Happier New Year

When I was a kid, especially growing up with teacher parents, September felt like the start of a new year. As an adult, January became my new year. Now, my new year starts August 16th, another year beginning since my husband's death. That's one of the strange things about widowhood. Time is altered. In some ways, the first year seemed to last forever. In some ways, it felt like one broken heartbeat.

Before Dave's death, I wasn't particularly bothered that we all kick the bucket sooner or later. Perhaps because I assumed it would be later. I was surprised that death took me by surprise. The reality of it a stark contrast to my relaxed, pragmatic, almost romantic notion. I was shocked by how final it felt. The never-again nature of it. The words unsaid. The plans unfulfilled. The permanent vacancy where my girls' dad should be.

For years, I used death as a guide. I sucked the juice out of life, knowing it wouldn't last forever. Now death and I are better acquainted, more intimacy, less romance. Now I'm doubling down on death as my guiding principle. Living like I'm dying has become more than experience and adventure seeking. It's loving the shit out of my people. It's embracing the humility, acceptance, and connection that flows from seeing that we all begin and end the same, born and dead. And it's listening more and talking less, although more and less are relative measures and I will have to chant "two ears, one mouth" until it's my turn to kick the bucket.

Even though death is a relentless mother fucker who comes for us all, he comes bearing gifts. He'll help you get your priorities straight in one broken heartbeat.