energy was still palpable.

Everywhere I turned, there was a sense of his presence and of his loss.  Marty’s side of the bed was empty, his place at the kitchen table was bare, and his closet was filled with clothing that would never be worn by him again.  I wandered around like a ghost, closing doors. I fell into our bed and tried to avert my eyes to the sights of emptiness and my ears to the sound of silence.

At night, I reached over in my sleep to touch Marty with my hand or foot and awoke with a start remembering that he was GONE.  I woke up at 3 a.m. thinking, “This was the time it happened, this was the hour.”   Sleeping and eating became unwelcomed obligations – what I knew I had to do in order to survive but had no taste for.

Missing Support System

I didn’t have a big support system in Florida and knew that I had to get help.  I met with a hospice counselor who encouraged me to join a bereavement group.  Talking with people who understand grief and who had also experienced loss was as essential part of my healing process.

Sometimes I liken that first year to a soldier returning from the war with PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder).  Images would flash before my eyes at unexpected moments.  When I passed a building associated with Marty’s illness, I would shudder. When I saw an emaciated person who looked ill, I would lose my breath and look away.

Rituals started to emerge. I wrapped myself in Marty’s bathrobe and sprayed it with his cologne every single night – envisioning his arms around me. For more than a year, I wrote letters to him and when I showered, I wrote love notes on the steamy glass shower wall.  I put on Marty’s watch and his Chai because it felt like his “energy.”

Suspended Disbelief

When it came time to pick up Marty’s ashes, I felt anxious and panicked.  As I drove to the crematorium on my own, I was in a state of suspended disbelief. When the container holding his ashes was placed in my car, a sense of calm came over me because I was taking my husband home. I don’t believe that these ashes contain Marty’s spirit, but they sit on a credenza facing the golf course in a special wooden box.  Just in case there’s a bit of his spirit there, I want him to be able to watch his favorite sport.

During the first six months, I called home many times to hear Marty’s voice on the message machine. It took courage for me to change that message. And I only did that because I was able to capture his voice and store it on my computer. I then recorded my first message as Laurel, a single woman.  It was an “I’m not home” message, not a “we’re not home” message.

Every day brought in something new and unanticipated; sometimes it was a day filled with raw emotion. I no longer lived in a state of fear, because the worst had happened – Marty had died. At other times, it was a day that brought me little slivers of hope and optimism. I enrolled in art and writing classes, formed new friendships, and started to live life as a single woman. I was experiencing a renewal and my own transition and there were days when I even managed to smile again.

Nearing the Anniversary

As it got closer to the year “anniversary”, I felt anxious and wanted it to be over with.  I didn’t know what to expect or how I would handle the day. It was very difficult during those two months before the year marker, much tougher than I had thought. I was raw; once again, I was left waiting and, as if in a thunderstorm, fresh tears rained down.

To mark the year gone by, I decided that I would plant a memory tree outside my office window.  Letters from my children, my grandchildren and me, along with some cherished pictures and mementos, were buried in the soil underneath the roots of this memory tree. On February 11^th, 2010, some of my dear friends came over and we held a small ceremony over that tree of love.   It was then that I decided that the day shouldn’t be about loss, but should symbolize something good.   Simply put, I now chose to recognize the day that Marty passed away as one of transition – Marty’s and mine.

In the rush of life, there are many symbolic moments that slip by without notice. After someone you love dies, that first year is filled with memories which are too countless to describe.  That year, the year of solitary firsts, is stitched into my heart. It will be with me however long my forever is.

Read more by Laurel D. Rund on Open to Hope: Hope After the Loss of a Spouse – Open to Hope

Learn more about Laurel on her website: Art From the Heart – Essence of Laurel

The post After Husband’s Death, my Year of ‘Solitary Firsts’ appeared first on Open to Hope.

“Grief is not a task to finish and move on, but an element of yourself.  
An alteration of your being.  A new way seeing.  A new definition of self.”

Up until the last year of my husband Marty’s life,  I had been working as a businesswoman in the corporate world. Luckily,  the Universe handed me the gift of being downsized from my job just before his celiac disease went into a refractory state.  Marty began wasting away in front of my eyes, and as much as I tried, there was nothing that would or could stop the progress of his disease.

One day Marty told me that he was concerned because he felt that “I (Laurel) had no purpose.” When he said that, I got very angry. I left the house,  drove to the beach to be the near the ocean and to calm down.  I breathed in the ocean air, journaled and returned home with a calmer disposition.  I then spoke with Marty and told him, upon reflection, “yes, I do have a purpose, it is to keep you alive!”

At that time, our lives were filled with doctor and emergency room visits, and his multiple hospitalizations.  If you would have asked me before all this started, are you capable of handling such a grueling time,  I would have said,  no – it would overwhelm me!  But,  I did more than I could have imagined as Marty’s sole caregiver and now, with hindsight,  I know how precious that time was for both of us.

I could barely breathe from one health crisis to another and was wrapped in fear most of that time. Although I was held together with “spit and glue,”  somewhere inside of me was the spirit of a warrior who was in a life and death battle to save Marty.

Finally, my doctor said that it was time to bring in hospice. In those last two weeks of Marty’s life,  I wearily put down my warrior’s shield and turned it over to the angelic hospice staff who entered our home.  I was no longer alone and gratefully received the loving care hospice gave to both of us.

On February 11th, 2009 (eight days from our 42nd anniversary,) Marty passed away.   After he took his last breath, and I felt his heart stop beating, the fear that had filled my body was released like a pressure cooker.  Sitting down on the side of the bed,  I felt empty, drained, filled with sadness and grief.

The uncertainty of what was to come was a blur and, truthfully,  I didn’t care.  I was numb – it was one day at at time, one foot in front of the other.  Repeat, do it again and then repeat once more.

The Afterwards …”A new way seeing.  A new definition of self.”

I have struggled over the past nine years to describe the “alteration of my being”  I experienced after Marty’s death. Little did I know that there was an unknown roadmap ahead which would lead me to become the woman I am today!

Grief’s Cloak

I took off grief’s cloak so that its heaviness would be removed.

I needed to lift this shroud of pain and sadness

in order to find out where and who I was without you.

Little by little, the light within me was rekindled.

With a newfound sense of freedom, I grew wings,

felt myself flying, raised up ~ joyous!

Grief’s cloak vanished as I flew.

Riding the waves of life’s currents, I found myself able to soar

without fear or sorrow coursing through my veins.

Experiencing things long postponed, rediscovering life’s possibilities ~

my spirit overflowed with a rainbow of imaginings.

But wait! Was I also trying to outrun grief? No hide and seek here,

it was up ahead ~ my mourning was not complete.

Grief’s cloak is a harsh reminder that loss is real ~

it cannot be pushed away!

And, if not accepted, even honored,

it will clip my wings and leave me unable to fly.

With this in mind, I have learned to say

“Welcome back Grief ~ I acknowledge your presence!”

In death there are no real endings.

The story of us is woven into the fabric of my wings,

and you are forever in my heart!

Remaining connected, even though we are in different forms and space.

You ahead of me, lighting the way ~ the wind upon which I soar,

the sunlit clouds upon which I perch.

Your spirit gently guides me and also reminds me that

it is now time to chart my own course.

Laurel D. Rund

2009

After several months of bereavement counseling, I learned more about the grieving process. A gateway opened which led me to chart a new course.   Something within me began to awaken – my metamorphosis had begun.  A rekindled spiritual being within me said, “Hello … welcome to your light, come home to your heart.”   “Why not?” I said to myself,  “what do you have to lose, the worst has happened!” Fear was no longer in charge, my soul was!

As I stumbled through the door of life without Marty, it took me on a path which introduced me to the healing arts and my inner voice.  I began writing and journaling  as a way to express my grief, confusion and sadness.   My book of poetry and art, Emerging Voices Living On: A Journey Through Loss to Renewal, comes from that first year after the loss of my husband.

New friendships were formed, I was open to trying out the arts, dancing, dating and just being me.  Interestingly enough, several of our couple friends fell off the radar screen. I hear that this happens to others when they have lost their spouse.  Some people come into your life for a season and then they leave.  This was a hard lesson to learn during such a sad time in my life, but I continued on my wondrous journey – learning to trust the Universe.

And, most unexpectedly, several years later, I met a wonderful man and slowly fell in love.  Having an appreciation for and honoring the the individual journey we each experienced before we met, what shaped our lives, is what makes us fit so well together.   My husband of today, Phil, is not at all threatened by the love I had and still have for Marty. He loves and appreciates my first marriage, as I do his.

Funny thing…I had adamantly declared that I would never remarry after Marty died.  I used to say, “What would be the reason to do that?” and yet I took a leap of faith and did it anyway!   Why?   I chose to make a commitment to a beautiful soul, a man who knows the I Am of today.  Our hearts were meant to be shared -it was bashert (written in the stars.)

In Japan, broken objects are often repaired with gold. The flaw is seen as a unique piece of the object’s history, which adds to its beauty.   Please consider this when you feel broken or flawed, you are a beloved being.

The essence of who I am has always been there.  The gift is that my essence is alive and flourishing today – I am a woman whose journey has created a unique and special human being.  Laurel

The post Life After Loss the Afterwards appeared first on Open to Hope.

Artist, poet, and writer Laurel Diane Rund talks about finding hope once again after losing a spouse. Losing her husband took her on a journey to sorrow and personal transformation. According to a Chinese proverb, birds sing because they have a song—not an answer. Rund didn’t have any answers or know how to grieve. However, she knew intuitively that she had a song inside her. Overwhelmed with sadness, she wasn’t an “us” anymore after 42 years with her husband. She felt invisible, alone, and unattached. Death was a tough and unexpected teacher.

If not now, when? That was a question that suddenly arose within her. She no longer had her past, didn’t know about her future, so only her present really mattered. She never thought about titles until she got one she disliked. Her years as a child, mother, wife, businesswoman—she never thought of those titles. However, it was the title of widow that shook her. Today, she gives herself the title of “I am.”

Redefining Yourself

She calls herself vital and alive. Being open to life’s possibilities is a great gift. The death of a loved one is actually one of life’s greatest gifts. It brought her self-awareness and a spiritual transformation. Her art emerged when she began working with a grief counselor. Sometimes she was an artist first, other times she was a poet and writer first. It was a natural fit for her. It soothed her wounds and put her on a positive path.

She created the book Emerging Voices from her own experience as a bereaved spouse. There’s great comfort in writing, which is why there are plenty of blank pages within her own book. It’s a place of comfort and hope.

The post Hope After the Loss of a Spouse appeared first on Open to Hope.

Ina Wexler Fleisig

Ina, my mother, died 13 months after I was born.  For most of my life, I felt like a “motherless child.”  She became a ghost-like fantasy to me, which is probably why I liked fairytales so much as a kid. Maybe I was wishing for a happy ending.

My father remarried when I was four (not a fairytale ending by any means)  and the stories and pictures of my mother were buried in the vault of the past.  Because Ina did not have an extended family, she got lost in the ether.  It felt to me that the only evidence of her being here on this earth was the existence of my two older brothers and myself.  I wondered about this woman who gave birth to me, and questioned whether I would have turned out differently if she had lived.  Loss became the prevailing theme in telling my life story.

After experiencing the loss of my husband and gaining a new perspective on death, I have come to understand that I did get to be with and know my mother during that nine-month gestation period in her womb.  Ina left a loving imprint on me, providing the fertile ground that has nurtured my spirit and helped grow me into the person I am today.

The vision I have always “seen” of my mother’s hands gently protecting and guiding me throughout my life, and this ephiphany, has shifted me.  I have come “full circle” to a place of belief and love for what time we had together.  Laurel

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COMING FULL CIRCLE – a letter from a daughter to her mother

When I picked you from afar, I knew that you would gift me with life. With intention and purpose, I floated into your womb… absorbing your molecules and making them mine.

While tethered to you, I was cared for and fearless as you willingly provided nourishment, safety and unconditional love.  I was enveloped by the sounds in the depths of your belly, and your heart and mine beat together in a life-forming synchronistic rhythm.  Within the sanctuary of your womb, I grew from a seedling into a tiny being … swimming, kicking and moving about unabashedly.

The nine months I spent inside your belly strengthened and prepared me for what was to come in the “outside world.”  As the time of gestation was  coming to an end, I tried to hold on, to resist the next part of my journey ~ I must have  a known that our time together on earth would be cut short.

Nonetheless, you pushed me forward. Your body urged me to move into the world, like an ocean wave crashing towards the shore.   As I gulped in my first breathe of air and cried out, you breathed a sigh of relief, knowing with certainty that I would survive.

And then, as a sign of your eternal love, you bestowed upon me the unique and beautiful name to which I answer.  I am and always will be your Laurel Diane.

In the afternoon of my life, I have come to appreciate and be grateful for the the bonds that were built during those first nine months we spent together.  Although you had only one precious year left on earth to be with me,  your loving imprint is permanently affixed to my heart.

Laurel Diane Rund- 9/2013

The post Coming Full Circle: A Letter from Daughter to a Mother Who Died Young appeared first on Open to Hope.

I recently spent some time with a special friend and she told me how she came to name her upcoming book  (which I hope to feature in a future blog).  What follows is my reaction to the story of her experience.

At a New Year’s Day service, which is a time of beginnings, my friend participated in a “White Stone Ceremony.”  During the ceremony, each person was given a white stone and participated in a meditation which lead them into receiving a word that encouraged their spirit to celebrate a new beginning.

My friend was asked to hold her stone, feel its energy, and go within to discover a word which called to her.  After a few minutes of meditating, the word “JOY” emerged. Knowing that she had found her personal word and her purpose, she wrote  ”JOY” on the white stone.

While listening to this story, goose bumps began to travel up and down my arms.   I kept seeing and hearing the words I AM OPEN, and immediately knew that these are my own “White Stone” words.

Oprah Winfrey said, “You have to find what sparks a light in you so that you, in your own way, can illuminate the world.”

I AM Open illuminates my world.  At the start of each day,  I am open to the belief that it brings with it a breath of fresh air … a new beginning!

Watch the Video →Welcome to the World of Essence of Laurel 

The post My Words to Live By: I Am Open appeared first on Open to Hope.

I loved my husband for 44 years (notwithstanding all the ups and downs of most marriages).  Today, I am blessed to be in a committed and loving relationship with a wonderful man who has graced my life in many unexpected ways.  We understand that we each bring our own life history into the mix, which enriches the bond between us..

Mature relationships are so different from the ones we had when we were young and always looking forward. In addition, I have the perspective of time and the experience of loss, which has taught me to be grateful for what is here right now in the present moment.

THE YIN AND YANG OF LOVE

And this brings me to the angst that is the Yin and Yang of love that stirs within my heart.

I have been worried that the love I hold for my husband would somehow be lessened or lost because of my newfound love.  I wondered if I could love two men, quite differently, in a balanced and peaceful way alongside each other?

“Yin and yang are two sides of dualism. It is the tail and the head of a coin. The tail is yin, and then the head is yang. They exist alongside one another. The head cannot exist without the tail, and the tail cannot exist without the head.  The earth we live on is yin, and the sun that brings us warmth is yang. Sadness is yin, while joyfulness is yang.” (Tao-In-You.com)

At lunch the other day, I shared with a friend, who was widowed after 60+ years of marriage, that I was struggling with the yin and yange of love in my heart.  She looked at me and said, “Don’t you have room in your heart to love all of your children?” That simple question was an “Aha Moment!” for me.

I immediately flashed back to a memory of being pregnant with my second son and wondering how in the world I could possibly love another child as much as my first.  As soon as he was born, the love for my “second child” enveloped me; the question of how much capacity I had to love became a moot point.

My heart has room for many loves – my husband, my new mate, family, friends, and pets.  It is a big place with infinite capacity.

In the past, when one of our pets died and we got a new cat or dog, not a replacement, but another pet to love ~ I didn’t worry about room in my heart.  I didn’t worry about losing the memories of that beloved pet.  I am not likening the death of my husband to a pet, but the point here is that I am more than capable of holding countless “loves” in my heart.

I consider myself very lucky and am grateful to have found a loving man who honors my past, as I do his.  In our sixties, we know that our individual journeys, before we met, prepared us to find the love we have for each other today. We have blended our lives and are building our own history ~ each and every treasured day that we spend together. I am not being disloyal to my deceased husband; I am honoring the love we had by being open to life’s possibilities.

Today was a watershed moment for me.  The questioning within me has been answered and my heart is open and at ease.

As Rumi said, “Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”  …  I whole “heartedly” agree!

Laurel D. Rund ~ January 2013

The post The Yin and Yang of Love after Spouse-Loss appeared first on Open to Hope.

For me, it was about letting go of fear and finding my creative voice. The poem still inspires me today. “LDR” equals Laurel Diane Rund saying “YES” to life! That’s my Essence talking about the here and now. 

This Puzzle Called Life by Laurel D. Rund (c) 2010

This Puzzle Called Life 

Pieced together throughout the years,

the outside border of this puzzle called “life”

presents itself as my human form.

Like a comfy pair of shoes, it is easy to wear

and visible for all to see.

Ah, but the inside pieces are much more

complex ~ hidden from view.

They are a reflection of my spirit, of my soul!

I have finally come to understand that these

puzzle pieces ought not be rigid or unyielding.

They should be sturdy, pliable and unrestrained

because life is about change and wisdom gained.

In the past, I was intimidated by puzzles,

put off by the frustration of not being able

to see how everything fits together.

Today, as I move my life’s puzzle pieces around

and new shapes take form, I am filled

with curiosity and confidence.

These colorful images are a kaleidoscope which

reveal my intent, my purpose and the gifts within me.

Laurel D. Rund (c) 2010

The post This Puzzle Called Life by Laurel D. Rund appeared first on Open to Hope.

My feelings of grief and loss are complicated and intertwined within my very being.   After my husband Marty’s death in 2009, I wrote a poem called “Grief’s Cloak”.  An excerpt from that poem came back to “haunt” me recently.

“But wait!  Was I also trying to outrun grief? 

No hide and seek here, it was up ahead ~ my mourning was not complete.

Grief’s cloak is a harsh reminder that loss is real ~ it cannot be pushed away!

And, if not accepted, even honored, it will clip my wings and leave me unable to fly.

With this in mind, I have learned to say

 Welcome back Grief  ~ I acknowledge your presence!”

Grief reared up again after my recent hysterectomy and I knew that I had to acknowledge its presence.  Why, you might ask would this operation cause me to go into a place of mourning and loss?   Even though I had gone through menopause, and my ovaries and cervix no longer served a “purpose”, my womb represented my feminine core and it was alive with meaningful cellular memories.

I felt numb and shut down; angry and off-balance.  Some of this is the natural aftermath of major surgery and anesthesia.  But, the unexpected emotional ache I was experiencing felt dark and sad.  My womb was the place where Marty and I co-created three children (one of whom we lost in an early term miscarriage).   It was a sacred place where we gave the ultimate gift to each other – the combining of our cells to bring new life into the world – our sons.   I felt like I had just lost another piece of my husband and wondered how much more of his memory could I stand to lose?

As I struggled with all of these “complicated” feelings of loss after the hysterectomy, I began to journal again.   It was during one of these writing moments that I started to shift my belief system.   I realized that, although I had lost my physical womb, my spiritual womb was still intact and within me.   What and where you might ask am I talking about?  My shift took me on a journey to my heart, my spiritual “womb”.  It is from my heart that I love, remember and nurture; and it is where my feminine spirit is alive, strong and vibrant.

With this thought in mind, I blessed and released my physical womb with gratitude for what it brought into my life.  It is my intent is to honor and open my heart to life’s memories and possibilities every day that I can.  Yes, loss is complicated and grief can take on an unexpected shape in the blink of an eye, but when I am open and willing to “listen” to my inner voice, spiritual shifts can also happen which lead me to a place of hope and gratitude.

Laurel D. Rund – June 6th, 2012

Belief and Intent

The post Loss is So Complicated – Unexpected Triggers appeared first on Open to Hope.

When I took my drawing pad outside to work on this assignment, to my horror and dismay I discovered that “my tree” was missing.   It had been taken down and replaced with an ordinary palm tree.   So, in a state of grief and loss, I drew my tree from one of the many pictures I had taken of it.

Once completed, I also wrote an elegy to this tree, my tree.   It speaks volumes about what I was experiencing at that time in my life – a loss of any kind created a raw emotion that went down to my very core.  The poem and artwork about “my tree” will always speak to my soul.  And, as I have traveled with my work to art shows, it is one of my most popular pieces.  It has a story and each traveler is touched in some way by  the image of the tree.  It is spiritual in nature, and I don’t think I had much to do with creating it other than to have it come through me onto paper.  The image and words are  meant to be shared.

Strength and Glory ~ Elegy to a Tree

Welcoming all to a vision of grandeur,

you stood tall and proud with your trunk rooted firmly in the ground

as your limbs reached towards the heavens.

I watched in awe as playful birds rested on your bare branches,

and marveled when your sparse limbs were

 illuminated by gleaming sunbeams.

You withstood the force of fierce winds, unrestrained rainstorms

and seemed to revel as lightning danced raggedly around you.

During your time on earth, your spirit was one of

beauty, dignity, grace and, above all, courage.

Then suddenly one day you disappeared!

 Thoughtlessly cut down to fulfill

man’s need for youthful perfection, you were

replaced with a rather unremarkable seedling.

Was it was time for your journey to

come to an end so that a new life could begin?

Nonetheless, your loss was jarring.

 Know this oh grand tree ~

 the indelible image of your

magnificent strength and glory

 will always have a home within my soul!

© Laurel  D. Rund 2009

Note:  On the first year marker of Marty’s death, February 11th, 2010, I planted a beautiful bottle brush tree outside my office window with notes from me and my grandchildren under the roots of the tree.  Birds and butterflies land on this tree, and it gives me great solace every time I look up from my computer and see it.  It is the symbol of hope and regrowth.

The post Strength and Glory after Husband’s Death: Elegy to a Tree appeared first on Open to Hope.

Renewal

A week or two ago, a beautiful dove built a nest in a palm tree next to my house. It was nestled in a space where a palm frond had been, and there she sat on two white eggs. None of the activity of the house scared her away – lawn mowing, power washing the house, the pool generator. That mother dove centered herself on her nest in a tranquil and protective state as she waited for her eggs to hatch. She brought peace and optimism with her.

My significant other –my love partner – and I would go outside and quietly observe this beautiful and peaceful scene several times a day. It had special significance to us because it symbolized hope and new beginnings. He took wonderful pictures of “our” dove in her nest and I published them on Facebook with a note about the meaning that a dove brings to life. Those pictures touched the hearts of many, including my granddaughters who thought they were “awesome.”

Last night there was a much needed and welcomed rainstorm here in Florida. This morning, with coffee in hand, I went outside to visit the dove to see how she did after the rain. My heart was jolted when I saw that the storm had torn away the nest from the tree and the dove was nowhere to be seen. There on the ground were the remnants of the mama bird’s nest and the two white eggs, one of which was broken. I wept in sorrow and in loss.

Before I went out this morning to visit the dove’s nest, I signed onto my computer to visit a site called “Open to Hope” to see if a piece I sent them as a contributing author was published (it came out today, April 21). The piece, a poem, was written in 2009 two months after my husband Marty passed away. It is titled “The Storm” and the words continue to have meaning to me. The storm swept away the life I had for 42 years, and I was left with no choice but to slowly rebuild a new one. Just as the dove will no doubt find another tree to build a nest in and patiently wait for her eggs to hatch, the loss of this nest will not stop her from “going on”. I’m not sure what to make of this moment ~ maybe to remember that storms occur in every living creature’s life – and that survival and rebuilding one’s proverbial nest (life) is the key.

My journey since my husband’s death and that devastating “storm” has taken me on a winding road of countless steps. After a summer rainstorm, what very often follows is the sweet smell of renewal in the air. The tears I shed during my times of grief stirred something different and promising within me, but to love again seemed unfathomable. In the past three years I have experienced a newfound sense of purpose through writing and artwork; an awareness of my own spirituality; and a sweet and gentle love for a man who has swept into my heart in the most unexpected way.

When an annual flowering plant ceases to blossom and withers away, leaving an empty space in its place, in time something magical occurs. After a period of nurturing and regrowth in the earth, the plant slowly resurfaces and reaches to the heavens in full bloom and renewal. A quote by Walter Anderson that sits on my computer desktop reminded me today “I am responsible. Although I may not be able to prevent the worst from happening, I am responsible for my attitude toward the inevitable misfortunes that darken life. Bad things do happen; how I respond to them defines my character and the quality of my life. I can choose to sit in perpetual sadness, immobilized by the gravity of my loss, or I can choose to rise from the pain and treasure the most precious gift I have – life itself.” Walter Anderson

The Storm

written by Laurel D. Rund on 4.12.09

As the thunder rolled and signaled danger,

we kept fighting our way through

the confusing maze of gathered facts,

disappointments, setbacks, and fear.

As you disappeared inch by inch, pound by pound,

I averted my eyes to avoid what I was seeing.

And closed my ears to what I was hearing.

Your lovely smile was fading and

your magnificent presence was disappearing

in the midst of our denial.

Then, lightning struck!

It was sharp and jagged and

it crackled and tormented our very beings!

We ran for cover, seeking protection from

the onslaught to come.

But, there was nowhere left to hide.

The zig-zag of harsh light

made us open our eyes, our souls,

to the understanding that we had finally run out of time.

Frightened, yet quietly relieved, we surrendered to the inevitable.

After the storm, your spirit was gently released,

and for you my darling,

the rainbow beckoned and a new passage began.

Our journey together came to an end.

As “We” ceased to be an “Us,”

I was left waiting for the clouds to retreat

and for a sliver of hope to emerge.

For now, there is a deafening silence.

Dedicated to my husband Martin Rund who passed away on February 11th, 2009

The post The Storm, the Dove, Renewal appeared first on Open to Hope.

“A bird does not sing because it has an answer; it sings because it has a song!” Chinese Proverb

After my husband’s death, I felt alone, undefined and invisible. At that time I wrote in my personal journal, “I am from a generation of women whose definition of ourselves was shaped by having our consciousness raised. Although I have aged with courage and grace, our youth-oriented culture ignores women past 60 as too old; lacking value and indiscernible.” Oh how wrong I was! These words no longer ring true and I am anything but invisible.

“Life’s not about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain!” Vivian Green.

My healing process began through the gift of time, wisdom learned and the determination to live on. I ventured outside my comfort zone, listening to a voice within me insisting “if not now, when?”

Death can be a great teacher. It woke me up from complacency to an understanding that all I have is the present moment. My past is over (though a part of what makes me who I am), my future is undefined and my today is what counts. It is truly all I have. Learning how to just Be has been a huge life lesson ~ a gift that keeps on giving.

It’s funny how you don’t think about the titles that are bestowed upon you during your life’s journey. Baby, child, young girl, woman, wife, mother, business titles – and then “widow.” Some titles you are happy to own, others are unasked for. The title that best describes me today is I Am! I Am vital, I Am alive, I Am love and I Am open to life’s possibilities!

Laurel Rund 2011

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She knew that it was really too soon to start dating again, but the computer drew her in and offered temporary distraction from her grief.   Sam was gone only three months, and her loneliness felt bottomless and searing.  The pain was mind numbing, and she was filled with chaotic noise.

Liana was surprised that the thought of another man even entered her head.  She was searching for comfort and was drawn to the images coming from her computer.

She was acutely aware that there was no one to put his arm around her shoulder in a familiar and loving way.  It was the knowing that Sam wasn’t there to embrace her, or to share in a lingering and familiar kiss.  It was the sadness she had knowing that she was no longer held special in his eyes, or that she would never again feel the safety of his arms.   His being was gone and the curtain had come down on their shared history.

While looking at the computer screen, she wondered if she would ever “fit” with someone again?   It was as if she would be an alien meeting a human for the first time.  After so many years, 44, to be precise, Liana didn’t know what someone else would feel like.  How would she feel when someone other than Sam kissed or touched her?

She shuddered when she used the word widow.  It was a label she hadn’t anticipated, and didn’t want to embody. She could taste the bitterness surging through her body. Liana stroked the image of Sam’s face in his picture.  She said out loud with tears flowing down her cheeks, “why did you leave me?  How could you do that to me, to us at this time in our lives?”

Seeking comfort, Liana wrapped herself in Sam’s bathrobe, sniffing it to catch a whiff of him.  She often sprayed his bathrobe with his favorite cologne – a familiar and delicious smell.  The bathrobe brought back so many memories – when she would stand behind him, wrap her arms around him, and nuzzle into him.  Sam would laugh and turn his face to her with his winning grin.  Never to be relived again, just to be replayed in her memory as a treasured moment.

Liana wandered into the kitchen and rummaged though the pantry looking for something to push down her pain.  Nothing worked, nothing removed the bitter taste, and even chewing was an effort.  She felt lost, weary and lonely.

So she reluctantly made her way into their bedroom with her beloved cats in tow.  Liana’s cats had been sentinels at her side during the ordeal of his dying and death. They knew something was wrong, and tried to comfort her by curling up beside her – nuzzling her arm, hitting her with their tails.  They slept nearby which helped ease her loneliness.

Her side of the king sized bed shrunk; she slept near the edge – not wanting to move into the sacred space where she used to snuggle into him.  Sam’s side of the bed was empty and a reminder of his absence.  She could barely look at it and covered up the vacant space by putting things there — magazines, books, folders, and papers.

During those rare moments when she actually slept, out of habit Liana would reach out to touch him, nudge him with her foot, put her hand on his back to make sure he was breathing.  These “things” gave her something to touch other than empty space.

While sitting in their bed and silently weeping, Liana often wrote Sam letters, sharing words for him to hear.  She knew that Sam’s energy was there, and if he could, he would have reached through the ethers to comfort her.

Throughout their ordeal, Sam’s eyes told her that he desperately wanted to protect her from what was to come, but he didn’t know how.  Her heart actually hurt and her grief oozed out when that image emerged.  She was wounded and raw, and felt like a stranger in her own body and mind.

Liana knew that she was in uncharted waters. It was another beginning, a new unanticipated journey.  Her survival instincts kicked in and she made an appointment with a hospice bereavement counselor, intuitively knowing this would help guide her through the maze of her loss, her grief.

After finally falling into a fitful sleep she awoke with a start, and these words surfaced: “Where are you? Where are you? “  The silence in their bedroom provided no comfort, no answer.  Just the blinking of a digital clock telling her that it had been his time to go, and it was her time to learn how to “be” on her own.   Together, as a couple, Sam and Liana’s life had been filled with treasured gifts. Now, on her own, there were life lessons ahead to experience.

The next morning, Liana sat in bed with her coffee and opened her laptop.  The computer blinked, a new cyber-space stranger had noticed her and wanted to communicate.  And, so, another day began with a “wink” and a “nod”.

Laurel D. Rund 2011

The post Widow Wonders if She’ll Ever ‘Fit’ with Another Man appeared first on Open to Hope.

At other times, the voice of grief came in at a different frequency ~ like a low, annoying and distracting hum, with no shut-off valve.  It left her feeling agitated, disoriented and unsure as how to move forward, how to put one foot in front of another.  It seemed as if daylight had arrived and was out of reach ~ too far in the distance for her to see.

Then, with the passing of time, a soft voice began to emerge from within. Eerily quiet and without static; it was gentle, compassionate and encouraging.  Perhaps it was guided by powers beyond her understanding or her grasp, but it didn’t really matter because she knew instinctively that she was hearing her own voice, her own spirit. So, she turned inward and listened.  To her surprise, as the fog of sorrow lifted, she experienced visions of clarity, glimmers of hope and tiny moments of happiness.

It was then that she understood the voice of grief had been comforted ~ not put away ~ but eased.   She had finally found the Entrance sign to her new life. Intuitively, she knew that she was emerging!

Laurel Rund 2011

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Fading Images Sacred Days

As I look around me today, I see my life in all its colors.   But, there seems to be a film noir running in the background of my mind, and I hear a faint clickity-clack as the movie reel turns.

Some familiar scene, object or event triggers my memory to push forward – out of storage.  Sometimes the faded image comes with a gentle nudge; sometimes it is like an electrical current that lights up the sky. The moment passes almost too quickly for me to make sense of it – like a fleeting dream you struggle to recall.

I try to remember to live in the present moment – an important lesson learned after my husband’s death.  When I do, the day arrives in full color.  But these triggers bring me back to the past and my memory starts playing clickity-clack in the background.  One foot in the present moment, one foot going back into a remembrance from another day.  My breathing almost stops when I get caught up in both these worlds.

At other times, it feels like déjà vu.  I know that I have experienced something like this before, but where and when?   Although the memories are recalled in black and white, they are allowing me to remember things long stored away.  I believe that grief is finally letting me to draw back its curtains so that I can recall and experience the precious times that I shared with my husband.

I am so grateful that these memories are flooding in ~ instead of the ones that have replayed over and over in my head since my husband’s death in 2009.   The painful images of our last year together, fighting to keep Marty alive, blocked me from being able to recollect treasured events that took place in our 42-year marriage. The horrific images that persisted and haunted me were of my husband’s decline; our determination to beat his illness, each frightening trip to the hospital’s emergency unit, the knowing look in Marty’s eyes as he physically began to fade away, and of my frenzied attempts to hold our world together ~ to keep my husband from dying, from leaving me.

Snapshots of my life with Marty are slowly returning.  They are fleeting and come about at unexpected moments – but they are emerging and coming to life once again.   Sometimes these memories are bittersweet; but often times they are delicious and make me smile from my heart.

The Navajo Indians believe our lives are lived in cycles.  When the sun goes down, it is a time to reflect – to see if we are on the right path.  They believe that a new sun is born every day and that we must hold each new day sacred.  As night falls, I now understand why my memories fade into black and white with shades of grey. Because ~ I am meant to experience the radiant colors that each sacred day brings forth!

Laurel D. Rund 2011

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I was getting my hair cut and colored one day without any thought other than, I really, really need to have my roots colored.   Picture this, a woman sitting in the hair salon chair with her hair sticking up as if she had stuck her finger in an electrical socket.  Now come on, this is supposed to be a place where you can look your worst so that you can look your best – right?

The woman who cuts and colors my hair was also working with a gentlemen sitting to the left of me. (He was preoccupied with his iPhone.)   I paid him little mind when, out of the blue, my hairdresser introduces me to the man.   After squirming with internal protest,  I put on a smile and politely said hello.    Then I quickly turned my head to my hairdresser and said, “ARE YOU CRAZY!”

Well, this man and I began to talk.  He liked my name, Laurel, and asked what color flower it was (clever pick-up line if I say so myself).  I carefreely said, “If you really want to know who I am, go to www.essenceoflaurel.com, my website,” knowing that it represented the woman I am today, including a picture of me without my hair standing up at all angles.

It took just a few seconds for this guy to go to my web site (thank you, iPhone.)  I watched in amazement, once he found the site, how he reacted to my art and poetry.  It seemed to startle him in a good way, and it was then that we actually began to talk.   We could have been at a coffee shop or having a glass of wine together; the imagery of where we were quickly faded away. It was what we were “seeing” in each other that piqued our interest.  And, it didn’t hurt that he had a velvet voice that went right through me.

The long and the short of it is that we did meet for dinner, then a movie, and then on and on and on.   What I was experiencing/feeling started to frighten me, because I wasn’t, repeat wasn’t, seeing any red flags or looking for someone.   Having spent the last year plus getting back on my feet after losing my husband, and building a new life for myself, I didn’t want to “lose my freedom.”

I was re-emerging and discovering the woman I am today, and didn’t want to go into a relationship that would sidetrack me on this journey. I had made new friends, discovered my creative spirit and spiritual side, and was incorporating joy back into my life.

Well folks, someone very important in my life said to me “Laurel, if you are afraid of losing your freedom, you are NOT TRULY FREE!” Then she added, “Just Be.”

Those words said it all – I got it! So, I relaxed and decided to let the relationship and each day form itself as it is meant to be.   This man, whom I care very deeply about, is partnering with me in a wondrous way because he understands my need to keep true to my essence – the woman who has emerged today.   And, I understand that he needs to do the same for himself.

Romance in my 60s has a lot of unexpected benefits.   Time compresses, wisdom is stored within and called upon, and I have time to just be.   I thought I would be invisible after my husband’s death.   What I didn’t realize is that I just needed to look into the mirror of life and see me. The rest has been falling into place – one day, one hour, one minute at a time.

Just Be!

What follows is a poem I wrote after meeting my special someone.   I sent it to him so that he would understand the questions that I had about our relationship.

Can We ~ Will We?

You have entered my life in the most unexpected way

and at the most unforeseen time.

Dare I believe that, as we open our hearts and souls,

we can be together and yet separate at the same time?

Will we mirror back to each other with tenderness and acceptance?

Can I give myself to you without losing “Me?”

Will we treat one another’s spirit gently, offering comfort

and understanding without judgment?

Can we be trusting and quiet with each other ~

without fear, without boundaries?

Will your hold be filled with the strength and tenderness that I so desire?

When we lean back into each other’s arms, can we just “Be”?

If I let you into my world, and want you to stay,

will you understand my desire to take wing, to fly?

And, when I return, will you cup my heart

in open hands and be my nesting place?

Can we nurture each other, while listening

to the rhythm of one another’s soul music?

Can we play like butterflies flitting over a

flower-filled meadow, tasting each other’s nectar?

Or jump into a waterfall together,

experience delight, and bask in each other’s spirit?

Will our relationship be peaceful, filled with optimism

and the colors of a rainbow?

On this journey called “Life,” were we

supposed to meet and share our hearts?

Can I rest safely in your arms as we breathe together and apart?

Has our soul story just begun ~ will you make my heart “Sing?”

Laurel D. Rund 2011

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