Saturday, March 28, 2020

An open letter to Kevin, six years today

CW: In these strange days, please know that this letter contains specific descriptions of end-of-life, of grief, and of the days we are living through. 

Dear Kevin,

Here we are, the morning of the day you died, six years on. I remember waking that morning and fearing you'd slipped away in the night, knowing that today was the the day. I remember the smell of the hospital room, the angle of your head, the utter focus of those moments. I remember the hospital chaplain who visited, stroked your hair and told me he always found that comforting when he was a boy, when ill. I remember hoping it was comforting for you, and wondering if you even were aware of it. I remember that I was wearing your grey long underwear top. I remember the moment your heart stopped, the slide of your eyes which had been watching me to that very moment, and the very physical pain in my own body. I remember the sound I made, unbidden. I remember the feel of your skin as your body cooled. I remember.

I remember your laugh, your smile, your touch. I remember the sharpness of your mind, the sound of your breath, your scent, the expression on your face when you danced, the shape of your legs and back as you rode your bike. I remember how much you liked ketchup, but I don't remember everything you put it on. I remember the focus with which you'd watch television, but I can no longer list all of your favorite shows. I remember how much you loved swimming but I don't remember the print of your swim trunks. I remember you liked red wine and crisp white wines, but I don't remember what kind of beer you liked. I remember your feet but I don't remember what kind of socks you liked to wear.

I remember so much and I have forgotten so much. I am losing the details of you, the knowledge that comes from daily life, and that hurts terribly, each thing I realize I've forgotten a new small grief. I know this is the way it's supposed to work, but that doesn't make it easier. I know, too, that this is a peculiarity of my own mind, my memories of you are my own and others have their own version of you tucked away. So it is.

You are still so much a part of me and yet more distant. Like the water in this photo, you are everywhere, you are letting me know you're okay, but I can't see all of the specifics. I love that the camera captured you in blue, your favorite color. I remember that.

The world is so very strange now. I keep wondering what you'd think of it, how you would manage social distancing and staying in. I know how worried you would be for your kids, your mom (now with you, I trust you're enjoying each other), your friends. It would be hard for you not to run to some of them, even knowing it wasn't wise. I can imagine you on the couch, legs stretched out, focused on the show of the moment, waiting for this to pass. Honestly, I am relieved you don't have to live through this. It's an odd feeling to hold and admit, that there are some things I'm glad you've not been here for. It feels like another betrayal in some ways, and also so true.

The whole world is learning some hard lessons about loss, grief, and survival right now. Writing this letter to you in the context of COVID-19 is surreal and difficult. I'm not sure what to say other than that I love you still.

Maybe that's what I should close with, love in the time of COVID-19. I have learned a few things about love in the years since your death (that's a hard phrase, years since your death), maybe they were things I was learning before, but they are bright and clear now. Maybe it will help someone to read them. Maybe it will help me to write a few down.

  • Love with abandon. 
  • Love means you will be hurt. Love anyway.
  • Let those you love know repeatedly and often.
  • When you lose them, and you will, it will hurt beyond words. The only way out is through and then through again, and yet again.
  • Whatever you may forget, the love endures.
So it goes. I love you Kevin and I always will. Thank you for your time on this planet, your time with me, your whole self the parts public and concealed, flawed and perfect. Thank you for the hints that you aren't gone, and for the things I do remember. I love you from the middle of the middle of me to the middle of the middle of you.

One way or another, I'll see you around.


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(c)2019 Laura S. Packer Creative Commons License

Monday, March 9, 2020

Seven things to do with storytelling when you don't want to go outside

This was originally written during a cold 2011 New England winter, but it seems strikingly relevant now, when we are all washing our hands a million times a day and tracking COVID-19 as it moves closer and closer to our communities.

The world seems like it was so much simpler then. 

I've kept the original context for historical reasons and have added a few more thoughts. 

We're deep in the heart of winter, up here in the Northern hemisphere. These short, cold days and long dark nights lead me to nesting behavior. I just don't want to go outside when it's 10F with 2 feet of snow on the ground. I know, I'm a wimp, but this offers me a chance to hunker down and do some reading.

It's been awhile since I posted storytelling resources. I'm betting some of you are like me, having a tough time getting outside in this weather. In the spirit of keeping our creative fires burning, here are some storytelling things you might do from the comfort of your home. Please note, some of these links were previously posted here, but this is an updated list.
  1. Learn something new, part 1. How about adding a traditional tale to your repertoire? If nothing else, reading some of the old stories will remind of you that people haven't changed very much in the last 10,000 years. The same things still matter to us, it's just at a more frantic pace. You might learn something about yourself or find a piece you'd like to tell or alter, you might even find some comfort in knowing people have made it through tough times before now.
    There are many great online resources full of traditional stories.
  2. Learn something new, part 2. 
    • What about a personal story? Or some fiction? Try a genre that you don't usually engage in, or try telling in a style new to you.
    • Explore the resources at your local library. Most public libraries have their catalogs available online. Many will allow you to hold a book that you can pick up later, when it's warmer and many have vast digital holdings that you can access without going outside. Try a catalog search for storytelling with children, for example. Or some other topic that interests you. See what you can find!
    • Learn about a new kind of storytelling. As I mentioned last week, it's sometimes good to tell the stories that scare you. Check out the site for an organization that does something you'd like to tell about. Do you care about marine life? Go to the Cousteau Society and see how they tell their story. How would you tell that same story? What about digital storytelling? Or stand-up comedy?
    • Read an article by someone you admire. Many storytellers maintain blogs or archives of their advice. Go to their websites and poke around. 
    • Try some new kind of art. Maybe you could write a poem, do a collage, or something else to nourish your creative spirit.
  3. Listen to some stories, watch some storytellers in action. Organizations like massmouth post videos of storytellers strutting their stuff. What about trying a youtube search for storytelling? Maybe your favorite festival has videos online from previous years?
  4. Work with a coach to dig deeper. Many coaches, myself included, work via Zoom, Skype, Hangouts, or others video conferencing technologies. None of us need to go through creatively challenging times alone, help is out there at the click of a mouse.
  5. Hone your craft. There's no time like the present to work on your own skills as a storyteller and business owner.
    • How about telling a story in your living room, recording it and then going over the recording? What was great? What could be eliminated or fleshed out?
    • Work on a new idea. Jot down some notes, call a friend and aks them to brainstorm with you.
    • When was the last time you updated your webpage, resume, facebook or linkedin pages?
    • Send a few emails to organizations where you'd like to tell.
    • Update your basic press release.
  6. Tell someone a story. Do you live with room-mates, family, friends? Do you have a telephone or an internet connection? You can always reach out and tell someone a story. Maybe even more importantly, you can listen to their story. Ask them to tell you a story. You might be amazed at what happens.
  7. Join the Virtual Storytelling Guild. You can share stories from the comfort of your own home, listen to others tell in real time, and share the fire of storytelling, all through video-conference. 
    These challenging days are also a gift. We have the chance to pull into our shells and do some housekeeping, catch up with ourselves. Savor the time.

    (c)2011 and 2020 Laura S. Packer Creative Commons License

    Thursday, February 20, 2020

    Dream geography

    Does this ever happen to you? You find yourself in the same familiar places in dreams, over and over, known in the dream world, but not ones you've seen in waking life. It's not a recurring dream, but the same locale returned to regularly as you sleep.

    It happens to me. I have a slowly emerging map of my subconscious, especially the anxious and fear-filled places but some of comfort. When I was young it was the lake side with a volcano in the distance. What would happen there varied (as it does, there were not recurring dreams but places) and it always had a slight scent of sulfur and menace. For many years I would find myself on top of the unfinished building, looking out over the same city scape, not a place I recognize though something like 1970's New York City. It's cold and windy, unsteady and unsafe. There is an elevator that took me there but I can't get one to bring me back down. There have been specific woodlands, buildings, rooms, beaches, all places I return to again and again in my dreams. Some eventually fade away entirely, but most continue to make Special Guest Appearances from time to time.

    Most recently I've been dreaming of an indoor slum, deep underground, constricted and claustrophobic except when it opens into vast caverns. It was purpose-built to hold people; I can't really say house people, none of these rooms qualify as homes. They are industrial, kind of futuristic, and very small. Outside the rooms is a warren of narrow passageways with un-railed walkways over treacherous crevasses. It is not a safe, comforting, or easy place to manage, but in every dream I am trying to get back there for reasons that vary widely. In this morning's visit I needed to get back to my room so I could change clothing for a job.

    What I find particularly interesting about this place is the steps I must take to get there. It is clearly a related to the magic woods of wonder tales, because if I don't follow the proper route and say the right things, all will be lost. I don't remember it clearly in the waking world, but it has deep familiarity in the dream world. I must go through several buildings, take elevators to specific floors and follow certain routes. I pass over a footbridge and must discard that which I am carrying. I can cross, but not with any things (yeah, I know, it's a pretty blunt symbol). From there I enter a dark building with a winding path through mounds that could be hills or could be trash. There are three people along the path, a man I must not see, someone else I must not hear, and an old woman whom I must treat kindly. I remember she had enormous feet blocking the path and it was by calling her grandmother, massaging her swollen legs, and embracing her (though she smelled terrible) that I could continue.

    So it is in dreams. I have thought of trying to map them but somehow that feels unwise. I wonder sometimes if these places with their specific features and requirements are ever visited by others, if there is some kind of shared dream geography. Perhaps there is an old woman dreaming of kindness who calls me into the dream land when she needs it. I don't know. What I do know is that I love the depth of these places, the ways the symbols I find there are in the same language as fairy tales, and that the stories change while the landscape may not. It gives me a sense of mystery and wonder, even if the dreams are not always comfortable.

    All of this reminds me of the 1962 short film La Jette, remade as 12 Monkeys. If you've not seen it, in the not too distant future humanity has had to retreat underground. There is a man who has the same recurring image in his dream and this is used as a path to send him back in time, to stop the triggering event that led to the current dystopia. Such strong, recurrent dream images and geographies can't help but feel meaningful and real.

    Do you have dream realms? What are they like for you? What do they mean for you? And have you ever been to an underground indoor slum with a magical path for entry? If so, wave next time. I'll try to wave back.

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    (c)2019 Laura S. Packer Creative Commons License

    Sunday, February 9, 2020

    Powerlessness and action

    Photo by Rodion Kutsaev on Unsplash
    This was originally published in June 2019. The global state has continued to shift, so I've edited it some to reflect my current feelings. 

    I've been thinking a lot about powerlessness and action lately, which has led me down some real rabbit holes of research and exploration. For example, when I was looking at images for this post I ran an image search for "powerless." Once I tweaked a few settings to weed out stuff related to tv or religion, I was left with images of people standing with their heads down, looking (at best) really glum. I find this interesting because what I am learning is that, yes, there are many times I am and will be powerless, but how I move through that experience has a great deal to do with my mental health and ability to be resilient, as well as my ability to heal after the fact. Powerlessness sucks, but my response to it makes it more manageable or less.

    When Kevin was sick, even though I knew I was ultimately powerless to change the outcome of his cancer, I found ease in doing what I could. I could comfort him, talk with the staff, and share information with everyone who loved him. It was by acting then that I know now I did the very best I possibly could for his comfort and well-being, even as he was dying. If I didn't have that assurance I doubt if I would be as relatively okay as I am; I have enough to regret, at least I know I did the best I could in the face of powerlessness to change the outcome.

    Likewise, when I was in those first, harsh months after his death I gave myself over to grief. I couldn't change what had happened but I could make choices about how I responded. I knew the only way out was through, so I let myself mourn fully. I am still mourning him and always will, but I doubt I would have been able to let myself love Charley had I not made the choice to keep loving Kevin, and one way of expressing that was to grieve deeply.

    This line of thinking comes out of looking for ways to manage my own frustrations and fears during the Trump administration. I am largely powerlessness to effect what my government is doing, but there are still things I can control and impact through the actions I take. I can decide how I respond. I can give into my fears (which is part of why he was elected, he's very good at feeding fear) and hide (which I sometimes really want to do) or I can take what power I have and use what I've got. I have a voice. I can make donations where I think they might help. I can let myself be seen, even when it's scary or possibly dangerous. I can act in ways that I think are moral, ethical, and right in spite of the many messages that it isn't important.

    I also remind myself that allowing myself to be powerless, that giving up what power I have, is exactly what oppressors and despots want us to do. They want us to become so disheartened that we give up and become silent. When we do that we become complicit in our own disposal.

    There will always be things I am powerless over, but I can choose which response I feed and how I act. I could have forced Kevin to try treatments that would have only harmed him in my quest to control his illness. Those wouldn't have saved or prolonged his life. I could have tried to suppress my grief, in which case I'm sure I would still be deep in the heart of it. I could feed fear and not publish this post or give in to those who try to silence me. I could overlook injustices that don't impact me because it's safer, but none of these things are who I want to be. By acting in the face of powerlessness I retain my ability to decide who I am and how I respond.

    By engaging with my own powerlessness and choosing to act anyway, I become stronger. It's important that I remember to rest as well, but thinking of it as rest rather than giving up means I don't give up my sense of action. I might be powerless to create the kind of change I want in a timeline we need, but I can choose to keep trying and to rest while others pick up the ball. Whatever happens, I need to know I tried, I need to know I did what I could, I need to know that I stood in the face of powerlessness and claimed my own soul.

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    (c)2019 Laura S. Packer Creative Commons License

    Monday, January 13, 2020


    Everything we take in influences how we see the world. This is especially true for artists, not because we see/read/hear/do that differently, but because we are aware that what we absorb is reflected in our art. It's an interesting exercise for me to notice and share this material.

    As you know, much of my blogging has moved over to Patreon. I have an ongoing series there that I thought readers of this blog might enjoy because it's about what influences me and my art. See/read/hear/do posts are summaries of the things that are interesting me lately.

    The following post was published on Patreon back in November 2019. If you want more of my posts on creativity, storytelling, process, and more, you can subscribe for as little as $3/month, only $36 a year. This is less than the cost of a movie with popcorn for two, and it directly supports the arts and (I hope) an artist you care about.

    I hope you enjoy this musing, and I'd love to know what's inspiring you lately.

    See/Read/Hear/Do: Monsters+ edition

    Hello Patreon friends,
    I'm writing to you from the middle of the Kansas City Storytelling Celebration, where I am one of the featured storytellers. In the last two days I've told stories with close to 700 people, mostly kids. It's a lot of fun and very hard work. I'm honored to be one of the featured tellers, along with the remarkable Dovie Thomason, Michael McCarty, and Andy Offit Irwin. Truth be told, I'm pretty nervous when I'm sharing the stage with them. It's really something. Between the wonderful regional tellers, the featured tellers, and all the kids I've been meeting, I'm both exhilarated and exhausted.
    This post is another installment of see/read/hear/do, where I share with you some of the things that have been catching my interest. See/read/hear/do hopes to give you a glimpse into what feeds my creativity. Lately I've been thinking about monsters.

    We're just past the season of scary movies. That is to say, I've lately been watching MORE scare movies than usual. I don't like really violent films, nor the kinds of scary that's about human monsters, but a good ghost story just makes my toes curl. Among my favorites I've seen lately is Errementari, a Basque film based on any number of stories about the the devil being held captive by a blacksmith. As it is in the folktale, so it is in the movie: A smith makes a deal with the devil and then tricks the devil into captivity. I really liked it, far more than I expected. It's kind of cheesy, but there is an integrity to the telling that I rarely see in folk horror films. It's not terribly scary, though there are some loud moments and violence.   
    If you have Netflix, you can see it here. I stress, watch it in Basque with subtitles. For one, it's a neat language to hear, and for another, the dubbing is terrible, awful, horrible, no good. 

    I admit, most of my reading lately has been non-fiction news. At least I hope it's non-fiction; maybe it would be better were it fiction, I don't know. In any case, I'd like to share with you one of the best books I've read in the last few years, instead of any of the news articles I can't stop myself from consuming. My Favorite Thing Is Monsters is a breathtaking book. I hesitate to call it a graphic novel, because it feels like so much more than that. It is a lavishly illustrated book, telling Karen's story. Karen lives with her brother and mother in an apartment in Chicago, and she comes to believe her upstairs neighbor has been murdered. This graphic novel is so much more than a murder mystery or a coming-of-age story or a family drama. It delves deep into how we see ourselves and those we love, as well as the cultural metaphors we use to survive. In Karen's case, it's b-movie monsters, metaphors I love, too.
    It's a stunning work. If you know it or pick it up, I'd love to know what you think. I can't wait for volume two.

    Do you listen to podcasts? I do. I follow quite a few; they keep me company on the road, when I'm doing housework, and at the gym. I have quite a few favorites. Since this post seems to be the monsters edition, I'd like to tell you about the REI Camp Monsters podcast. REI, the camping equipment retailer, has released eight episodes of really fun campfire stories, all about monsters.  They use light sound effects to enhance the experience, but for the most part it really feels like sitting around the fire, listening to a good storyteller spin a yarn. They base most if not all stories on real local legends, and it's just delightful. I hope you enjoy it. 

    I love the dark time of the year, but it's hard for me emotionally. I get blue. I do a lot of different things to manage it. In part I try to embrace it, to recognize that it's a form of hibernation. I nest. I also use a happy light and try to be kinder to my body with movement and food. Another practice that helps is to notice small details and spend time with them. The glitter of frost on the golden grass. The way the cold air feels on my cheeks. The soft brush of my blanket on my skin.
    Do you have seasonal blues? How do you deal with them?

    That's it for this installment of see/read/hear/do. Please let me know how you're doing, if there's something else you'd like to see in this feed, and know how very grateful I am for your support.

    Support me on Patreon. Performance, coaching, keynotes, and more. Organizational storytelling, communications consulting, and more.
    (c)2019 Laura S. Packer Creative Commons License

    Thursday, December 26, 2019

    What I miss

    This is a hard time of year for me. It may be for you too; if so I'm sorry. It's a rough feeling, isn't it? I was sitting with it a few days ago and realized it feels like a combination of grief and homesicknesses. This got me thinking about what it means to be homesick, what do I miss? It certainly isn't a place, I am as home now as I ever was (that's a whole other issue), yet I still feel homeless, like I'm looking in a mirror without a reflection. With a little time, journaling, and a couple of cries, I realized what I miss is a life, who I used to be. I miss a future I didn't get to have, existential homesickness. I miss Kevin, that much is hugely, painfully clear, but I also miss who I was with him.

    What I miss.
    • I miss being someone who didn't know what it is to grieve deeply.
    • I miss being someone who didn't have to learn how to navigate the medical system.
    • I miss the belief that there is time in front of me.
    • I miss laughing until I can't stand up.
    • I miss the inside jokes. I have new inside jokes, but not the old ones.
    • I miss being sharp and witty - my mind isn't as quick since he died, I think I used it up when navigating the medical system.
    • I miss looking forward to how much he loved Christmas.
    • I miss believing in Santa, or at least believing in Christmas magic.
    • I miss the future we didn't get to have, the adventures and arguments, the decisions and delights.
    • I miss being someone who tried to be empathetic to people who had suffered great losses, but didn't know how. I miss being someone who said some stupid though well-intentioned things about grief. I miss not knowing.
    • I miss the 30 years we didn't get have.
    • I miss who I might have become in that time.
    None of this is to say I don't have a lovely life now. I do. I love and am loved, I have meaningful work, and I like much of who I am now. But I miss who I never got to be.

    Loss is an evolving thing, I keep finding new pieces of it and making new discoveries about its reach. I miss not knowing this at all.
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    (c)2019 Laura S. Packer Creative Commons License

    Monday, November 25, 2019

    Gratitude: Observations and readings

    We are in the gratitude season. Honestly, I think it's always gratitude season, but right now it's everywhere. The reminders to be grateful are relentless. They are also necessary. In our busy, fretful lives it's easy to forget that most of the time, most of us are very, very lucky.

    I have had a gratitude practice for many years. It's part of what kept me going after Kevin died; I would write down three things I was grateful for every day. There were days when that list was simply, "Kevin, Kevin, Kevin," but over time other things began to creep in. It was part of how I knew I would survive, even if sometimes I didn't really want to.

    I am so grateful to you, the readers of this blog. Thank you for accompanying me for so long and so well. While much of my storytelling blogging has moved over to Patreon (check it out for posts, signed books, coaching, stories, and more), please know I still appreciate you, see you, and will continue to post here from time to time.

    What follows is a gift, the Gratitude entry from From Audience to Zeal: The ABCs of Finding, Crafting, and Telling a Great Story. While this was previously published here, it's been expanded and revised. Over on Patreon I've shared the Sharing the Fire and Self Care entries from the Audience to Zeal Workbook, never before published online. They include readings and exercises to keep you going when your storytelling or personal flames might be low. I hope you enjoy both.

    While these writing are specific for storytellers, I think there is utility and maybe even wisdom for everyone here.

    excerpted from From Audience to Zeal: The ABCs of Finding, Crafting, and Telling a Great Story
    (c) Laura Packer

    We are so lucky to do this work. No matter the size of your audience, if we have one person who really wants to hear us, we’re far luckier than many, many people. No matter what critique we receive, if we get up and tell again, we are lucky and strong and can be grateful for the opportunity. No matter if we fail, make a mistake, struggle with jealousy or insecurity or any of the other demons that haunt us, every time we stand on a stage, we are so lucky that we can step beyond our own limitations.

    We are so lucky to hear these stories. Every time we listen to a story we are being shown into someone else's world in a deep and intimate way. Every time we listen deeply to a storyteller we are giving them the gift of doing the work they love. Every time we are kind to a beginning storyteller or are moved by an accomplished one, we are opening ourselves up to awe, to connecting with someone else, to stopping the tumult for just a little while.

    All of this is no accident. By our own hard work, talent and the whim of the universe, we are able to stand up and tell stories in front of interested audiences, be they kids, festival crowds, business people, or conference attendees. This is something to be grateful for. By cultivating a sense of gratitude for your work, your audiences, your colleagues, and more, you become more resilient when things aren’t just right and more receptive to opportunity. Ongoing research has established that cultivating gratitude makes everything better.

    • Gratitude opens the door to more relationships. Storytelling is all about relationships. When we are grateful for those relationships and express that gratitude we are more likely to be remembered and invited back. When I let my audiences know I am grateful for their time, when I thank those who hire me, I am letting them know that they are just as valued as anyone else. We all need to hear that from time to time. 
    • Gratitude improves physical health. My body is my instrument. When I am grateful for it I take better care of it. If gratitude will help my body endure all I put it through (this traveling life takes a toll) then I will be grateful for it every day!
    • Gratitude improves psychological health. When we are grateful we are less likely to hold onto toxic emotions. What I am feeling is reflected in my performance, no matter how practiced I am. If I take the stage with gratitude I am less likely to remain annoyed at the promoter who misspelled my name or any of the other myriad annoyances. 
    • Gratitude enhances empathy and reduces aggression. Storytelling is all about building empathy. Our brains are more likely to respond empathetically when we hear a story. If gratitude will help me feel more empathy then I'm all for it. 
    • Grateful people sleep better. Studies suggest writing in a gratitude journal before going to sleep can improve sleep. As storytellers we need to be rejuvenated and sleep helps. 
    • Gratitude improves self-esteem. Who doesn't need a little help here now and again? We are more likely to stop comparing ourselves to others when we feel grateful for them.
    • Gratitude increases mental strength. We all need strength. Performing - heck, life - can be exhausting. 

    We are so lucky. Remember that and be grateful. Be grateful for every performing opportunity, for every audience member, for every time you hear a story even if you've heard it a million times already. When we are grateful we expand the possibilities for storytelling. Our gratitude will be obvious to the world.

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    (c)2019 Laura S. Packer Creative Commons License

    Monday, October 21, 2019

    If you're read From Audience to Zeal I have a quick question for you

    Do you have a favorite entry in From Audience to Zeal? I'm asking because I'm working on an article about it and want to include the topics most people found useful. Thanks!

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    (c)2019 Laura S. Packer Creative Commons License

    Friday, October 11, 2019

    For Kevin, on the morning of my remarriage

    Dear Kevin,

    This is so weird. I'm writing this to you in my office, the one filled with all of the things you know but in Minnesota, a state I don't think you ever visited. I've lived here for over two years now, with a man you never met and one who is, on the surface, unlike you. In fundamentals though you are much alike -- perhaps this speaks to me more than to the both of you, but it is true. Like you, he is smart and funny, kind and passionate. He has three kids though the ratio differs. He loves me with all of his heart, just like you. Today I am marrying him.

    It feels so very odd. I was supposed to be married to you for the rest of my life. I was supposed to be your wife only. I was supposed to be so many things and yet. Here I am.

    Kevin, I swore to love you as long as we both shall live and that is still true. I will never stop loving you. I have learned that the heart is capable of amazing depths of love. I love Charley wholly and so too, I love you. I am profoundly lucky, some would say blessed, to be loved by two such men.

    Marrying Charley in no way diminishes how much I love you and miss you, not does it change the truth of the love you felt/feel for me. Your love nurtured and sustained me for many years. I know it always will. Nor does loving and missing you diminish the love I feel for Charley and what he feels for me.

    Thank you Kevin, for loving me so well; for helping me learn to love bigger and truer; and for, in the end, telling me you wanted me to be happy, to learn to love again, that it would be okay. Thank you for knowing love endures.

    I know you'll be there with us today. While sometimes my heart gets twisted up in all of this, I know you will be there beaming, knowing I remain yours just as I am Charley's. Thank you for the gift of myself.

    I love you.


    P.S. After writing this, I ran it by Charley as I always do when I write about him. I couldn't get through it without sobbing. He held me while I cried and assured me that he was okay with all of this. I am so lucky in so many ways. Thank you.

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    (c)2019 Laura S. Packer Creative Commons License

    Sunday, September 29, 2019

    Love, grief, and remarriage

    By the time I next write to you, I will have remarried. Marriage is complex, the idea that I'm binding my life to another, and I'm finding the closer we get to the date, the more complicated it becomes.

    The man I'm marrying is wonderful. He is smart, funny, kind, and has room for me to love Kevin just as much as I love him. He loves me powerfully and wholly as I am, broken and healed and human. I am so lucky to spend my life with him.

    And yet.

    And yet I flinch when people get too excited for my wedding, even when they have the best of intentions. I flinch more when they say things like I knew you would get over it or worse, I knew you would get over Kevin.

    And yet.

    And yet I am excited about marrying my new love who deserves to be called more than the new love. I am excited about marrying my love. I've taken to referring to Kevin as my late husband and the man I am about to marry as my living husband. Some people get it. Some don't.

    And yet.

    And yet, I never expected to be anyone's wife but Kevin's. When he died, I never expected to be in another relationship, never thought I would want to or could find someone who matched me as well. I am having dreams about betrayal, hurt, loss, and other delightful topics. It is hard to hold both the joy and the sorrow.

    And yet.

    And yet, I know Kevin would want me to be happy. He told me so, quite clearly, in those last tender days. I know he understood that my heart is happiest when it is loving and that to deny my own nature would kill me, as surely as the cancer was killing him.

    And yet.

    And yet, these dreams are breaking my heart at the time when it is also at its fullest. I finally cried a few days ago and it felt the same as in those early days after his death, bereft and with nothing left but tears that burned my cheeks.

    And yet.

    And yet here I am. Stepping forward even though it hurts like hell. Acknowledging that pain even as I am happy and stunned that someone is able to love me so well. Risking relationship even though I am afraid of the same tearing loss. Wearing both rings, to hold both loves. Honoring and celebrating all of the love, all of the time. Recognizing that I would not be who I am if I had not broken so completely, over and over again, then been reforged.

    I could not be in this place if I had not found myself along the way. Who I am now is so very different from who I was, yet this me is still able to love and be loved. This me is still able to grieve and yearn and recognize that my body and my life are big enough to hold the past, present, and even believe there might be a future.

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    True Stories, Honest Lies by Laura S. Packer is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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