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Lou Ann Lewis Welcome to Lou Ann's CaringBridge Web Page. It has been provided to keep you updated.
Journal
Thursday, August 24, 2006 10:38 PM CDT I’ve been putting off posting this last entry. I feel a sense of loss about bringing this to its conclusion, after making postings frequently for the past 18 months.
Even after a year, there is a sense of unreality to the loss of Lou Ann. Not that I believe I’ll see her again, but part of me just cannot fathom that my partner in life has died. And especially since we were only in our fifties! She and I built a life together for so long and had many plans ahead. I’m still stunned by that. It seems like we’re all here for just a brief moment, pilfering a little time in the grand scheme of things. I’ve been heartbroken, broken open, my life completely torn apart, and I am in the midst of rebuilding it with a different set of pieces. I’m scared about forging toward old age alone. But we learn to go on when we can’t go on. As Patrice from Common Ground Meditation Center said, our practice is our inexhaustible willingness to begin again. And so we do that. Begin again. Accept and be with what is. The Lou Ann that lives in us accompanies us.
The article about memory gardens in the StarTribune August 2 was a lovely tribute to the people involved (thanks if you gave me a copy). I was pleasantly startled to see my part on the cover, and the timing near the first anniversary was gratifying. I received lots of messages about the article. Two people I don’t even know sent appreciative cards, and I’ve reconnected with some old friends who didn’t know of Lou Ann’s struggle till they saw the article. This week an old friend installed some beautiful lilies by my front steps as a little memorial, along with a handcrafted brass wire she had shaped to announce “Lou Ann” among the lilies.
The rose bushes are thriving. I thought a month ago that the later one was at the end of its bloom cycle, but it has produced one rose after the next and is still going! Remember how I would breathe chocolate across Lou Ann’s face when she couldn’t eat it? She’d say, “Oh, that’s heavenly.” Every day I smell the rose in bloom and say that to myself.
Like the rose bushes, the Weigelia I planted to draw hummingbirds flowered early. I assumed it was done, but it’s again producing flowers, and hummingbirds have been in the yard on several occasions. [Sidebar: here is the story, known to Lou Ann, of the hummingbird encounter that set the stage for all the subsequent connections. I’ve been fond of those birds since youth. In 1994 I took a woodworking course at Anderson Ranch Arts Center in the mountains of Colorado, where Lou Ann and I had both studied earlier that summer, she pottery and I woodworking. I was sleeping outdoors, fading into the sagebrush up the road, nobody the wiser, no tent, just my bag on the ground. Every morning the birds woke up early, and so did I. One morning I felt a breeze on my face as I slept. I stayed very still and opened my eyes. There in front of me was a male ruby-throated hummingbird, hovering about a foot away. The wind on my cheeks from its beating wings had awakened me! It regarded me for perhaps half a minute, then roared away as they do. I was so transfixed and full that I felt I had already drawn all the breath I needed.]
I think often about what Lou Ann would want for me in my life, whether small (do up those dishes!), medium (go visit Greg while he’s in China), or large (really be of service in whatever way). That motivates me to make certain choices. What would somebody who knows unconditional love wish for us? This remains an unspeakable loss; yet it is the deepest spiritual experience I’ve ever had, and my aspiration is to grow from it as best I can, become even bigger than I am.
There is a hint of the pull toward fall. The seasons have made their full turn, and I’m beginning year two, with Lou Ann’s (and Moon’s) birthday September 1, our September 9 anniversary, and the high holidays all approaching. I’m still caught off guard by things: back on my Master’s degree track, I was at the library recently doing literature research. My inquiries led me to authors that Lou Ann studied, and I sat in the library stacks for several minutes nearly choking, wishing I could talk with her about those sources. I still have trouble sleeping from time to time, can still let a meal go by. I wear my rings, and hers around my neck. I can’t yet look in her dresser drawers or give her clothes away. I have difficulty being in crowds.
At the same time, my concentration is a little better (I’ve charred any number of pans and food, left things out in the rain). I hang out in my hammock, garden up a storm. I’m excited about resuming teaching in September at El Colegio; I’ve taken on a couple of lovely piano students and would like more. I’m befriending some new people, and some old people are staying around. Reliving Lou Ann’s illness is not as traumatic as it used to be. I have garden dreams and art projects to tend to. I think about what Lou Ann or both of us began, and what of that I want to carry forward. Bake bread (I’m riding this new learning curve; how satisfying it will be some day). Brew beer (not interested). Ceramics (no, except for finishing the incomplete work). Cooking, follow the recipe exactly at first (OK, I’ll try). Be fully who I am meant to be (undeniably). Send prayers to people who need them (yes, every night at bedtime). Read aloud things I know she liked (yes). Allow the love she knew in the last days of her life permeate my life and flower in me (this is my aspiration).
I am so very lucky to have forged a lasting relationship with Lou Ann where we each helped the other grow. We faced a lot of obstacles along the way, including our perfectionism and self-criticism. We learned how to fight well and be more and more of our full selves as companions. The honeymoon was over numerous times, as we gave up our idealization and worked with what was real. Gradually it became an almost constant honeymoon. Eventually we could say, “That’s my dear one; she’s so aggravating!” with a loving tenderness that was very precious. With our efforts, sense of humor and some luck, it became a true partnership. I am so incredibly fortunate to have had such a marriage.
Thus my weblog of the first year of grief (my glog) comes to an end. Writing it has been a comforting thing to do, and looking back over the story is a powerful experience. This page will remain open on the Caring Bridge site; if anyone can draw something from it, I’m glad. Please add messages on the guest book, and I might put up some different photos. It’s never too late to tell me something about Lou Ann, but this is my last journal entry. Ceaseless heartfelt gratitude to you for all you did and still do: your phone calls, emails, cards and letters; your caring concern, inquiries, compassionate listening; your donations, books, music, flowers, plants; your invitations, your company, your love. I can never fully acknowledge what it has meant to me, but only cherish it and carry it forward. Tender wishes to you as you move forward. Once again, “It’s about love. Tell everybody.”
May we all know good health, love, and peace of mind. May we follow our true nature and be free from suffering.
Blessings and love,
Elizabeth
P.S. Some say that year two is the hardest, because people are around for the first year and then think you’re doing fine. So don’t be a stranger, and I won’t either.
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