1. Welcome. It looks like no one is here nor ever has been. How did you get dropped into desolation thorny rocky pathless dry You are not sure what country you are in nor what language is spoken not that there is anyone with whom to speak alone, slight word for so vast an isolation 2. It was in the… Read More
“This weekly post on widowhood begins an overdue conversation. Half of all people in committed relationships will lose their spouse first; will be left to live solo. Almost everyone will be called on to console someone bereaved. This is my attempt to speak the unspeakable, for all of us… to enable others to speak and listen.
“I’ve been widowed twice. I am who I am in part because of loving, knowing, losing and grieving these two very different partners. What understanding I have of grief (which I perceived less an emotion than a tsunami-like force of nature) is provisional. And yet – I say this reluctantly – not without hope. Over time even egregious, cruel loss can reveal strange gifts.
“Writing of her own widowhood, Joan Didion said, ‘Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it.’ A journey for which few are ready, we each make our unique path as we walk it, in profound isolation. This is true, but side-by-side it is also true that others in ‘the club no one wants to join’ are walking their path; which means that no matter how it feels, we are not alone. Let us take, and give, comfort in telling our stories, and hearing those of others."
--- Crescent Dragonwagon
Though we spent our first anniversary in Paris, we’d honeymooned in the Ozarks, in Ponca, Arkansas, not far from where we lived. When we drove home after our days in that rustic, rubble-wall hotel on the Buffalo River, we stopped in Berryville. For some reason I can’t recall, he needed to pick something up at a hardware store. He went… Read More
I call it, “the club no one wants to join.” I look back, seventeen years as I write this since I joined, absolutely against my will… so much against my will that when the local paper, reporting on Ned’s death, referred to me as his widow a few days after his death (a bicycle accident), I actually phoned the editor…. Read More
I blame, or credit, Carol Gaddy. She heard me reading poetry between sets of a bluegrass band at a now-defunct nightclub in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. If you are silly enough to attempt such a reading, you will find your poetry greatly improved by the endeavor. The feedback is like no other: if one single phrase isn’t smacking your audience upside… Read More