Neighborhood Fairy

It's all Rose's fault.

When she was here, taking care of home and puppy for me while I was out walking El Camino, she was diligent about taking Sylvester for his walks. As she circled the block with him, she noticed one of the neighbors had a small door propped against the base of a tree.

Rose being Rose, she decided a fairy was living in the tree, and one day she made a small note to hang on the door.

"Open Me," it invited.

If you leaned down to open the door, you found a small toy - yours to take if you so desired.

It took a week or so, but one day the toy disappeared, so she replaced it.

The next time the toy disappeared, there was a note from a 4 year-old neighbor (and their mom), thanking the fairy for the gifts.

Rose responded in kind, and this is long about when I returned home from my walk.

She told me what she'd done, handed over a bag of toys to be given away as needed, and told me I was now a tree fairy. There are worse callings in life, so I continued the game.

Late last fall, the neighbor, after taking the gift, put a glitter potion behind the door - it turned the fairy into a unicorn! The fairy took the potion, and after thanking the child, spent several charmed weeks as. a unicorn before turning back into a fairy as winter arrived.

And that's where I dropped it. I, I mean, the fairy, put another gift under the tree, but after it sat for a couple of weeks, I retrieved it, along with the sign, and tucked it away. Out of sight, out of mind.

As spring arrived, I'd see the door on my daily walk, and thought about starting the game again, but didn't actually get out the goods.

Then, last week, I noticed something behind the door - it was another note from my young neighbor, wrapped around another magic glitter potion.

The note said: "Our last potion turned you into a unicorn. This one will turn you back to a fairy. We miss you! I love you - your 4 year-old neighbor"

I might be grieving, but I don't have it in me to take magic away from 4 year-olds. 

I mulled things over for a day or so. Decided if I was to be a tree fairy, I needed a proper fairy name. I came up with a list of options, then let Lexi choose her favorite - she opted for Wren. I wrote a note explaining the unicorn potion had worn off after a couple of weeks, but then I'd caught a ride south for the winter with one of my robin friends. I told them I was back - and it did my heart good to know I'd been missed. (this part is true.) I even went all out and drew a picture of my fairy self riding on the back of the robin.

My young friend hasn't yet retrieved the note - though someone else picked it up, read it, and returned it to its hiding place. I almost hate to admit how much I'm enjoying my part in this story, anticipating the joy on the child's face once they discover their fairy didn't permanently disappear after all.

Good Is.

One More Step

As I understand it, the Jewish tradition holds that funerals for their people should happen within 24 hours of death. (I also understand this practice is not always followed in this day and age.) While I waited for Bob's formal farewell, my emotions were all over the map, and I've decided the Jewish tradition makes a lot of sense. The three weeks between his being set free and his funeral service seemed an eternity. Sooner would have been easier.

Given the givens of my life this past decade and a bit, I have any number of useful tools in my Coping-With-Grief toolkit, and I've needed every one of them.

At this point, the drawers of my toolkit are pulled open at awkward angles, unable to be closed because their contents are a jumbled mess. The assorted tools have been tossed about haphazardly as I looked for the right one to cope with this feeling. Some pieces are on the floor, a few are arranged carefully in a clear spot on the workbench. There is a heap of temporary discards off to one side, tossed there when they quit being useful as my thoughts and emotions teetered down yet another side path.

Goodbyes are hard.

My sister and her husband came down this past weekend to help me get through the funeral, so I wouldn't have to spend the nights surrounding his Celebration of Life alone with my echoes. Their steady presence helped to ease those steps on grief's path. I had someone to talk to, someone to help me plan good meals. I didn't have to muster the energy to reach out for help; help was already here. I am so grateful for their presence.

They've left for home now, but with the service over, I feel readier to look forward. I longer need to devote time and energy into doing what I can to help Bob walk his oh-so-hard path. What shape will those days take? Where will I direct that energy?

It's not going to be easy, but I'm pretty sure I can do this if I keep taking one step at a time. I'm not done with those grief-coping tools, not by a long shot. But today, I'm able to begin to think about straightening up the mess I've made of my toolbox, so I'll be able to find the tools I need when I remember to look for them.

His journey is complete. 
He is free. 
I am free. 

Take One More Step

He is gone. Where he went, I don't know. My eyes keep looking at the Bob-shaped hole in my life, wondering what came next for him. I do know he is free.

His funeral isn't until next weekend. In the meantime, there's a part of me that thinks he's still in his gilded cage, waiting for me to visit. In the meantime, as I plan my week, part of me keeps trying to choose a time to get out there. Then I snap back to reality.

These past few days have been an exercise in taking one more step. I want to just sit and stare, but experience tells me that is not a helpful path to trod, so I've been prodding myself to take the next step, to do the next thing. 

The weather has been helping; spring is in the air. This is one of my favorite weather weeks of the year - the week when the trees still look brown at first glance, but a closer look reveals a fuzziness at the tips of the branches where the leaves have started to peek out of their winter shells. The season has turned.

The world is moving on. It has not stopped for me; has not paused in its turning to let me take a moment to catch my breath, say goodbye, and begin to suss out a new shape to the rhythm of my days. (Hmph. I still think it should...)

Yesterday, the sunshine beckoned me into the back yard; where I spent a quiet hour starting to corral the growing things. I cleaned the grass from my flower beds, the volunteer flowers from the grass; enjoyed getting my hands back into the living dirt. 

Today, it took some doing to get me moving, to run my katas, to exercise. (The time change didn't help.) But despite my best attempts at procrastination, I eventually got myself outside into the morning air; reluctantly started to move. My first motions were stiff, forced. But then muscle memory took over and I started to flow with the movements, muscle and breath awakening with each step.

My skin woke to the sweet caress of the coolness of the morning air. My ears attuned to the bird song chorus filling the air. My eyes sought out the traces of green outlining the lilac bush.

For those minutes, I was in the now; that elusive state where neither past nor future is relevant, where what is, Is. When I finished, a bit of that meditative Peace stayed with me. 

I am here. He is free and so am I.

Still Working on Goodbye

I don't want to write about Bob again today. Goodbyes are hard, and I'm already tired of waking in the night to know he is gone. But thoughts of him are so close to the surface, I have little room in my head for other reflections.

It was such a long and slow goodbye, I had lulled myself into a sense of serenity. I thought surely, with all the times I'd said goodbye to him along the way, I would feel only relief when he was set free and the final goodbye was complete.

Uh huh. As he used to say, "Denial is not just a river in Egypt." I learn this time and time again.

The last year or so of our friendship before his official diagnosis of dementia, we were not close. I knew he was falling into dementia, but he was covering well enough that the world didn't realize what was going on and I wondered myself if I was imagining things. He was angry, his excessive drinking made things worse, and I could no longer trust him to stay in my house, as he often had for years - I was sure, in his inebriated state, he was going to take a tumble down my long, narrow, flight of steps and hurt himself. On my side, I was in the midst of my COVID-induced isolation weirdness, and wasn't thinking entirely straight. (Five months of almost total isolation was NOT good for my mental health.)

I am SO glad he didn't die when our relationship was in that bitter and estranged state. 

This week, as I've looked back across these past few years, I've realized the silver lining of his dementia imprisonment was the removal of alcohol from his brain. Along with the excellent cocktail of drugs he was taking to keep his dementia-induced agitation under control, the loss of his daily dose of systemic depressant made it possible for our friendship to come back to life.

We could no longer share the easy give and take of old; those long evenings spent cooking dinner while talking about our respective days, then watching movies or just quietly reading books. He was no longer connected to that version of life. 

But we could hold hands and walk together. He hadn't been there long before he no longer remembered he was angry with me, so I got to see the return of the man who relaxed and laughed when I came around. I got to see the return of the man who became my best friend so long ago, even as I watched him leave me.

Ouch.

Out walking this morning, I saw the first crocuses in bloom; spring has come early this year.

I felt as if Someone was reminding me I will not stay sad/angry/hurt/relieved/lonely forever.

This, too, shall pass.

Time will work its magic and ease my pain, as it has done so many times before.

He is free, and so am I.