This morning. First leg of the journey. Carl is by my side. I think he looks beautiful today.
{originally published Dec 3, 2014}
faith
grace.
“To be alive is to be broken. And to be broken is to stand in need of grace.” ~Brennan Manning
I’ve been doing a lot of grace seeking these days. It’s become a full-time job. It’s an awful upside down full-time endeavor. The edges of things have begun to fray, a frightening concept if I didn’t have such a deep need to discover what is at the center of all of this. I’m hoping for the impossible. I’m seeking a reason for all of this. I’m not asking WHY Carl died, only God knows the answer to that one, but I am steadfast in wanting my love for Carl, his love of everyone around him, and the pain we all feel in losing him to hold meaning in our lives from here on out. Something real. Something that, someday, I will look up from this vast ocean of grief and realize how it’s brought us all somewhere that we could not have arrived at otherwise. I speak in terms of everyone whose Carl’s life and death has affected, but there is a very deep seed of desire for *something* that is also completely personal. Yet even in this private need I sense a ripple effect that craves to travel well beyond my own self-seeking needs. Whether I want to or not, I keep breathing into this mystery. Or perhaps this mystery keeps breathing into me. I am choosing to not have lost so much for nothing.
Over and over, I travel away and towards this “choosing” on an almost constant basis. I’m unwavering and thoroughly floundering in this commitment, all at once. To find purpose in the unthinkable. I am not at all certain that I’m made of the right material for what this life is asking of me. The details are still too unknown, the pain too palpable, turning these moments of optimism, so easily on its head.
But this strange conviction keeps returning. I fumble with a sense of faith that won’t seem to leave me alone.
Yesterday I went to church with Carl’s sister-in-law, Carmita. I have not gone to a real church since I was in high school, and even that was at the demands of my parents. But when Carl’s new-born niece recently passed away, just two hours old, something shifted inside of me. Carl and I went to the funeral service only two weeks before his own passing. It was beautiful and utterly heartbreaking. Anna Claire’s death gifted me with a knowing that I had found a home in my spirituality, a place within myself that I could count on for comfort, a place to hold me when nothing else made any sense or things seemed to be falling apart. It was the first time in over 30 years that I attended a religious service and was able to find exactly what I needed in it. The pastor read the most beautiful scriptures and then admitted that he didn’t have all the answers. For this reason, I immediately liked him. I told Carl that I wanted to go to that church and he whole-heartedly agreed that I should go with Ervin and Carmita sometime soon. I was (and am) awe-struck that such a tiny person, who had barely breathed into this world, could change the lives of so many, so completely.
Carl and I talked ALL the time. But what I loved most were the spiritual conversations that were weaved into everything we lived or did or tried to plan, everything we experienced or attempted to understand. I can’t even tell you how many times a challenge would arise, making life difficult or causing impatience (a truck would break down, or we would be delayed in seeing each other, or an issue with business or another person would come up, or our plans to move to Alaska would be postponed, or we wouldn’t be able to live together as soon as we wanted to, or…) and every single time, instead of getting hung up on the problem or set-backs, we would both genuinely be amazed and find ourselves saying: “WOW! Isn’t it cool how [something good] happened because [something else] went wrong?!” We got good at seeing how the rearrangements of life’s details kept leading us somewhere better than we could have gotten to if things had gone the way we planned. With each challenge we became closer. With our whole hearts, we trusted that we were being divinely guided–and we let ourselves be guided by that trust, wholly.
I have never fit into a spiritual box of any sort and yet somehow, together, we created this beautiful bridge to a space of shared faith. Carl was a constant source of fresh perspective for me and my spirituality expanded in ways that I find difficult to explain or summarize. We learned so much from each other.
Yesterday, when I went to the church that I had wanted to visit since Anna Claire’s passing. The service began with song after song of good music. I immediately felt Carl’s presence with me. There were guitars and a stand-up bass, a big hand drum and several gorgeous singers. I NEVER sing along (ugh, I hate sing-alongs!), but wow, that music invited breath. I found myself a part of that music in a way that I wasn’t really expecting. I felt Carl standing beside me, holding my hand. In my mind’s eye, we looked at each other and smiled. I felt him thoroughly enjoying the service, too.
The music was wonderful, but the part that really floored me was the scripture. It was the exact same scripture that was read at Carl’s funeral. A synchronistic fluke. I cried. Not for the words, but for the knowledge that, all along, it was meant for me to be there. How could a two hour old baby lead me to such a gift? Somehow these strange synchronicities give me comfort in my own loss. Carmita and I both experienced the service, each in our own way, and I was glad for her presence in my life. If we had known when we first met, nearly a year ago, how deeply we would need to lean on each other, I’m quite certain that we both would have ran for the hills in opposite directions. But instead, there we were, sharing a package of kleenex, somehow helping each other to remember to breath.
In this life, I have given my greatest offering. And that is Carl. I am letting him go (an offering) from my heart to God and, in doing so, I find myself in need of the deepest kind of grace. I am broken.
In writing this, I struggle to bridge that gap between the myriad of beliefs that make up this world and even this circle of readers. This is not about church or religion. It’s about something much more beautiful and profound than any of that.
But, yes, yesterday I went to church. I cried; I found meaning in the music; I felt Carl’s presence and held his hand; I sat next to the woman who, in heart, is now my sister, too; I met beautiful people. And whether in church or outside of it, I find myself pulled over and over and over again by a desire to keep living this life as fully as I had planned to do with Carl.
I do believe that this was always meant to be. Right now I just pray for the strength, confidence, trust and energy to make myself available to whatever it is I’m here for. There’s really not a whole lot of room for doubt or complacency if I’m going to live this out the way I feel I’m intended to.
I love you, Carl Bratlien. I love you, sweet baby, Anna Claire. Thank you for leading me to this view. May grace be with us all.
{originally published Dec 1, 2014}
my sentinel.
Yesterday I filled the water trough for the horses, a simple job requiring Herculean efforts, a laborious blessing. My two horses, Colorado and Dakota, have a way of dragging me out of the house in a way that nothing else can. The water is on the other side of this 30-some acre property and so that means I need to drag my tired sad self down the horse trail between my cabin to the water spigot and trough near the barn. This, of course, makes the dogs happy. Especially Louie and Ella who are used to going with me and saying hi to all the neighbor dogs in the process. Henry, he has fun, too…but he stays closer to me than he would have in the past. I’ve somehow been adopted by him in ways that I would have never expected. We’ve become each other’s safe zone. Henry, although small, is bit of a renegade, Carl’s perfect match. But despite his toughness, I also see the vulnerability that’s emerged through this experience. He snuggles in tight. He listens to me better than he ever listened to Carl. We keep an eye on each other. We both understand, all too well, the hugeness of what we’ve both lost.
We get to the gate near the barn and are met by 3 of the neighbor dogs, 2 yellow labs and a big strong mutt. Henry jumps into my arms until he’s decided that he’s big enough to outnumber them all. 6 dogs total. Enough to start a gang. They play for awhile, but then I take them back home and return to filling water for the horses. The trough is full. I am empty.
I walk back down the trail through a forest of pines and am a little bit awed by the flatness of everything. Since being in a relationship with Carl, the trail between the barn and cabin had taken on a new life. It had started to SPARKLE. With possibility. With love. With partnership. I’ve never owned horses before. When I took on their care, I really had no clue what I was doing. All I knew is that I loved them and that I needed them as much as they needed me. I’ve been figuring it out along the way, little by little by little, and still am.
But then came Carl and suddenly there was someone in my life who the horses loved as much as me and who loved them as much as I do. Colorado and Dakota fell in love with Carl instantly. They trusted him completely. The realization that I had found the perfect companion in life was, well…astonishing. There was nothing we loved more than schlepping hay bales together. Carl and I spent many a morning, afternoon or evening brushing, loving, feeding, and working with the horses. He was good at it and, together, we were really a good team. It was Carl that finally made the first step to ride Dakota for the first time and then helped me to do the same. She hadn’t been ridden in over 4 years and she responded beautifully. Colorado let us blanket him. We planned on working up to the saddle later. My big, skittish gelding. It was a beautiful accomplishment and he was so pleased with himself, too.
In all that time of our relationship there was an almost other-wordly glow to these woods. I imagined a long life together. I imagined a love-filled, work-filled, outdoors-filled, animal and family-filled life…together. I imagined us, side by side, making even the hardest of physical labor seem like something fun and enjoyable. That’s the kind of person Carl was…and he brought that out in me, too.
But yesterday and, really, every day since Carl’s been gone, these woods haven’t held the same luster. I’m still glad I’m here. These woods, even in their flatness, are still holding me in exactly the way I need to be held. After filling the trough, I walked back home and simply started to weep for the enormity of all these lost daydreams, for the loss of light, for the loss of having someone so capable by my side. Honestly, there are days that I don’t know how I’ll do this on my own. I am walking a precarious trail of faith.
I walked that trail all the way back to my cabin where the horses stood waiting for me. There was nothing left to do but just give up for a moment. I sat down next to Colorado, my back leaning against the tree nearest him. Colorado is the one that rescued me before Carl even came into my life. Surely, he can do it again? And, yes, he does. Every single day. Dakota, too.
I sat and cried into a lackluster forest with Colorado holding vigilance as I did so. He munched on hay and watched me with peacefully attentive eyes, occasionally looking up to take in the world around us. I felt like I could have sat there forever and the horses would not have left my side.
My guardians. They know. They care. They work their magic on me in a way that only sentient creatures know how to do.
Whenever I was having a bad day, Carl always used to tell me to go outside and hang out with the horses. It worked every time. Always. Their saving grace was and is almost annoyingly dependable. The horses don’t necessarily take my pain away, but for now their presence keeps me alive and breathing and moving, sometimes in seemingly exaggerated ways. I had so many crystal clear visions of a life with horses and Carl. I don’t know how to do it without him, but I pray, I pray, I pray that trail of faith I’ve been walking will, someday, become a little less precarious and a whole lot more beautiful.
In the meantime, I have this beauty. Colorado. Standing right in front of me. Catching my tears, letting me lean into the warmth of his strong body, always watching and waiting for me. Until the light someday returns.
I love you, Carl Bratlien. Be with me.
{originally published Nov 29, 2014}
2:34. The only thing missing is 1.
I took this photo on Wednesday, the moment before I closed the door to Carl’s place for the very last time. We had finished packing. Everything was thoroughly cleaned. The vehicle and trailer were loaded. I asked to be alone for a moment before hitting the long road home.
And so there I was–looking into the sun-drenched living room of Carl’s farmhouse–trying to memorize an entire history of sunlight, wishing for things that would never be, attempting to remember everything that ever was. I picked up my phone to take the photo and, when I looked at it, the time read 2:34pm. I knew it was Carl’s way of letting me know he was with me. 12:34 was our number. If the clock fell on those numbers and either of us noticed, we would send a text simply saying “12:34…I love you!” It made me smile every. single. time. We noticed it so often that it started to seep into lots of other hours, too. After awhile, any hour ending in 34 turned into an ancillary twitter of goodness and love.
This morning, just before sunrise, I had another dream of Carl. The dreams…they have been coming more often now. Some are more difficult than others, but I am grateful for all of them. These dreams feel like moments when Carl’s and my spirit are able to more easily access each other. Other times, they simply feel like grief-stricken conversations with God. Either way, always, for this I am thankful.
This morning’s dream was especially poignant. The cat meowed and I woke up crying. In the dream, we were out west. Carl had been diagnosed with a completely unexpected and quick moving terminal illness. We were all working to get things in order, to get things back to Minnesota. My dad and uncle were there, fixing hitches and trailers. Carl’s people were there taking care of a million details. We were all in a state of shock, a blur of movement and impossible emotions. Carl was trying to get as many things done as possible so that others wouldn’t be left with a mess. I was helping too, but all of a sudden I had a painfully acute and urgent need to talk to Carl. I needed answers to questions while he was still here. He was worried and busy and so I had a hard time getting him to stop long enough to see how desperate I was for him to tell me what I needed to know. But then he stopped. We both stopped. I asked and he answered. And then the grief came. That crushingly deep wave of grief that sometimes comes…and I started to cry. I told him I loved him and I didn’t want him to leave. He wrapped me up in his arms and, together, we both cried from a deep and infinite place, that place made up purely of our souls. The intensity of our sadness and love were the same; our bodies had no beginning or end. We held this embrace for a long, long time and it is from this place that I awoke today.
It feels good to write again. I was afraid that, after the pause I needed to take while in ND, that I might not be able to return to this daily ritual. In its own small way, this writing habit has been saving me.
Last night I took my first bath since all of this happened. The bathtub is my go-to mode of “self-care,” but I have not been able to take one since before Carl’s passing. Never mind that my body has been a tangle of knots and discomfort. You see, I couldn’t remember the last time I took a bath without talking to Carl on the phone while I did so. The bathtub became a painfully exaggerated reminder of his absence. After the funeral, my friend Erin came to stay with me. She gifted me with bags of epsom salt and oils. I’ve been self-medicating with ridiculous amounts of lavender and peppermint in an attempt to stave off the worst of this depression and bodily aches. But I told Erin that the salt would have to wait, that it might be a long time before I would start taking baths again. Last night’s bath marked some sort of minor turning point. I soaked in that salt and oil infused water until it went cold. I dog-eared the pages of a book that spoke all the words I needed to hear.
And then I slept.
Healing comes in the tiniest of increments. Like little crumbs that are nothing on their own, but will someday, hopefully, add up to something easier and more functional. That embrace I received from Carl in my dreams this morning, it is still living and holding me tight. I’m nowhere near ready to feel better or normal for anything longer than a fraction of a moment. I’m not yet ready to leave this grief.
For now, there are dog kisses and Henry smiles and long baths. There are good books and great friends. There is Carl’s family and prayer and song. There are Carl’s blankets and a mountain of good memories. There is this old flannel shirt. And still…there is an ocean of tears that I do not doubt will carry me somewhere extraordinary, even if this new paradigm is nearly impossible to get acclimated to.
I love you, Carl. Thank you for your light.
{originally published Nov 28, 2014}
good lord, show me the way.
Stop. Drop. And selfie. + a black dog photobomb. A moment today that included a genuine smile.
…and then Henry wanted in on the fun, too.
Nearly impossible to summarize the past few days…North Dakota, being on the road, the sunsets, the immense amount of work, the roller coaster of emotions, the amazing help, the late night trip home, the exhaustion, this day of gratitude…
I don’t know where to start and so I’ll start right here. With this moment on my kitchen floor. This moment when the Thanksgiving festivities were all over and we all missed Carl and I felt a little consumed by how many days ahead of me I have without him. I came home and put on his old flannel shirt. I was all alone and not knowing how I felt about that, but ended up smiling because my dog Ella attacked me with love and then Henry wanted in on the fun, too. Which leads us right here to the present moment.
And all the while I’ve had this song playing over and over and over in my head…for over a week. I dream it, I wake up to it, I hum it, I pray it, I fall asleep to it. I hear it while I drive or tend to tasks. Over and over it keeps playing like a song that Carl is sending me, just like he always used to do.
Good Lord, show me the way.
booked flights. peeled potatoes.
I did it. I booked my flight. I’m going to Florida for my 40th birthday. The trip that was going to be a gift from Carl, has instead been gifted by something I can only call grace.
Honestly, it’s been a rough day. It’s been a day of tears. Lots of them. Yesterday wasn’t all that easy either, but then the goodness started flowing in. A quickening occurred. My neighbor and his two strong friends hauled a trailer full of hay over from the barn so that it would be closer and easier for me to feed the horses. Another friend texted an offer to help me pay for the flight to Florida. At the exact same moment, someone else, who isn’t even on facebook and therefore doesn’t see my posts, texted me an image of a crystal ball in the hand of a woman, lit with sunlight and magic on the beach of an ocean. She wished me light and love. These three things happened simultaneously and, in that moment, the gaps of my doubt were brightly, divinely filled in.
Later that night, I went to celebrate Carl’s brother-in-law, Steve’s, birthday. It was a special celebration because his life, too, is a gift. He’s had to overcome his own hurdles. In my brain-fog, I almost forgot about the party. Then I didn’t want to go. Then I changed my mind. I went and was grateful that I did. It ended up being just what I needed. I came home to an email with a commitment from a new client, one that’s been hanging in the wings for the past couple weeks.
I’ve also been gifted with two places to stay–one a high-end Miami Beach hotel and the other my very own grotto near the ocean. I was offered friendship. A place to follow jungle roots or space to cry into the sea.
I went to bed last night feeling exhausted, amazed, almost overwhelmed by the speed and depth of it all. I had another dream about Carl. Another adventure. And his spirit was with me.
Tomorrow I’m leaving for North Dakota again. I will be finishing up loose ends, tending to remaining details. I leave early. There’s still lots to do before I leave and I can’t seem to get my energy to settle down enough to write. There is a part of me that dreads this particular trip out west–the finality of it. Carl won’t be there. His room is clean. Nothing is the same.
Constantly, this contradiction between grace and difficulty. I sometimes feel like I’m walking in a bog. The ground constantly moving, changing beneath me. There is death and beauty in every step.
On Thursday I peeled potatoes with Carl’s sisters. We peeled potatoes and talked and listened to soft music. I felt peace. We were sad when the job was done. I wished I could have peeled a thousand more potatoes because, for that time, the depth of my loss held still. This morning I went to listen to a friend sing at the Unitarian church. I had never been there before, but I braved my own unknowing and let myself in thru the front door. The words of her song, her voice, the acoustics of the guitar she played: her beauty condensed. So perfect that it caused cold, plump tears to streak the skin of my face. Reaching my chin and then holding there for a moment before disappearing into my lap. I couldn’t stop them. I sat in a room full of mostly strangers and, silently, with my eyes closed, I wept. That same friend who sang such a beautiful song will accompany on my journey tomorrow out west tomorrow. We don’t even know each other all that well and, yet, there couldn’t be a better person to be holding this space with me. These gifts, they just keep showing up.
But this trip to Florida…this is something. The way I feel him so close to me in all of this. I was supposed to go on this trip with Carl…and it seems that I still am. He is so entirely woven into all of it that, without a doubt, I know I am meant to go. I decided to rent a car and leave much of the trip unplanned. Going there to see where Carl leads me…even if it’s only to the ocean where I’ll probably have a good cry.
This photo, it is one I took in Spain, near the border of Morocco and the Strait of Gibraltar…it’s a million lifetimes ago. I’m so heartbroken and perplexed by where this journey is taking me. But, Carl, I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you.
{originally published Nov 23. 2014}
miracles that dwell in the invisible
Last night I dreamed of Carl. We were at the airport waiting for the boarding of our flight to be called. There were a lot of people buzzing and bumbling around us, a particularly busy terminal. And at one point, Carl and I sat down together, looking at each other with radiant smiles out the corners of our eyes as we reached for each other’s hand. We felt bright and excited to be going somewhere new together, silly with the sensation of love, anticipation and fun. We were on our way to Florida–for my birthday.
It has been a morning of tears. Because, you see…
This was really supposed to happen.
We had been tossing ideas around for a few months. Carl’s birthday was exactly one month before his funeral. It was our first birthday “together.” Things got busy out west and we weren’t able to celebrate his birthday side by side. I was so bummed about that, but we made the best of it. Carl sent me a video of him playing music on his porch. He went for a nice hike. He called me a dozen times. Throughout the day, we took turns keeping each other from feeling sad about the miles between us. He told me we’d make up for it on MY birthday. Over the course of the next few weeks, he musta said to me more than a dozen times: “There’s a lot of things I don’t know, but one thing I know for sure is that I WILL be with you on your birthday.”
You see, Carl didn’t make commitments he couldn’t keep. Ever. If there was one thing that drove me crazy, it was his inability to commit to a plan. I always thought I was the spontaneous one in the crowd. Ha! Carl had me beat by a million miles. It was also, in some wild way, something I loved about him. He could go with the flow like nobody’s business.
For a long time, I’ve been feeling like my 40th birthday would be a hard one. I don’t have a problem with my age or even aging for that matter. I never have. But this year needed to be special. It would be the thing that would carry me forward with a sense of hope and inspiration to make this life what I want it to be. Carl and babies, my art and adventure and building a life together were a part of that dream. It was the totality of the dream, really. We had big, BIG dreams together and, the thing is, we were the type of people that would actually make them come true.
Last night, I got a text from Carl’s brother, Andrew, saying that it had been a particularly hard day for him. It was for me, too. He said that he had told his wife, Tiara, that there are so many days in the past year that he’s wished he could will his heart to stop, but can’t. He said that there’s some purpose for us here and that sometimes he feels like the only thing pulling him forward is this curiosity to see where it goes. He couldn’t have said it more perfectly.
There is this impulse to curl up in a ball under a mountain of Carl’s blankets and never move again. And, yes, each afternoon I have been laying down with Carl’s favorite raggedy old quilt. In these moments, Henry (Carl’s dog), snuggles in next to me especially tight, the weight and smell of Carl’s blanket instantly causing him to relax and sleep. I breathe it in, deeply. My other two dogs curl themselves around my legs and, often, it is during this time that I feel Carl close to me, talking to me, telling me things I need to hear. Telling me that I can do this, that he loves me, that he’s with me. He tells me things that I can’t even remember. And, eventually, something causes me to get up. Maybe it’s Carl, pulling me by my hands out of bed. It is not a place to stay. There is still life to be lived, even if that feels mostly impossible right now.
In the dream, just as we were about to board the flight, I realized that Carl was nowhere to be found. He was most likely meandering, curiously taking in the world and talking on his phone. I was starting to panic. All the moms in my life showed up and began looking for him, having him paged on the airport’s intercom system, spelling out his name, touching the arms of strangers. Everyone was looking for him and, meanwhile, in my mind’s eye I could see him, happy as a lark, drifting in the wrong direction–away from me. He wandered slowly by the airport bookstore, touching the covers as he talked on the phone. He was smiling and enjoying himself. Meanwhile, the pilot was trying to get me to try on different shoes. Some of them were Carl’s shoes and, somehow, Carl was tricking them onto my feet without even being there.
For a long time, I couldn’t decide what I wanted to do for my birthday. I kept asking Carl, “What do YOU think we should do??” Every time he responded by telling me that we should do whatever it was I wanted to do. He would take me anywhere in the world. It would be his gift to me. We were going to make it fit into my impossibly busy pre-exhibition schedule and so I decided we shouldn’t waste too much time on flights and getting over jet-lag. We considered Puerto Rico, the southwest and a million places in between. We’d save a motorcycle trip across Australia or Chile for March, when my show would be complete and Carl would have more time, too. Then my dear friend, Kristine, found out that a gallery would be representing her artwork at Art Basel in Miami Beach, FL. It is a dream come true for her, and (as artists) for both of us, really. Art Basel is a crème de la crème of success in the world of Fine Art. Carl and I decided we would go there–to celebrate Kristine’s success, and also sneak away to celebrate my birthday and each other. On Friday morning, Carl told me he was going to purchase the plane tickets the following Monday.
Monday never happened. On Monday I was helping put a cross by the side of the road where Carl was killed.
So many dreams–vanished–in a puff of cold air. I am lost; I am sometimes floundering; I’m not sure how to proceed. I have enough tears inside of me to fill an eighth ocean.
I took this photo while sitting by Carl’s side on the shore of Lake Superior this past summer. It was one of the happiest moments in my life. I must have told him I loved him a million times that day. We were talking about babies and adventures and all the goodness that we couldn’t wait to step into together. It was ridiculous how good I felt, Carl holding my hand that whole entire day.
I know that miracles dwell in the invisible. The prayer is that I will make myself available to them.
My life continues. I love you, Carl.
{originally published Nov. 22, 2014}
whale song
I woke up this morning in the still-darkness of night. My cat, Viscosa, was meowing and crying from the loft for some attention. She’s made a new home up there because it is not exactly safe on the main-floor with Henry. I have made a habit of visiting her space more regularly so that she can snuggle and climb on me and feel loved. I like it up there, too. It’s warm and comforting, different than the rest of the cabin, a windowed nest in the pine trees. I climb the wooden ladder to get there and pretend it is a place removed, where time and circumstance can exist, suspended.
This morning I made my ascent in the darkness and laid down on the air-mattress that’s been being used as the guest bed. It’s comfortable and for a moment I pretend I’m floating. My winter cabin is tiny. Although its size has nearly made me crazy in the past, right now I am grateful for its smallness and the way it enfolds me, a soft container, a burrowing place. I am about to fall apart at any given moment, but in blessed wrinkles of time, I feel held by this small structure and all it’s contents. It’s a precarious cradle. I take what I can get, wherever it can be found. These little moments of snugness are like crumbs in a painfully hungry belly.
As I write this, I am wondering what this might be like for you to read. Some of you I’ve known forever, some are almost complete strangers and some of you loved Carl, too. I don’t know why I keep writing here except that it is the one portion of the day that I can count on experiencing a sensation of clarity, if even for a moment. Wordsmithing (or whatever this is)…it feels tactile, like metal or wood or ice. I’ve always tried to keep my posts optimistic. In a way, it was my meager contribution to the world…although, let’s be honest. My facebook posts were a selfish endeavor, a means to a perspective that helped me to continue seeing the positive in my life, even when things were mostly going wrong. It became a discipline, a daily ritual in noticing beauty, even in its simplest form. And now? I no longer remember who I was before all of this. That woman is gone. Replaced by this stranger, this shell of myself. Here I am. Sharing my darkest, most painful moments, vulnerable, stripped down, but still trying to find the beauty, even in this. I pray that I am not upsetting anyone or dragging anyone under along with me. I am writing because it is the only clear space that my spirit can find in all the hours of these long, long days.
This morning, as the cat purred near my pillow, I felt an echoing sound. It was so gorgeous and other-worldly that I didn’t quite trust what I was hearing at first. The sound originated from somewhere in my womb–a whale song–gliding, ricocheting, gracefully hurdling forward through a crystalline shaft of fractured light. The sound propelled itself outward from that deep place inside of me into all of nature, through the pine forest and then diving beneath the surface of the icy lake. The lake outside my cabin is freezing. This ethereal whale song, it is a prayer, maybe even a healing. It is a hope, a communion, a mothering heartbeat that I wish to hold within me. That echoing sound, a celestial passageway, connecting me somehow to all that is, all that was, and all that will ever be.
It sounded a little like this.
WHALESONG :: ~by Denis Martindale
As wondrous as the stars at night,
That shine so bright and strong,
The precious joy that brings delight
Is that the whale has song.
The siren of the sapphire seas,
With tunes so lyrical…
To me, these are the things that please,
With each a miracle…Perhaps it tames the savage beast,
As one of God’s celebs
That glides below from west to east
Mid music of the depths…
Perhaps not with another whale,
But there and all alone,
With love his only Holy Grail…
Or Philosopher’s Stone…Like happy humans humming tunes,
Like hummingbirds and such,
The lonesome whale’s seen many moons
And dreams of love so much…
When whalesong’s played, we listen close,
To each new siren call…
There’s only one thing each whale knows,
In life, true love is all…
I love you, Carl.
[originally published Nov 21, 2014}
the cats
Carl loved animals. I didn’t think anyone could love animals more than me, but he might have had me beat. He had a gentle heart and wanted to rescue everyone and everything. In nearly every single photo taken of Carl during the course of his life he’s either holding an animal, a baby or a guitar. He wasn’t afraid of the camera and in all of those photos he is wearing a bright and beaming smile. He held nothing back. Sitting around the Bratlien family’s kitchen table, I’ve loved going through all the family photos. I feel like I’ve known him his entire life even though, technically, I didn’t meet him until I was 25 when he came out to generously help put the roof on my house. He was a friend of a friend. It took us 15 years to become a couple because, as Carl and I often acknowledged, life was doing its (sometimes brutal) work on us, hammering us into shape to become a perfect fit for one another.
A couple day’s after Carl’s death, we traveled to his home in North Dakota to tend to the details of his life out west. Carl’s mom, me, and Carl’s extra “dad” (an old family friend of both Carl’s and mine). The three of us were a good team. We were at the height of shocked grief and, honestly, I don’t know how we did it. But we had each other and I think making that journey is what each of us needed, each in our own way. Upon arrival, we were met by a handful of Carl’s employees and friends–some of the most deep-hearted people I have ever met. Together, we worked. We leaned on each other. We told stories. We survived.
Janet and Chuck got two rooms in town. I stayed at the house out on the farm where Carl lived. I couldn’t bear to leave Carl’s environment for barely a minute. It worked out well. It gave me much needed time alone and a chance to get to know the guys and to walk around the house in Carl’s slippers, the ones he loved so much because they belonged to his dad who unexpectedly passed away just the year before. His slippers fit like boats on my feet, keeping me afloat, and yet somehow fitting perfectly, all at the same time. I saturated myself in the smell of his clothes and blankets. Really, it was the only breathing I did in that whole first week.
But there was something that took my breath away.
The cats. Upon waking, I went to let Henry (Carl’s dog) out, but was met by a horde of meowing and soft paws scratching, a velvety movement outside the frosted door. I have never felt such a sense of wonder and love in my entire life. To finally meet Carl’s cats, the feral cat kingdom that he had been taking care of, feeding, and trying to tame these past many months…there they were. He was trying to tame them so he could get them fixed, find homes or simply help them survive the elements. There were cats of all sizes and ages. Some just tiny bumbling kittens, some older with crooked ears and keen eyes, plus everything in between.
Sometimes Carl would call me and he wouldn’t even say hello. Instead, he’d excitedly launch into telling me about Sarah or Mathilde or Lucky or whatever stray cat he had gotten to crawl into his arms that day. He named them all. Never mind that he was allergic to cats. He couldn’t help himself; he couldn’t help but love them. He somehow managed to get all his employees, a bunch of guys, to join in on this cat-loving project, too. Carl was an animal and kid magnet of the most extreme kind and so taming a herd of feral cats came easily to him. At first the cats would be scared of him, but he took his time. Next thing you know, they’d be purring like engines, tucked in the folds of his jacket or nestled in his lap. Carl, this huge guy with the most tender heart I’ve ever met.
When they packed up all of Carl’s guitar equipment, the cats jumped in, too. I think they were prepared to follow us all the way back to Minnesota. I had to smile the next morning when I saw all the cat tracks on Carl’s amps. Those cats LOVED him! A perfect detail added to Carl’s music obsessed heart.
The day that Carl died, we all gathered at his mom’s house. The day is a blur, the grief incomprehensible. But there are couple of good things that happened that day that stick in my memory. One was the pileated woodpecker that showed up outside the dining room window, where we were all sitting. The woodpecker sat there for a long time and stared in at all of us. I laughed and said, “Leave it to Carl to show up as a woodpecker!” Some people get a sign from the beyond in the form of eagles or hawks or some other noble creature. Our lovable, joking woodsman, Carl, showed up as a funny looking bird! Carl, the logger, a bird of the woods. It was a moment of laughter because it was so “Carl.” I’m quite certain that he laughed along with us.
The other thing that happened at the time of Carl’s passing is that a stray cat showed up on Janet’s doorstep that very same day. It made itself known in a very big way…begging for attention and fried chicken and banana bread. Oh, Carl!! I have to admit, I am smiling and giggling a bit even as I write this. Carl’s 3 year old niece, Barbara, has appropriately named the cat “Meow.” That cat is on a mission to make itself known! Meow, meow, meow…it weaves around our legs as we walk, it jumps on the sleds with the kids, it runs your way as soon as you arrive and tries to go with you when you leave. The other night, as I was walking to my car to go home, Meow stuck like glue to my feet so that I could barely walk. I said to the night, “Ok, Carl, I hear you! We will take good care of this cat!” smile emoticon I picked him up and snuggled him in my jacket, an instant purring machine. But I can’t bring him home with me because I already have one cat and Henry is not at all cat-friendly. Janet can’t keep him because she has two cats and Carl’s stray is simply too forward for them.
We’re looking for a GOOD home for Meow. It’s Carl’s spirit cat and I’m sure whoever he ends up with will be meant to be. Meow is a male who seems happy enough to be an outdoor cat, but might also REALLY love to come inside. He loves kids. And I’m quite certain he’ll love YOU. He has a big personality and so, if you have other pets, they would need to be ok with that. We also think Meow might be part dog. Yes, he’s that kind of cat.
Carl won’t let us ignore this one. And anyway…we don’t want to either.
Update: Meow found a loving home shortly after this was written. xo
We love you, Carl. We love your tender heart and the way it continues to show up. Always and forever.
{originally published Nov 20, 2014}
silence.
This morning, I am suspended in silence. The sky is grey and it is snowing. The horses are purring as they eat their hay. It took them a moment to give into their current contentment because I forgot to go to the farm supply store to buy more sweet feed yesterday. These small, but seemingly impossible tasks, they seem to add up. Even so, the horses are forgiving. As I brush snow off their backs and rub their muscles, they bend their giant, gentle necks so that their head can rest against mine. Their eyes are soft. They’ve been particularly sensitive towards me since all of this happened. Sometimes I think they’ve transmuted into elephants, the profundity of their sentience has grown so large.
Horses. They’ve become my healers for the past several years, in significant ways. I reached out to wild horses and started to build a life around them. It didn’t take long and then these two horses, Colorado and Dakota, unexpectedly walked into my life. Again, I reached out to them; I fed and watered and brushed them and, in exchange, they breathed some newfound life into me. Their trails started carving out new paths in my life. The most significant trail led to Carl. If it weren’t for these horses, I’m pretty sure our paths might have missed each other. Or rather, these horses were brought into my life because this was going to happen all along. I feel like this story was written long before either of us could have ever known–our marriage of spirits and Carl’s death and whatever is to come. There is a word that has whispered itself to me often since falling in love with Carl. The word is “Maktub,” an ancient word that means “it is written.” Our relationship has felt this way, to both of us, since the very beginning. We trusted in it completely.
I still trust this. But I’m not yet up to the task of healing. I’m stuck somewhere in the middle, staving off this horrible feeling of anxiety that continuously keeps creeping in around the edges. Even so, the horses keep reaching for me. Their reach is so soft and unassuming that the near-imperception is powerful beyond measure. This reaching–from friends and family, strangers and animals–causes moments of lightness and lets the peace sneak back in. Sometimes I even feel Carl wrap his arms around me. He lets me lean backward into his spirit and says: “I love you, baby.” He repeats this as many times as I need to hear it. He tells me to follow my heart. He tells me that I’ll know what to do. But I can’t always feel him and, when I can’t, that’s when the anxiety comes. I plead, “Please God, please God…help me.” And, somehow, maybe these and everyone else’s prayers are working, even when I’m not sure of it at the time. The depth of my grief causes me to clench every muscle, every thought, every movement. But eventually, a softness occurs…my body isn’t built to stay frozen forever.
Even so,
This silence…if it doesn’t already exist, sometimes I create it.
Carl and my life together was always alive and connected with phone conversations and texts and sharing music. It was constant. In the most painful moments, I attempt to hit the mute button, a survival technique that doesn’t help at all. Eventually, the music will want back in. I can’t yet listen to it. Carl filled my life with music, our life together was built of it. For now, for today, I’ll just try to listen to the directions of a friend and attempt to enjoy the snow. I’m grateful for her suggestion. It allows me a way to be at peace with this silence. I love snow. These snowflakes, they are gentle, like Carl.
**the photo of Carl playing mandolin in my studio while i painted. i loved it when our creative spirits found a place to be together.
{originally published Nov 19, 2014}
if this is grace 