Bare-handed Cliffdiving

I do the dishes bare-handed ... clean the tub that way, too -- yeh, the pine-sol and soft scrub are hard on them, but those "living" gloves make my hands stink and water gets down inside of them anyway. I do not, however, garden bare-handed. I always wear gloves. Blisters and worms and bugs are enough to make me do that. But I never take my rings off to do any of these things. I knead bread and put on hand lotion with the rings on -- so I guess these hands of mine have never really been totally bare for a very long time.

I took my wedding rings off a few nights ago.

Several weeks ago I went through most of David's clothes. He had a lot of them. I had given some obvious stuff to Goodwill a couple years ago, but his bureau was still full. Honestly, I needed to do it. I had my winter clothes in a trunk inside the closet and have been grabbing stuff from in there for a stupid long time because I've simply not done the big seasonal dresser swap -- you know, with the hibernating and all ... Anyway, one day I just did it. I packed five huge garbage bags full of his clothes and some shoes to give away. I saved most of his tie-dyes, some Levis and stuff that I think the kids will want some day, but the dresser was empty. I got the Murphy's and washed it inside and out (no gloves) -- relined the drawers -- and even washed the rest of my furniture. Cleansing.

The bureau is still mostly empty, but I'm doing this in stages.

Last week was a really yo-yo kind of week. My emotions were all over the place. The kids had been home for Easter and had gone back to school ... and would be off on more international travel, this time together -- just about all grown-up. (Daughter will turn 21 in just a few days.) And a bunch of other stuff was going on in my small life to suitably mess with my head.

Then I wrote about the hospitals. I hate to sound hackneyed, but it was cathartic. A close friend asked me if it was difficult to write. Heck, yes. It was difficult. It was a really tedious piece for me -- so much detail to recall and to communicate. It required that I punch into memories that I keep covered with a blanket of protection -- that had to be let loose for a couple hours. And when I finally published it, I wasn't "spent," as I would have imagined ... I was angry. I was distraught. But I was cleansed.

I write a lot about moving beyond and moving forward and whatever all of that means -- about discovery and surprises -- about comfort and hope. But sometimes clarity is what I pray for the most. That's my impatience at work. I want answers fast. I want to know who I'm going to be and what I'm going to do right now because I feel like I've been treading water for so long! But clarity -- understanding -- revelation -- can be so slow. A dear friend said that God knows what he is doing! and slow can sometimes be quite enjoyable. Humph. She's pretty smart and knows me very well. Yeh, but still ...

So, I found myself sobbing that night. And that is strange because I don't really cry anymore. (Yes, I know ... also cathartic.) I had removed my rings and put them in the jewelry cleaner thingy -- sort of an interim holding place, I guess. Then looked up and saw my face in the mirror. I've never seen myself look like that -- even throughout everything that I have experienced in my life. My mascara was running down my face and I looked ghoulish and sort of frightening. That abruptly calmed me down. I grabbed a kleenex and started wiping it away, stood up straight and took another glance, then went to bed. The next day was a happy day. A happy day. It was a new feeling. It's really nice.

Does this mean I'm all successfully uncleaved now? It seems lately that I'm not so reluctant about it anymore. Am I being more pragmatic? Na. I think I simply don't feel tethered to my marriage anymore. I do believe that I will always be cleaved to David to some degree. I spent half of my life with him. We made these awesome children from that love. We made a home together. We went to hell and back together ... but he is gone and he is not coming back. Living is for the living. I am alive -- very alive, so I have to keep on keepin' on.

I have an image in my cluttered mind of standing on a precipice, my arms wide-spread with the wind whipping around me, tangling my hair around my face -- reaching a foot out -- wanting to just step off. Taking a leap -- for excitement and adventure rather than the status quo? to feel joy rather than sorrow? to take a risk rather than be a scaredy-cat? Probably. But the fall would kill me. Better to trust that God knows what he's doing and slow down a little? take a step back? And, alas, no climbing gloves, either -- so I probably couldn't catch myself on the way down with those bare hands. So then what? I'm ready for something. God, a little clarity, please!