Two Years Past

I'm a tortoise. 

I was in London on June 11 and Brendan mixed margaritas in Rob's honour, and we drank I have no idea how many. I woke the next morning fuzzy headed and cried.

I am surprised that two years have passed and although I have struggled doing Rob's chores as well as my own, I have coped. I am a little more accepting that our relationship wasn't perfect and underneath the married dialogue, we admired and trusted each other beyond measure. I wish that we could have talked more, made love more and that I had barked less and been kinder. Still I am grateful that our highs were pretty damn spectacular. 

I posted this video on Facebook because I want him to know he is not forgotten and I wanted to publicly acknowledge this. I have watched this slideshow over and over and what I keep seeing is his arms draped round me. His sister said that I was the love of his life. I see now that he was the love of mine.

I will forever be grateful for that last kiss. 

You and me

Sittin' in the back my memory
Like a honey bee
Buzzin' 'round a glass of sweet Chablis
...

Soul to soul

Heart to heart

And cheek to cheek
Come on baby
Give me a kiss
That'll last [a lifetime]

(Long Monday by John Prine)

 

When despair grows in me

 and I wake in the night at the least sound 

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought 

of grief. I come into the presence of still water. 

And I feel above me the day-blind stars 

waiting for their light. For a time 

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. 

Wendell Berry

Our house is a very very very fine house

 Since Rob's tragic fall, our house has become my house, and I no longer want to spend all my time here. 

Still, it is a very fine house in a 13th century Bastide town in the south of France, surrounded by sunflower fields and vineyards. 

Years ago, when Marlene agreed to hold workshops here, we called it the writing house and women from around the world came to write. When only we were at home, Rob. and I wrote. It's perfect for ruminating, for wandering around the countryside and for putting pen to paper. There are two offices with desks although I often find myself writing at the long kitchen table or on the outside table on the terrace. 

My house has a resident cat, an arrogant miss called Fauci who we adopted during the pandemic. At first, we thought she was a he and by the time we found out her gender, Fauci liked her name. She only demands to be fed once a day and be stroked when she so desires.

My house has many stairs and to make the ascent more interesting, I painted favourite quotes from family and friends on some of the steps.

I am looking for a good person or a couple to fly to France and care for my house and cat. One month is fine but two or more months is better.

If this appeals to you, please contact me at byyoung@mac.com.

Thank you. 

Death, be not proud

My sister Gael's beloved died April 24, 2025, nearly exactly to the day, two years ago, that Rob took his tragic fall. I am mourning the death of yet another good man. 

Larry was a husband, father, grandfather, brother and friend.

He was also a teacher, a dreamer, an inventor, a storyteller and know-it-all.
To put it simply, this world is left less interesting without him. And for those lucky to have loved him, his passing is incomprehensible.
---
Larry was born March 5, 1953, in Calgary, and grew up in small town Alberta. He spent his early days torturing his sisters, making friends with animals and figuring out the man he wanted to be. He left home to learn and adventure in forests and mountains. He eventually made his way to Ontario where he'd stay for over 30 years. Here, Larry found a community and with luck on his side, into his world came a wife, and her two young girls.
Larry's life was full. He spent these years becoming a champion for safety and supporting local
politics. He always made time to lend support to local causes and make the many people in his
life feel important. He nurtured his interest in games and stories and learned to cook and DIY.
He never stopped loving nature and travel and dreaming of his next adventure.
In time, he was gifted with two granddaughters and two grandsons and his role as grandpa may
have been his most cherished.
That Larry's story ends with an inexplicable illness, is not what anyone would have chosen. But
he left as he lived, surrounded by so much love.

My friend Wenda sent me this poem last week and it describes so much of what I've felt since Rob's death but the last stanza, I don't recognize as my tears still flow. I am thinking of my sister whose grief is raw. 

For Grief | John O’Donohue

When you lose someone you love, 
Your life becomes strange, 
The ground beneath you gets fragile, 
Your thoughts make your eyes unsure; 
And some dead echo drags your voice down 
Where words have no confidence. 

Your heart has grown heavy with loss; 
And though this loss has wounded others too, 
No one knows what has been taken from you 
When the silence of absence deepens. 

Flickers of guilt kindle regret 
For all that was left unsaid or undone. 

There are days when you wake up happy; 
Again inside the fullness of life, 
Until the moment breaks 
And you are thrown back 
Onto the black tide of loss. 

Days when you have your heart back, 
You are able to function well 
Until in the middle of work or encounter, 
Suddenly with no warning, 
You are ambushed by grief. 

It becomes hard to trust yourself. 
All you can depend on now is that 
Sorrow will remain faithful to itself. 
More than you, it knows its way 
And will find the right time 
To pull and pull the rope of grief 
Until that coiled hill of tears 
Has reduced to its last drop. 

Gradually, you will learn acquaintance 
With the invisible form of your departed; 
And, when the work of grief is done, 
The wound of loss will heal 
And you will have learned 
To wean your eyes 
From that gap in the air 
And be able to enter the hearth 
In your soul where your loved one 
Has awaited your return 
All the time.

I hope that Rob and Larry are enjoying margaritas together. I hope that they are in some magical place - the place that my grandson Seb described - having a good time.

"My life is a dot lost among thousands of other dots".

From snow monkeys to two little boy monkeys, my Japan adventure has been full to the brim with noise, much movement, culinary delights, sacred temples, a spring festival in Kanazawa and so much more.

My strongest images are of cherry blossoms, wasabi fields, and Japanese architecture. 

I have had two weeks travelling as a group and now everyone has flown home and I am alone. I am alone. No one to lead me to the sights. No Jane and Brendan to lead me to restaurants and interpret menus. What do I want from this trip to Japan? I don't know. 

My first solo adventure took me to Yokohama, a port town, great for people-watching and shopping but it didn't excite me. I returned to Tokyo and again met my friend at his showroom and placed an order for fall for LJ . (Yes, I did think its days were numbered but no more.)

I next caught a train to Matsumoto, the home of Yayoi Kusama, an artist who has stolen a little piece of my heart. (I, Kusama, am the modern Alice in Wonderland.) Yes. There is a craziness, a loveliness and so much  fun and colour in her work. Big bright tulips enhance the exterior entrance to the Matsumoto museum. Inside, there is a circular route to her exhibit. I walk through a room with mirrors, a room with a lit ladder to heaven that magically appears to have no ceiling, a light surrounded heart installation. In its centre is a mirror. I see myself. I am love? Next is a special room where each person or couple are guided and the door is shut for twenty seconds. Bright globes of various colours surround me - flashing, pulsating. They feel as if they will touch me but I'm not allowed to touch. The next room holds Kusma's famous large pumpkin, with black polka dots, in a room painted yellow with more polka dots. After walking through the exhibit, I want more so I walk through it a second time. 

Yayoi once designed a suit for George Cluny, art embracing film. Cluny is almost lost in polka dots.

"Kusama has been open about her mental health and has resided since the 1970s in a mental health facility. She says that art has become her way to express her mental problems... I fight pain, anxiety, and fear every day, and the only method I have found that relieved my illness is to keep creating art". 

Last night I met up with Justin, Susan's eldest son and we wandered the streets looking for somewhere to eat. We finally found an Indian restaurant - not what either of us would have chosen but it was Wednesday and most restaurants were closed. We talked about relationships, his work (he has been teaching English in a university for over thirty years). He is happy enough yet doesn't know if he will stay in Japan when his youngest child leaves home. I am happy that we have had time to talk - a little shyly but still I got to know him a little more. 

In the morning, I took an early train back to Tokyo and am now in one of the smallest hotel rooms that I've seen but it's clean and I need to explore a little. I work again tomorrow and then head to the seaside. 

The Flower of the Cherry Tree

 The flower of the cherry tree has great power. Its prettiness is a mask. With its spirit, its exuberance, it is all ruthless appetite and lust for life, the urge to try or die trying.

But in the end it does die... In the end we all die... so we might as well let life improvise the music we play.

Here I am in a modern art museum in Kanazawa. Light, large spaces, and a room with light bulbs on the ceiling that flash on and off in time with one's heart. I liked this visual display. In another room, a white rabbit lay - apparently an illegal Korean immigrant is inside the costume.

 

I lay down and kept him company. 

Today, we are in Hakuba, up in the mountains. The sun is shining. Seb and Brendan built a snowman. My family and friends have gone further up the mountain to cavort in the snow. I'm taking a breather, time to slow down and think.

I am reading A Single Rose again. The beauty of the writing appeals to me. I read the following couple of sentences and a light bulb came on in my brain:

The hardest thing, it turns out, is not trying to be happy without the person you loved... it's changing, no longer being who you were with that person.

The Book of Grief

I began a writing circle last week led by my most wonderful friend and mentor Marlene. (She encouraged me to attend as she know that I have been having a difficult time and yearn to write but am unable.) So I've attended one class and although I was nervous, I wrote! Before the 25 minutes allocated to writing, she read a poem The Book of the Body by Laura Weaver.

 Here's the beginning:

The library of the body is a revelation.

Today I pull out the book of grief

and find one hundred chapters.

There is the chapter on letting go~

where brilliant leaves, 

tumble down the branches

of the page, veins lined in gold.

I  didn't read what I'd written even though I was paired with a kind woman who read hers and it would have been fine but, when I do this stream of consciousness writing, I don't know what I've written until I read it, so for now I'll keep quiet although I'll copy what I wrote here as only a few friends who I trust read my blog.

"The Book of Grief. Letting go. I cannot let go of my grief over Rob's death. I am afraid. I am filled with rage - angry that Rob died and angry that he left me a lot of shit to deal with. There's more. I question myself. Was I good enough, passionate enough? Could we have been happier ? And then I think that we were happy enough. What does "happy enough" mean? We weren't lovey-dovey. We lived our own lives together or sometimes at a distance. Often I loved him more when we were apart. I would call him on FaceTime and it was a comfort to hear his voice. 

We were a couple. What does being a couple mean? We were not alone. We shared responsibilities.We shared children and grandchildren. We always celebrated Christmas together. We trusted each other. I never felt myself alone even when I was alone. I'm not sure I know how to describe this but now I feel smaller when I go out into the world, more uncertain, more afraid.

I call this period in my life, the post-Rob. How long do I have? Rob lived to nearly 77. Will I live to mine? No funeral, I told him. After Fanny died choking on a piece meat, I said that I will not attend another funeral. Long before her tragic death, she asked that if I outlive her, I must check that she is really dead before being lowered into the burning inferno. 

I did not go to the Crematorium for Rob's burning. I couldn't bear seeing his coffin and the lowering. When Brendan picked up his ashes the next day, I embraced it thinking "is this what we are reduced to? This is it? The end. 

I know he had a good life. He did what he pleased. He was happy alone or seemed to be. I live in chaos. Not Rob. He could sit for hours listening to music or reading or playing with his cat, or cooking exotic meals. He wrote a novel too. It's good but he never even self-published it. 

And now, as I clear away his stuff, his clothes and shoes, I wonder what is important. I want to get rid of more and more stuff and have only the essentials in this house but this takes time, I pause and paint the stairs white. I ask friends for quotes and using a paint pen, I write them one by one on each step or I have friends write them so there is no uniformity. I read them as I ascend, hoping that they will tell me how to live my life.