Many years ago, right after high school, in fact, I worked as a paraprofessional at the local mental health clinic in San Luis Obispo. My dad had worked there, but the family moved when he took a job in Alaska, so stayed behind, being gainfully employed.
One of my duties was to sit in on group therapy with members of the Day Treatment program (people with chronic mental illness who are able to function outside an institutional setting). Having to sit in therapy with seriously ill people not only brings elucidation of one's own sanity (and insanity), but also provides genuine human insights.
One day the group therapist was dealing with emotional outbursts about depression and suicidal thoughts. A verbal conflict had broken out between several of the group members, and the therapist shouted, "SHUT UP!" Everyone stopped. He cocked his ear. "What do you hear?" Everyone strained against the quiet. "Nothing," was the general reply. "There's a bird outside the window, singing." Everyone smiled as they acknowledged the masterful mocking bird in the bush as beautiful, nodded, "Oh, yeah." There was a sudden serenity in the room at the connection. "That bird's been singing since we walked into this room; never stopped." People are so ready to grapple with the horrors of life that they often screen out the beauty sitting right in front of them.
That was a good lesson in making choices for me.
Another session, not nearly so dramatic, dealt with something vital: beginning. A group member was talking about how she tried to do things (it was a eclectic list of fairly simple life tasks). "I try and try and try, but I keep failing," she sobbed. "It's such a vicious circle." The therapist replied, "Don't try. When you try, you set up a situation where you win or lose. Simply begin. Without trying, just begin. And if you only do what you want for two minutes, you haven't tried and failed, you have begun. The next time you begin, you can focus on the doing, and not the winning or losing." That one rang a bell for me, even back then. "We are beginning things every day. And as we begin, we become."
Self-actualization was big back in the '70s.
I'm having a problem with beginning these days. In the past months I've gotten really good at being overwhelmed, depressed mourning Steve's death and dealing with the paperwork that ensued. We're reaching the end of that now, and although I'm still grieving, I've got to put some time, energy and thought into beginning. I've created a detailed four-page to-do list (plus a PERT flowchart) of what needs to happen to get the house on the market; that was a genuine begin. I could have done it two weeks ago, rather than putting obstacles in my own way and halfheartedly failing to surmount them. But rather than beat myself over this wheel-spinning, I take this Memorial Day weekend to begin, over and over and over again. Trying feels nothing like beginning.
NEWS FLASH! Just now, for the first time, I realize the real fear here: if I sell the house we lived in together, if I move from the city we called home, if I start anew in a new town, I'll somehow dishonor and forget about Steve; he'll end up like the memory of an old college roommate. So I sit in the house and declutter and clean rather abstractly and avoid driving or going outside. The house is a widower's Womb/Tomb/Cocoon for me. This is all I have left of our life, our marriage, our joy, our love, and I know in my heart I've got to leave it all if I'm to survive.
I now see why widow(er)s keep the cremains and a nice picture of the Loved One: it's a compact and portable way to make sure you remember them without letting the fact of them overshadow your remaining years.
Steve had a great sense of humor. We laughed, even to the end, over the things he'd say. We had mostly good times and many priceless moments. All that drained from my life when he died. I know, deep down in my soul, that I can't have that kind of joy and enjoyment in my life without bidding goodbye to this house, this place where it all ended last year.
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