On being a weirdo

This essay was originally published on my Patreon and is slightly modified here. Most of my blogging happens there now, so if you want to read more of what I write, please check it out.

I have a very clear memory from maybe second grade. Even at that tender age my father was talking to me about suicide, death, and nothingness. It was a dour diet for someone so small, but I loved my father and so did my best to understand. There was no one my age I could talk with about these things, even though they occupied my mind. At that age I was yet to have losses I understood as such. Some great aunts had died, our small dog, but death wasn't yet conceivable, it was merely absence and my father's ruminations.

That second grade morning my class walked around the outside of the school, from the back to the front. I don't know why we did so, but I remember the chill in the air, the bright sunlight, the texture of the brick. My father and I had been talking about death last night, so I was thinking about our conversation when I turned to some kid walking next to me and asked, "What do you think happens after we die?"

I was the weird kid in class (shocking) too interested in reading and writing and imagining and nature, not enough in television or pop culture. This didn't help.

She looked at me like I was crazy. I remember two distinct answers, but only one could be what happened. In one universe she said, "We go to heaven. I will. You're a weirdo," and went to walk near someone else. In the other she just called me weird and walked briskly away. In either case, the conversation didn't go well and it only increased my reputation as a weirdo. Had that happened in the last decade (and the teacher overheard) I'm sure I would have been sent to counseling and a letter sent home to parents, but as it was in the early 1970s, the only result was the other kids thought I was even stranger.

Not long after that another kid told me I was weird (I think it was because my favorite tv show was Nova, not Happy Days which was all the rage) and I replied, "I like being weird."

That was a formative moment. From then on my defense against being different was to embrace it, or at least to try to.

In Jr. High (again dating myself) I met E and finally found someone who was also weird. It was a powerful and important event, seeing that I wasn't the only one who wasn't like everyone else. Together we embraced our weirdness, and since then my path has always been individual, though sometimes lonely. In high school I found a few more familiar weirdos, and again in college, but for most of my life I've had to chose between embracing the weird or toning down.

When I found the storytelling community, I found a kind of home. I could tell strange stories, old folktales, vulnerable personal moments, and no one ran. I'm still weird (my material isn't festival fodder, that's for sure) but at least here I find relatable weirdos. I am certain it has saved my sense of self over and over again. I am still an outlier, telling stranger stories than most, but at least here it's not a reason to hide.

None of us should have to hide our weirdness. As long as it is ours, and doesn't hurt anyone else (which most weirdness does now), let your freak flag fly.

I hope you feel accepted for the weirdo that you are, but if you feel like an outlier and it's hard, please get in touch. You're not alone. We need you. Know that I like you just the way you are.

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(c)2021 Laura S. Packer

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.

Laura

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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.

Gratitude

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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You can't go home again

This past weekend I returned to Sharing the Fire for the first time since Kevin died. We were both deeply involved with this conference, and the thought of returning filled me with dread for quite a few years. I had tremendous trepidation about going back this year, but decided I may as well find out if I could.

It was both easier and harder than I anticipated, as so many things are.

On the one hand, it was wonderful seeing people I care about whom I haven't seen in years. I did a good job of planning for something that would be stressful so when it was, I had a safe place to hide and people who took care of me. I didn't have to bark at anyone, which was something I had genuine concern about since so many people say well-meaning things that are actually hurtful.

On the other it was yet another marker, another way of noting that Kevin has been gone for five years now, which seems so very long. It was another way of noting how much things change and how little they change. It was an enormous marker of how I have changed and not always in ways I would have hoped.

It was hard and good and hard. So it goes.

I expect I will return next year, now that I've managed it once. I don't expect that it will ever be easy.

My gratitude to all who helped me through. As it is with most things, I wouldn't have made it without you.

p.s. I posted a ghost story on patreon, one that is largely about Kevin. There is a video teaser here, and you can support me (and therefore have access to the story) here.
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An open letter to Kevin, five years on

Dear Kevin,

I remember thinking on the first anniversary of your death that five years seemed impossibly long. That when you'd been gone for five years I might be dead too. That I could not bear the thought of five years without you.

All of that was true.
All of that wasn't true.

Loss and grief are like that. They change everything. The fundamentals of my world are not the same as they were before you died, before you were diagnosed, and yet I am still here.

There are so many things I could say but I don't know how. It's funny, writing about losing you was my driving reason to write for so long and today I don't know what to say. I miss you. I love you. I am so glad we had each other and in some ways still do. What else is there to say?

Now, five years on, I am finally starting to feel the joy and love of being each others start to outweigh the pain of losing you. Part of me is ashamed that it's taken this long, but so it is. I still have flashbacks and sometimes they are very bad, I still wonder if I did enough for you, I still am afraid I wasn't enough, that my memories of us are an illusion, but I can now draw up the sweet memories more easily and remember that yes, we were that good. I was that lucky. You would say blessed. Yes.

The hospital chaplain (you remember him, the white guy with reddish hair and the sweet face, the really smart guy, the one you kind of liked as much as you liked anyone in the hospital) was very kind to me in those days. I wish I could remember his name. I said to him several times that I didn't know how I could live without you, that I felt like I would die too, and he responded gently, each time, that I might. I didn't understand it then. I am starting to, finally.

Who I am now is at once much the same and so very different. I am still thinking about how to describe those changes (that alone is a difference, I am slower to speak. You might be relieved.) and this is not the time or place to list them, but I hope you are proud of me. I hope you would love the me I am now. I think you would. In some ways I've become the person you wanted me to be, the person you knew was there and I doubted. I wish it hadn't taken losing you to finally get here. Maybe I would have anyway. I hope so. I hope you know.

I hope you know how absolutely amazing your kids are. They reflect your light into the world and add to it with their own.

Thank you, beloved, my heart, for everything. For loving me, for loving all of us so very well.

Today I will take a walk and do my best to feel your hand in mine. Today like so many days I will miss you. Today I will remember that love endures, that it is infinite, that we are still each others. Today I will look at the waters and see you in them, in the air, in the sky. I will celebrate your continuation in the stars, the waves, the universe. Today I love you still and I always will.

Yours always,
Laura


Thanks to James for the amazing video.
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Some thoughts on birthdays, mortality, gratitude, and resilience

I woke up this morning with another tick in the calendar. Today is my birthday and I find myself at 51. It seems impossible. Inside I am sometimes 44 or 36 or 5 or 19 or 30, but 51? That seems so adult. So old. So how-the-hell-did-I-get-here. I know I'm not the only one who experiences this, but right now, in this moment, I am swimming in it. I also know some of you will remind me that 51 is not old. I hear you, thank you, but right now? Yeah. I feel unsettled, surprised by both my age and my resilience.

Outside my window the cardinals are swarming over the lilac bushes, eating berries and jockeying for position. One pauses and seems to be looking back at me. I don't look away until the moment breaks. 

I have always believed that birthdays are important. We each should have a day when the world (or at least our immediate world) celebrates our existence and our impact, and birthdays seem like the right time for it. Our time here is so fleeting, taking a moment to acknowledge that we are here, we make a difference, we are enduring and connected and alive, that seems worth celebrating.

The trees are shedding leaves so rapidly now. It reminds me of the way a narrow stream can suddenly become a racing river. It is a flash flood of color, of time, of endings and hoped-for beginnings.

My feelings about my own birthday changed after Kevin died. I still believe birthdays are important, but mine now feels muted. It is hard for me to celebrate my place in the world when such a big part of the world is gone. This isn't to say my world is lacking in love or connection or belonging: Charley is his own big part of my world but having love doesn't mean the love that is gone is forgotten and unmourned. So my approach to my birthday has changed; I still celebrate but without needing the fanfare.

Looking to the top of my window I can just see the tail of a bluejay, perched in the gutter and no doubt eating one of the peanuts we put out for the local fauna. The bluejays line up in front of their offerings, so polite with one another while they call to the world in their rasping voices.

My birthday now is a time to consider mortality and the paths closed or untaken. It is a time to be grateful for all of the love, beauty, compassion, strength that surround me. It is a time to drink in the gifts I have been given. It is a time to appreciate what I have loved and witnessed and done. It is a time to accept the love that is offered to me. It is a time to consider all that has changed in a year and all that has remained the same. It is just another day and yet it isn't.

The sky is a flat cloudy grey; any texture is muted by the window screen. Even as it looks flat I know that there are ridges and bumps, castles and creatures all hidden in the clouds. I know that behind the clouds is the blue sky, and beyond that there are the stars. 

I am still here. I carry the cellular memory of everyone I love and so that alone is reason to celebrate. I am so grateful to the world for the beauty that is there for the seeing.
I am so grateful to the people in my life for reminding me that even when it is dark there is reason to celebrate.
I am so grateful for my own resilience and determination that keeps me moving forward, even if 51 seems like someone else.
I am so grateful for the love.

We are each a blessing and a curse; how we live our lives makes the difference. So many of you live your lives as light in the world, sometimes sharing that light with me but always radiant, and that is the best gift of all.

Thank you.
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Dear Kevin: Some thoughts on love and grief four years on

(c) Jason Walker

Dear Kevin,

I couldn’t sleep last night, knowing that I would wake into today and yet… here I am. I can’t believe it’s been four years since you died. For that matter it’s sometimes hard to believe that you died at all. How can the planet continue to turn without you? I still love you. I always will. Four years of change and yet no time at all. 

I am writing this from Minnesota. I live here now. Yes, it is cold. You would hate the winter, but you would love the depth of the cold nights and the intensity of summer. It’s as if, knowing it will be brief, summer decides to be as sultry and full of light as it possibly can while it’s here. Kind of like you. You weren’t here long enough, yet in that time you warmed more people and shone more brightly than a dozen others.

You loved me so well I learned to love myself. You loved me so well I wasn’t able to give up on the world when you died, as much as I wanted to. 

You knew this would be the best path. Love is in my nature so I love and am loved, even as I am sometimes composed of cobwebs and twigs. Charley is a wonder, just like you were/are a wonder, though in different ways. He has room for me and you both in his heart, knowing you are a part of me. He is somehow able to make room for my love for you without feeling as if that impacts my love for him. I know I wouldn’t have been able to accept this indescribable gift had you not told me to, had I not known you wanted me to love and live again, had I not known that part of what you love/d about me is that I love the world. I like to think the two of you would be friends, that you would talk about Deep Space Nine and Doctor Who. That you would both bemoan my stubbornness and smile at my foibles while I glare, then we would sit down and eat together, both of you passionate about pizza and barbecue. 

I still have moments of gut-wrenching grief, those times when I feel nauseous with your absence, but as often as not, I remember your light. I wish I remembered with more clarity; you sometimes have that patina of memory, which underscores that it’s been four years. Four years. How can that be? In the early days after you died, I began to keep lists of thing I didn’t want to forget about you, too intimate and homely to cite here in public. I’m glad I made those lists, they are the only part of my journals from those days I read and reread. The rest is too painful, still, but this way I retain some of those details it’s so easy to take for granted and so easy to forget. 

It is so odd that you haven’t seen these glasses or my newer tattoos and that you aren’t here, cheering me on. It can still be confusing and disorienting. Even after four years I still turn to share an observation with you. I still dream  and wake up surprised that you are not by my side. I have moments when I want to ask if you remember so-and-so or such-a-thing, then remember that I cannot, that I am the only one now who has that memory. Sometimes it is very lonely without you, even for the richness in my life.

I do not like that you are a memory but I am grateful that at least you were/are, grateful that I have you to remember. I strive to hold on to that feeling, to let the love and gratitude be greater than the pain, though I can’t always. I am trying.

I have a good life but it often doesn’t feel like it’s my life. I am on a divergent path. I take comfort from the thought that somewhere there is a universe where you and I are still together, laughing until we cannot stand, working together, loving together, living together. I take comfort from the thought that my cells hold the memory of yours. 

For all of the pain, I am so lucky. 

Love is the only infinite commodity I know of and I strive to be profligate in my love, to give it away with abandon and to accept it with joy. Thank you for teaching me that. Oh Kevin, I love you. I always will. That is what I know most of all, four years out. It still hurts like hell, I would still undo it if I could (complicated though that would be) but the love endures. Love wins. 

I remain, always, your

Laura

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Looking forward, looking back. An open letter to Kevin on Christmas Eve

Dear Kevin,

I am missing you terribly right now. Four years ago today we were trying to do all the things we usually did on Christmas Eve: We mulled wine, you put on Christmas music, we stayed in pajamas for as long as we could, we wrapped presents. We admired the Christmas tree and decided against any last minute shopping. We were trying to pretend it was normal, but it wasn't. This was the first Christmas Eve when we wouldn't be seeing the kids the next day, so the present pile was pretty small. We were also both so careful with you. You were so sick. We didn't know yet that this was our last Christmas together.

In some ways I am grateful for that ignorance. Had we known earlier, had you been diagnosed a month or two before, that Christmas would have been consumed by treatment and celebration around the edges. It is so unlikely it would have saved your life; at best it would only have prolonged it by a few months.

That's the story I tell myself, anyway. The guilt is sometimes still pretty intense, that I didn't insist on a CT scan earlier, that I didn't scream at you to go to the ER sooner. I can see you grimacing at me, reminding me that I did the best I could. Some days I know that. Some days I think I would do anything for those extra few months.

Today, four years later, I am in my new home in Minnesota. My new love C is driving his mother across several states so she can spend Christmas with us. I am not going to Boston because my mom needs me here. In Minnesota. (I can see you looking horrified that I moved north, into the cold.) Dad died a year and a half ago. Is he with you? Will you see Christmas in together, watching over all of us from Boston to Minnesota to California? I hope so.

Not long before you died, you asked me to promise you that I would be okay. I promised, knowing it was a lie. Now I know it was and was not. I am okay. And I am not. I feel as though I have become the embodiment of Whitman's, Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.

I think that's part of the essential nature of loss. If we let ourselves love deeply then we will, at some point, experience grief. We will never be the same. If we are lucky then we have a chance to build something new, but the broken parts never go away. I have become the city of Troy, built and buried then built again upon the shards.

I know you are still extant in some way but not the way I yearn for, even as I know if you were I would not have the wonders in my life now. It is an odd tension to hold. Very well, then I contradict myself. I want both.

Tonight C and I will have dinner with our mothers. We will go to our home, full of things you would find familiar and new, and wrap presents. I will admire the shimmering lights and the soft blur from tears. I will look for you in the lights. We will drink hot cider and celebrate life in this broken world. I will love you both, and find myself living two lives simultaneously. What else is there to do but live, love, and be grateful?

I love you and always will,
Laura
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It isn't enough to be grateful: 10 ideas for action

Anyone who reads this blog regularly knows I am a fan of gratitude. Keeping gratitude front and center in my life has helped me through some of the most difficult things I have ever experienced. It helps keep me grounded and, I hope, encourages me to maintain perspective on being one among many in the world.

In this season, when we are bombarded with reminders to be grateful, to be thankful (at the same time that we are bombarded with advertising for more stuff) I find myself thinking that gratitude isn't enough. It is important. It is an excellent first step, but it is just that, a first step. If all we do is list what we are grateful for then not think of it again, it has done nothing to change our lives, the lives of those around us, or the world. If we don't let people know we appreciate them how will they know? If we don't act to perpetuate the things we love, how will they be maintained?

Here are some ideas for turning gratitude into action. I hope you find this useful. I'd love to know how you act upon your feelings of gratitude and how you change the world.

1. Start with a list. Write down what and whom you're grateful for and a little bit about why. 
2. Make it a habit. Write down a few things you are grateful for every day.
3. Tell someone you are grateful for them and why. It might be uncomfortable or embarrassing but it's worth it; would writing a letter make it easier? We all like to know that we are appreciated and remember, that person may not be around forever. Let them know while you can.
4. Share something you love with someone you love. Gratitude can be viral and it's fun sharing something you are grateful for and enjoy with someone you love and are grateful for. If more people share your sense of gratitude for something then they are more likely to help it remain in existence.
5. Make a donation or volunteer to support something you are grateful for. For example, I am grateful for the internet. I am acting to try to protect Net Neutrality so everyone can have access to a free and open internet. I've also made donations to organizations that provide reduced cost internet to needy communities.
6. Protect the things you're grateful for. Be active in your community to keep the things you love safe. Love the outdoors? Work to keep public spaces public. Grateful for your education? Make a donation so someone else can go to school. Speak up when someone suggests that no one cares about something you are grateful for.
7. Ask others what they are grateful for. Listen to their answers. Maybe you'll learn something new about that person or yourself. 
8. Don't be too hard on yourself if you need a gratitude break. This season can be tough for a lot of reasons. It's easy to feel as if we're not good enough because the dinner wasn't perfect, we didn't get the right gift or we aren't grateful enough. Give yourself a break, we're all doing the best we can.
9. Encourage others to express gratitude. It can be embarrassing to name the things you're grateful for. You can help others realize that it's a generous and good-feeling thing to do.
10. Be grateful for yourself. You may not realize it, but you make the world better every day, by being aware and grateful of what's around you, by being generous when you can, by offering others the chance to share what matters to them. You are worthwhile and I am grateful for you. Thank you for being here.

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A very resilient muscle

We are surrounded by wisdom, even if some of it comes from places you might feel a little weird about. Kevin loved Woody Allen. I used to, but grew tired of the neurotic humor and then the whole controversy about his relationships with his children, his wife and his child/wife broke. I gave up on Woody Allen. But he said some things very, very well.

Like this.



I think of this often, that the heart is a very, very resilient little muscle.

When Kevin died I thought I would never be in another relationship. I didn't think I had it in me. Frankly, I couldn't imagine being alive in the world without him, so the thought of ever letting someone else into my heart was beyond comprehension. A bit over a year after he died I moved from our shared home to my own apartment. A lot of things drove the move, including economics, but at the heart of it was the knowledge that I needed to start figuring out what it meant to be alive in the world without him. This seemed, and sometimes still seems, impossible.

The move was a nightmare, though I was very well supported by people who love me. I was lucky.

Once I settled into my new home I wrote up a list of what it meant to be alive in this world. If I was to accept that I am still here, I needed something to do with the years in front of me. The list was pretty wide-ranging, including work, writing, good food, being outside, spending time with people who love me, travel, etc etc. Buried in there was flirting. Not being in a relationship, but flirting, that lovely little back and forth fed by attraction and possibility. It wasn't even really about sex, but about knowing I wasn't invisible in the world.

But where does a middle-aged, overweight widow go to flirt? I've always hated bars. I've never liked crowded places and I don't really have a social group here. I reminded myself that this is the modern world and set up a profile on a dating site, expecting and wanting only online flirtation. That felt safe.

It was safe, so much so that I was bored and frustrated. The number of people in the world who cannot spell or construct a sentence is astonishing and this is apparently my low bar. I was about to call the experiment a failure when an intriguing profile popped up in my feed. Smart, funny, geeky, cute, can write the hell out of a personal ad. I wrote. He wrote back. His sentence structure was complex, layered and grammatical. Beyond grammar, he was interesting. It was quickly apparent there was real chemistry between us. And he was thankfully far away, so I didn't have to deal with a real person.

Except everyone is a real person. It soon became obvious that something could really happen between us and I didn't know if I was capable of it. Remember, when Kevin died, I died too in many ways. And I still love Kevin, is it fair to even consider another relationship? So I wrote to him (for the sake of this essay and his privacy we'll call him C) and revealed that I was a widow. I didn't know if I was able to be in a relationship and I didn't want to hurt him.

C wrote back with the only thing that could have kept me going. I don't remember the phrasing, but he said something to the effect of, "I can't imagine how hard that must be. Of course you don't know if you can do this, your marriage never ended. I believe the heart is capable of a great deal of love. I'd like to see where this can go; at worst we get to be friends. I'm willing to risk it if you are."

So I did. We did. And here we are, about a year and a half later. Friends, lovers, partners. In a relationship.

None of this means I don't still love Kevin. I always will. I also love C. It's a very strange place to find myself. I am passionately in love with two men. Some days I panic and am afraid that loving C means I am somehow dishonoring Kevin, that I am betraying him. I know he would want nothing other than my happiness, but that knowledge doesn't always balance the emotions. Other days I fear that I will drive C away by still loving Kevin, though he understands and accepts me so thoroughly I know that won't happen. So I take some deep breaths. Sometimes I cry. And I continue. I do my best to be resilient. There are days when resilience means crying and taking a nap. That is good enough.

These coming days will be very hard. It is the third time now I have lived through the anniversary of the last of Kevin's life. It will be hard to remember the 15 years of love, companionship, friendship, hard work, and joy; instead I will be thinking about his face when he realized he was at the end. I will be thinking about the faces of his children as they tried to do the terrible work of saying goodbye to their father. I will be thinking about the love that surrounded us. I will be thinking about everything he told me with his gaze when he was too weak to talk. I will cry and write and feel stunned, angry, shocked. Alive. How can that be?

Throughout this tumult I will not be alone. I know Kevin will be with me. I know you will. I know the many people who knew and loved him, as well as those who have come to love him through this blog, will be there. And the amazing man who loves me now will be there, holding me while I cry for another. I will feel such conflict, such gratitude and guilt. I will be reminded again and again of just how lucky I am, in so many ways.

I was listening to an extraordinary podcast recently, Terrible, thanks for asking. This is, perhaps, a more comfortable source of wisdom. The producer, Nora McInery, tells her own story of loss and love in the very first episode. I wept (making the person seated next to me on the airplane rather uncomfortable) because it was so damned familiar. Nora says, "I am in love with two men." She is right. One love does not deny, eliminate, lessen, mitigate, or undermine the other. The heart is a very resilient little muscle. It is capable of marvels. So are we all.

With love and gratitude,
Laura

www.laurapacker.com
www.thinkstory.com
(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Breathing in, breathing out

Three years ago, very early in the morning (or maybe it was late the night before) Kevin began to have trouble breathing. We sat together on our bed. I gave him medication and we practiced slow, deep breathing. Breathing in, breathing out. After several hours with a hospice nurse we decided to go to the hospital as a preventative measure. As we slowly walked down the stairs together I remember banishing the thought that this was the last time he would be in our bedroom.

I was right. When we got to the hospital we found he had a blood clot in his left lung. This wasn't really surprising, cancer can make the blood kind of sticky and more prone to clotting, but it was very bad news. We got him installed in an ICU room and he was given a bi-pap mask, a more intense version of the c-pap you might have at home. He soon fell asleep as air was forced in and out of his lungs. Breathing in, breathing out.

Our oncologist asked if she could talk to me and it was there, in that little room next to his ICU room with four chairs in an L-shape, that I heard for the first time that she told me that he didn't have long. She explained that pulmonary embolisms were very serious. It was possible he wouldn't survive the night and I should call his kids if they wanted to come.

I don't remember if I wept. I'm sure I wanted to. I'm equally sure that I took several deep breaths so I could calm myself and think.

I went back into his room and held his hand, listening to the mask that helped him breathe. I don't know if I slept that night. I remember the rhythm of the machine. I remember watching his chest as he slept deeply for perhaps the first time in weeks. I remember matching the pace of my breath with his. Breathing in, breathing out.

Early the next morning I called his kids. We didn't know we had only 25 days left.

These memories are so sharp and fresh, yet they have a patina as well. Time is beginning to leave its mark on my memory. This is both a blessing and a curse. I want to remember him as immediately as if he had only just walked out of the room, but I know the only way I can survive is if I let time soften them. Sometimes it is in remembering the details that I find the connection and the wound again. Other times it is much easier, the memories are the bright, healthy ones, but not today.

March is a hard month. January 18 to March 28 are the brutal season for me, the dates that mark diagnosis to death, and now I'm really in the thick of it. Some people tell me to not focus on it, but honestly I don't know how. This was perhaps the defining time in my life and, while it hurts to remember,  it also helps remind me that Kevin was such a gift, that I am so lucky. I swim through the memories, thinking of his hands, his laugh, his shock that he was so ill, his joy in me and those he loved. I remember the rhythm of his chest, rising and falling, in that hospital room, as we lay side-by-side in our own home, and in the first night we spent together. Breathing in, breathing out.

These memories make my life now, living in the Twilight Zone, that much richer. When the sorry threatens to drown me I come to the surface and I take a deep breath. Sometimes those breaths are ragged with tears, other times the air fills my lungs and I breathe for us both.

Please don't worry. I am okay. It is appropriate and right that I feel sad, that I miss him. Kevin was the love of my life (and yes, my new love is too, but that's another conversation. I am in another life now, I am another me) so I will always miss him. Sometimes, like now, the wound is as fresh as if it were yesterday. This hurts. And I am still grateful for the pain, because it pales beside the love even as it is a reflection of it.

In each moment that we are here and breathing, I hope you are well and loved and doing the best you can. Be kind. May kindness grace you. And may each breath sustain you through stormy seas and smooth.

laurapacker.com
(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Vows

Yesterday was my wedding anniversary. On January 5, 2013, after 14 years of loving one another, Kevin and I spoke vows in front of our community, promising to love for as long as we both shall live, until death do us part.

We had no way of knowing death would part us so soon.

I have been a widow for far longer than I was a wife, but I have kept my promise. I still love him. I always will.

The one wedding anniversary we had together before Kevin died is a very tender memory. He was already very sick though not yet diagnosed. I made his favorite dish for dinner; he could barely eat. I'd been cooking the best things I could, both flavorful and nutritious, to try to lure his taste buds into action. I watched him swallow a few bites, look at me, then try a few more. It was, in many ways, his anniversary gift to me. He tried so hard. We sat snuggled together in our living room and re-read our wedding vows to one another. I was so happy. I was so grateful. I was so scared.

He was diagnosed 13 days later.

I would not change any of it. Had I known then what was lurking so near I would have made the same choices. Had I been told 14 years earlier that this would lead to the most painful thing I could experience, I would still have said yes, I will. I am so grateful I was Kevin's lover, his friend, his wife. I am so grateful that we eventually married; it was something I had wanted for a long time and once he was diagnosed it made everything bureaucratic so much easier. It means I am his widow legally as well as emotionally. I think this all would have been even harder if we didn't have the legal bond. This is no way is intended to suggest that those who are unmarried and lose a partner suffer any less, I just know that being his wife and legal widow gave me comfort.

I will always be Kevin's wife and his widow. Should I marry again I will speak my vows with no less sincerity and intent than I did the first time, then I will enter into a state of emotional bigamy and I'm okay with this. The human heart is a very complex and resilient bit of muscle.

Love doesn't die. As long as I am alive, as long as Kevin's kids and others who love him are in this world, he will be remembered and be loved. I am so glad I had a chance to be his lover, his friend, and his wife. I am so glad I was able to be his protector and advocate in those last desperate days. In some strange and complex ways, I am now - not glad. Never glad. But something akin to grateful beyond the loss and pain - that I get to be his widow.

I spent part of yesterday snuggled up on my living room couch. I re-read our vows to one another. I remembered. I let myself be comforted by the memories of what we were. And I will continue to be comforted, happy, and grateful that he and I were greater than the sum of our parts and always will be.

(c)2017 Laura S. Packer

Sometimes things just suck

Oh, I am in a mood.

Looked at objectively, things aren't bad. I have work I love that pays my bills, most of the time anyway. I am in a relationship with a sweet, smart man who loves me more than I often think I deserve. I have family and friends who care about me. I am generally healthy, my needs are met and I really don't have anything to complain about.

Not that this will stop me. Does it every really stop anyone?

I miss Kevin ferociously. The loss is tearing at me. All I want to do is curl up, watch tv, eat. I am numbing myself in any way I reasonably can. Part of this is the uncertain future, some because we are in the dark time of the year and I've always had a touch of seasonal affective stuff, but more of it is that it is the holiday season and Kevin is gone.

This mood is manifesting in some interesting ways. I have a stronger flinch response than usual. I feel terribly needy, craving assurance at every turn. I'm incredibly tired despite sleeping more than enough. I'm clumsy and find I need to be much more mindful of where I am physically. I'm having some truly epic nightmares. Each of these symptoms tells me that I'm grieving more actively than usual, even though they are different from symptoms I've experienced before. I know it comes in waves and I know this will pass. Right now it just feels crummy.

I've been hesitant to give voice to this because I'm tired of listening to myself whine. Part of me has bought the idea that I should be okay, that I should be able to handle this myself. None of that is true. At the best of times we need support and help, humans don't thrive in vacuums. During harder times we need the support even more, but that can be when it's hardest to ask.

I think I've also been hesitant to name these feelings because that makes it more real. It also means that I will have to contend with some well-meaning but poorly executed support. Someone told me yesterday to cheer up because it was Christmas and no one should be sad at Christmas time, it's Christ's birthday! I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. I thought a lot of things; you don't know me or what's going on, I'm Jewish, politics... I said nothing. I kept my mouth shut and reminded myself that she was well-intended.

So what helps when I feel this way? Naming it. Owning it. Saying to myself and the world that yes, my life is rich and yes, right now things suck, that helps. Asking for a bit of latitude helps. Reminding myself that I am not alone helps.

I have been rereading some of my writing over the last almost three years (that alone is a spear in my side) and that helps too. Reminding myself that I have survived this far. Reminding myself that these feelings come in wave and the only way out is through. Reminding myself that Kevin was and is in my heart. Reminding myself that, above all, I am so lucky to have loved and been loved so well.

With this in mind, I can truly remember that things aren't that bad even if they feel awful in this moment. I have work and love and family and health. This sorrow is the price I willingly pay for the radiant love I have experienced and am experiencing.

May all of our holidays show us the light in the darkness, even when the dark threatens to overwhelm us.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Finding the holiday spirit

I know people who love this time of year. The day after Thanksgiving, or maybe even before, they are decorating, planning, wearing brightly colored sweaters and more. Whether Christmas is a religious or secular event, they are thrilled that it's the holiday season.

I am not one of these people. Please don't think I'm a Scrooge, bah-humbugging everyone's fun, but Christmas isn't that big a deal to me. When I was a child I loved Santa, the tree, and the gifts. As I grew older I loved (and still love) finding gifts for those I cherish, but I became more aware of the complexities of Christmas. For one I'm not Christian, so the season sometimes feels a bit oppressive. For another it was often a time of family stress. Christmas began to be associated with careful navigation through hazardous waters and an increasing frustration with commercialism.

As an adult I finally found some Christmas spirit through rituals Kevin and I developed. We hosted a big open house every year. I loved and still love filling the kids' (now adults) stockings. I enjoyed the ritual of finding and cutting down a tree. None of it really felt like mine, but it was a fun thing to be a part of and a great opportunity to show people that I love them.

Then Kevin got sick. By this time in 2013 we knew something was seriously wrong but we didn't know how bad it was. Christmas now hold memories of the last weeks we had together before his diagnosis. Since his death, my stepkids and I have developed some wonderful new rituals, but it still feels a little strange for all that it is also loving and warm.

I know just how lucky I am because I know what I have lost. Christmas is now a mixture of love and sorrow.

So how do I navigate this time of year? How do I find holiday spirit so I at least won't be a drag for those who love Christmas beyond all else? This year I'm looking for the stories. I'm reminding myself of all the good times, all of the love and light and laughter. This is, of course, what we do at the holidays. We tell each other stories, the same ones we've been telling for years. They are part of the holiday ritual now.

My holiday stories are about spilled wine, unsteady menorahs, finding the right tree, baking bread, playlists, welcomed strangers, losing electricity, merged traditions, teaching the kids to gamble by playing dreidl, sledding miracles and more. For you the stories may be about a child being born, shelter from the cold, family and friends and sweaters that just didn't fit. I don't know yours and you don't know mine, but I do know these stories are lights in the darkness. They are stories of hope and love and faith in something when the world is cold and unwelcoming.

Keep telling your stories. Keep listening. They are our guideposts to find a deeper kind of holiday spirit than anything you can buy in a store.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: The storyteller gives thanks

I try to practice gratitude every day. I've written about it here before but, even with it being part of my daily life, it isn't always easy. I get distracted by the same things we all get distracted by - money and politics and petty jealousies and so on. I'm sure you experience many of the same distractions I do. Yet when I remember to be mindful about gratitude, whether it's writing lists or making sure that I thank people  or something else - it changes my outlook.

This has actually been studied and we know that being consciously grateful can change our brains for the better. When we practice gratitude regularly it can decrease depression and anxiety, increase our levels of dopamine (this hormone rewards the brain and helps us move towards rewards) and the effects appear to be lasting. If this sounds surprisingly like the neurological effects of storytelling you wouldn't be wrong. Maybe when we practice gratitude regularly we are telling ourselves stories about the possibility of a better world which helps us move to make that world a reality. I don't know, but it seems like a nice idea.

In the spirit of the season and because I believe it's important every day, here are eleven things this storyteller is grateful for, specifically related to storytelling and its impact on my life.

1. I am grateful for the sense of connection I feel when I tell or listen to stories. 
2. I am grateful for the opportunity to tell at all. I would do so even were I not paid for it, but how fortunate I am that I can make my living this way. 
3. I am grateful for every single person who has taken the time to listen to me.
4. I am grateful for every single person who has hired me.
5. I am grateful for artists of every stripe who have shared their work, so I may be inspired, intrigued, frustrated and moved. 
6. I am grateful for those who have taken my workshops and believed I had something useful to say.
7. I am grateful for those who trust me to coach them, what an honor!
8. I am grateful for the stories themselves, that help me understand myself and the world more deeply.
9. I am grateful to my teachers, those who have inspired me and believed in me, including my parents, my step-kids, Brother Blue, Ruth, Kevin, Charley and many, many more. If your name is not here please don't be hurt. I am grateful to you.
10. I am grateful for the overheard moments, the books, the poems, the movement of the trees, the tastes, the everything that has inspired me to create.
11. I am grateful for you, the listeners and readers, the people whose interest in what I have to say gives me the belief that maybe I have something worthwhile to say after all. Thank you. I could not do this without you. You have, quite literally, saved my life at times.

I fear this list may seem trite, or that I've overlooked something or someone terribly important, but it's a start. It's interesting to me, limiting this list to the impact of storytelling; there are many more things I am grateful for in general, but it was fun thinking storytelling specifically. What are you grateful for? What or who would you like to thank? I'd love to know. Let us give thanks, together. 

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

Birthdays, love and gratitude

Yesterday was my birthday. For most of my life I have delighted in birthdays with the same gusto I had as a six year old, full of delight and eagerness to see what the year will bring and yes, a bit of ego and greed for my own day in the world. As an adult I have used my birthday as a way to reflect on the many lights in my life. I've been giddy with gratitude and perhaps the sugar in my cake.

When Kevin died all of that changed. The first birthday after his death I did my best to find gratitude but it was hard. Last year I resumed writing gratitude lists. And this year, the third after his death, I found I just didn't have it in me. I told myself it was because of work (three gigs and short deadline for another project) but really it was because it feels trite, writing a list of mostly the same things I say every year and really, who wants to read a list of 49 items anyway? Really, it's because I am having some trouble grappling with the fact that it's been this long since he took his last breath. Really, I am no longer the person who wrote lists like that. Maybe I will be again, but not this year.

None of this is to say I don't feel tremendous gratitude. I am grateful for Kevin, for his life, for the joy and struggle and sorrow, for his kids and family, for his light in the world, for his ongoing occasional presence in mine. I am grateful for so many people whom I love and love me. Cara and Stephen and Kristoff and Vered and Stan and Charley and Amy and Mary and Trish and Ruth and and and and. If I didn't name you it's only because there are too many to name individually. I am grateful for the peace my father and I found before his death. In a terrible way, I am grateful for my own widowhood because it drives me to write and allows me to be more present with my mother as she navigates her new, scarred world. I am grateful for work I love. I am grateful for the air and autumn and for you reading this far and.... I could list things forever, but I don't want to. You don't want me to, I'm sure.

Instead, let me ask you this: What are you grateful for? What limping gifts have brought you more love or peace than you ever expected them to? What scars do you cherish? What brings light into your world? I would love to know.

I'm asking because, writing this morning in the watery dawn, I need help. I am not in a painful place, but I feel adrift, so I need the reminder that I am not alone in trying to find light in the darkness. And because I am so deeply grateful for all of you accompanying me on this journey, today I find you more interesting that anything else. I'd love to know, what makes you breathless with gratitude?

With much love,
Laura

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

The Telling Life: Storytelling as an act of service

It can be hard to define what we do, those of us who make our living as storytellers. It's easy to think of our work as any number of things. It can be an art, a mystical moment, a craft accessible to all, something obtainable only after years of practice, on and on and on. If we're not careful we can push ourselves to rarified and undeserved heights. When I need to burst my own bubble and come back to earth I remind myself that what I do is provide a service.

I make my living as a storyteller. I perform, teach, coach, train and consult, all under the umbrella of the word storytelling. I provide services to my clients and I do my best to make sure those services are nothing less than exemplary.

Let's dig a little into what service is and why it's a handy way to think about this kind of work.

First, it is a service. I offer intangible products to my clients, be they an audience, someone working on their own story, a business or non-profit that wants to use storytelling more effectively or a group of people I am training. While I might want to think of myself only as an artist, what I am paid for are services.

Businessdictionary.com defines services as: Intangible products such as accounting, banking, cleaning, consultancy, education, insurance, expertise, medical treatment, or transportation.
Sometimes services are difficult to identify because they are closely associated with a good; such as the combination of a diagnosis with the administration of a medicine. No transfer of possession or ownership takes place when services are sold, and they (1) cannot be stored or transported, (2) are instantly perishable, and (3) come into existence at the time they are bought and consumed.

That seems like a pretty good description of performance storytelling. My stories do not transfer possession when I tell them. While they can be stored should I record them, the expertise, craft and talent cannot be handed over by some kind of mind-meld. In a performance setting, stories are instantly perishable - they exist in that moment between the teller and a particular audience - and they come into existence as they are purchased and consumed. This definition stretches to cover coaching, consulting and training as well. They are intangible, perishable and momentary. The effects may (and I hope do) linger long after I've gone, but the experience itself is fleeting.

It may be uncomfortable to think of our work this way, as a service. It might feel too business-y, clinical or materialistic, but I find it makes me work harder and serve better if I remember that my clients deserve the best and, because it is a fleeting service, I have an obligation to work as hard as I can for them in my preparation and in the moment so the aftereffects will linger. They are paying for an enduring memory or lesson learned as much as anything.

I also strive to think of my work as this kind of service, as defined by dictionary.com: service (noun) an act of helpful activity; help; aid: to do someone a service. 

Looked at this way I remember that I never know the impact of the work I do. I don't know who I have helped, I know only that I may have been of service. I have been fortunate enough to have people tell me that my work - whether it's a performed story, coaching or consulting - has lingering effects. That I have helped them. Knowing that this can happen helps me work harder and strive to be better in the moment.

Lastly, every once in awhile I have an experience that reminds me that storytelling can be another kind of service: a form followed in worship or in a religious ceremony or a meeting for worship —often used in plural .

At its very best, storytelling can play the role of communal service. A group of people gather together in search of a common feeling and create something momentary and sacred. My best moments as a performer, listener, coach and consultant all have elements of the sacred about them because they connect me to my audience and to something beyond. Collectively we create a moment that will not soon be forgotten.

When I remember that I provide a service it doesn't lessen the power of what I do. I don't minimize my artistic effort, craft and talent. I don't feel as though I commoditize my work. What I do is remind myself that I am on this planet to be of service. I am fortunate that the service I provide is one that serves me, too; knowing that helps me work harder, dig deeper, offer more and serve better. 

It is a privilege to serve the world, my audiences, my readers and you. Thank you.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

Nuances of grief

I have written time and time again about how no two griefs are the same, that the way one person mourns may be quite different from another and that they are each legitimate. Grief can't be compared; it can be recognized and honored however it manifests. What I am learning now is that, even within one person, no two griefs are the same, there are nuances beyond measure.

My father, Harvey Packer, died Monday after a long battle with congestive heart failure. If you'd like, you can read his obituary here. My mother and I were both with him when he died; my mother was his caregiver for the last several years.

I am not experiencing the same kind of grief I felt when Kevin died, nor the grief I felt when Brother Blue (my storytelling father) died. Right now, when I think about my father no longer being bodily on this planet, I feel relief that he is no longer suffering. I feel some sorrow that I won't have more moments of sweetness with him. I feel some other, more complicated emotions.

When Kevin died I was eviscerated. With my father's death I remain whole and I am surprised by it.

My relationship with my father was complex. I don't want to go into details, but it was sometimes quite rocky and, while I love my father and know he loved me, it was never easy. I know that has an impact on what I am feeling. Additionally, I think the death of a spouse is quite different from the death of a parent. We choose our spouses; if we are lucky they are also our best friends. Because it's a deliberate relationship rather than one of blood, it has (appropriately) different meaning than the relationship with our parents. I'm sure that has an impact, too.

Our parents are supposed to die before us and I was lucky to have him into my late 40s. I always knew my father would die in my lifetime and that knowledge likely makes this easier. What's more, Kevin's illness and death were entirely unexpected and I had little time to get used to the knowledge that he wouldn't be around. My father has been sick for several years and largely housebound for all of this year. I've had time to get used to the idea.

Yet it feels odd. My understanding of how I grieve is mostly based on losing Kevin, and that grief has been ferocious. This is not the same. What I need to remember is to be gentle with myself, just as I was when Kevin died, but part of what I need to be gentle about is that I don't feel the same devastation. Yes, I am sad. But I am okay in a way I was not (and often still am not) after Kevin died. I need to remember that being mostly okay does not mean I am callous.

Every grief is different. I need to remember that now so I can give myself permission to recognize and honor what I am feeling in this moment. I also need to remember that what I'm feeling will probably change. 

My father has died. We made more peace with each other than I ever expected and we loved one another. What more is there?

Thank you Dad. I am glad you're not suffering anymore. I am grateful for the gifts you have given me. I love you.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

Cooking in the after life

This post was originally published in my occasional cooking blog, cook pot stories. It's been modified slightly here. If you want a recipe for stock please go to the original post. 

I love cooking. More accurately, I used to love cooking and my understanding of myself includes a love of cooking, even if I no longer quite feel it; I'm learning to love it again but in new ways. Cooking has been therapy, meditative, a chance to experiment and a way I communicate my affection and esteem. I'm sure you cook for many of the same reasons.

In the 2+ years since Kevin died, I've not been cooking much and when I do it's often with mixed feelings. I loved cooking for Kevin. Because his cancer attacked his digestive system, food and cooking became a big deal while he was sick and then a big reminder after he died. When I do cook it's usually something simple, not the elaborate meals I made before he got sick. Certainly this is a part of how I'm experiencing grief. Analysis aside, I'm aware that I miss it, but I don't yet know how cooking fits into the after life.

I've come to think of my life since Kevin's death, especially as more time passes, as living in the Twilight Zone, as the after life. That's what it is; my life after him. I have a rich life. I love and am loved. And yet it often feels as though it's not quite my life, as though it's someone else's. I've slipped into a parallel universe where everything looks much the same but is entirely different. I think my relationship with cooking might be a part of this, though I dearly hope I regain my passion for it.

All of this is in the front of my mind this morning. I am in Minnesota, where I am performing in the local fringe festival. I'm enjoying it, making money doing work I love. I'm staying with my sweetheart, a wonderful man in his own right, who accepts me as I am, understanding that Kevin is part of the package. I am looking out of the window at a lovely late summer day, where the air is beginning to feel like autumn is coming, my favorite time of year. And I have a pot of stock simmering on the stove, so the house smells rich and fragrant.

When I was preparing the stock this morning I found myself reaching for the familiar things I might find in my own kitchen but they weren't there. I had to find a stock pot of different dimensions than the one I'm used to. The knife is a fine one, but not worn to my grip. The spice cabinet didn't have everything I would usually use. All of the tools I wanted were there, easily at hand, but they weren't the same. They worked well. I will have a lovely pot of stock in a few hours. We will enjoy it together on some coming cold day.

And yet it's not the same. I don't regret living in the after life, not at all, but sometimes it's a shock noticing how I am in a parallel world. A loving and loved partner. Work I am good at and am earning a living with. Joy in many of the same things, like trees and music and food. A pot of stock, simmering. All of these things existed before Kevin died. They exist after. But they are all different.

I imagine as more time passes I will find my footing more easily; I know I am more grounded now than I could ever have imagined in the months immediately after his death. I expect I will try more complicated dishes again and may eventually even make some of his favorites - braised short ribs with sour cherries, for example - and will enjoy them even as I feel sorrow and longing.

Cooking remains a love letter, a way I communicate my affection and esteem. It's a language I need to relearn, that's all. In the meantime, soon enough I will have stock. I will strain it in a different colander, let it cool and freeze it in a new freezer. But the love and care that went into its making are no different. It will still be delicious, it just might mean a little more now, here in the after life.

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer

Dear Kevin: An open letter, two years later

Dear Kevin,

Oh, I miss you. I miss you with ever fiber, every breath. You know this, of course. You are the one who is there when, even now two years on, I wake up looking for you in the dark. Sometimes I still hear the cadence of your breath. I remember.

I love you. I still hold you inside of me, carry your heart, remember your touch. You know this, too. You are the one who taught me to believe that maybe there is such a thing as unconditional love, you are the one who told me once that you couldn't wait to see my face when I realized that could be true. You did. I remember.

And I am okay. It is an ongoing shock to me that here and now, without you in my life as a physical constant, I am upright. I laugh and smile and yes still cry. I love and am loved. You know this as well as you know my love and my sorrow. There is no okay without you and yet I find, there is. It is a different kind of okay. You are the one who asked me to promise that I would be okay. I did, but I was lying even as I pretended I was not. It turns out you were right about this one, too. I remember.

If memory is truly immortality then you will live forever. I take some comfort in that most days, though some days it tastes like nothing but ash. I remember you as do your kids, family, friends. You touched so many people. You would walk into a room and the light would coalesce around you. Now you are the light.

The easiest way for me to think of my current life is that I'm living in a science fiction story, or maybe an episode of The Twilight Zone, one of those written by Rod Serling, of course. Those were the best, the twistiest, the most human. I have slipped into a parallel universe or maybe the theoreticians were right and every moment the universe breaks into a multitude of possibilities. I stumbled into a different universe than the one I wanted to be in. I can't even say this parallel universe is worse than the one where you never got cancer. It is a greyer place much of the time, and a sadder one, but the world is still here. It is perhaps more tender than the one I lived in before. There is still beauty. There is love. The world may taste of salt now, the faint crust on my cheek and under my eye, but the world still has taste.

None of that is to say I don't miss you, don't hate what happened, don't long for you to be back. And yet... here I am.

I am so different now, though on the surface I may look mostly the same. I know my hair is much greyer. I don't laugh as quickly nor for as long. I am more forgiving more easily. My quiet side, always present though often unbelieved, is a bigger part of me. I need a great deal of time alone. I am softer. I am not discontented. Many days I am even happy, but I always feel the lack of you.

You are the one who, seen or unseen, present in spirit or as energy in the universe, opened the door for this odd place. You are the one who loved me so well in life that I find I can love again in the after life. You are the one who believed in me far more than I have ever believed in myself and so gave the the strength to find my way into this side world.

Now, here, two years out, I still miss you ferociously. I cried in my new love's arms last night and I'm sure I will do so again. He is a good man, I think you would like him. I hope you do. His presence in my life doesn't change the fact that I miss you and want you back. Sometimes that's a hard contradiction to hold, but it's there. I miss you in every breath, every time I laugh, every time I experience something that we would have shared with a sideways glance. I miss your shining face.

Now, here, two years out, I love you passionately. That will never go away, nor should it. The love we built, the way I love you, the way you love(d) me informs everything in my life. It shapes how I love now.

Now, here, two years out I find myself okay. And most days I think of you predominantly with enormous love and unmeasurable gratitude. Yes, I am different. Yes, I will never get over your death nor would I want to. Yes, this alternate universe is not where I would have chosen to be. But you taught me so much. Even in death. Even in those last moments, two years ago right now.

I remember the light streaming into the hospital room the moment after your heart stopped beating. You were in the light then. You are now. You always will be.

I love you, Kevin. More than anything else, more than the pain in this moment, more than missing you, the love remains. Thank you.

Laura

(c)2016 Laura S. Packer