What it Takes to Forgive

Pensiero's image can be found here...

Its human nature.  We look for something – someone – to blame.  Its their fault.  Its fault.  Her fault.  His fault.  Your fault.

I suppose it was only natural that I looked to find fault in someone when Kurt died.  There were many places the blame could have rested.  Him for not taking better care of himself.  His parents for giving him the genes that caused his heart to stop.  The world for being cruel and unforgiving.  God for being the same.  But while some of my anger was turned in those directions, the blame was not.  It was my fault.  Solely on my shoulders.  For not being there sooner.  Not hearing him collapse.  Not harnessing the strength required to move him.  Not picking up on the signs.

Not being able to save his life.

So here I sit, with the blame turned inwards.  And the blame becoming guilt.  I know I need to accept. To acknowledge.  To forgive.  To allow myself to say I could not have done more.  But that’s easier said than done.  To surrender blame is to surrender responsibility.  To admit that it was not preventable.  That regardless of what anyone said or did, my husband was going to die.  That's not an easy fact to state, let alone accept.

To get even to the point I am hasn’t been an easy process.  Despite what anyone says, guilt is not a coat you can simply remove at the end of the day.  It clings to you.  I still blame myself.  I still go back and rethink what I could have, should have, would have done. 

I wish things had played out different.  That something – someone – existed where I could place responsibility, blame, and ultimately forgiveness.  Someone other than me.

I’m still struggling to forgive, for in order to forgive I first must accept.  Accept what happened.  Accept his flaws.  Accept my limitations.  Accept my fate.

Someday I’ll get there.  Get to the point where my apologies are not directed at Kurt for what I did not do, but at myself for what I have put me through since.  Get to the point where I’m okay to look in the mirror and say “I’m sorry.”  And mean it.  

And forgive.

Proof

A note jotted on the back of an envelope, from him to me.

Proof that he existed.  We existed.

An ordinary moment from an ordinary life.

A lifetime ago.....

Who Am I?

Photo courtesy of Camil Tulkan

"Who in the world am I?  Ah, that's the great puzzle." ~Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

I am a mother.  I am my son's only surviving parent.

I am a daughter.  A sister.  A niece.  A cousin.

I am a friend.

I am an affection-ado of letters.  I am an avid reader who would still hold a good book than an electronic ereader.  I am a writer.  A journaller.  A blogger.

I am a closet photographer.  A digital scrapbooker.

I am a traveller.

I am an animal lover who loves my pets more than many humans I know.

I am an employee.  An employer.

I am spiritual, but still seeking out what that spirituality takes the form of.

I am Mrs. Kurtis Wigton.  The only wife he will ever know.

I am a widow.

I am lost, alone, hurting and confused.

I am trying.

I am still grieving.

But I am healing.

I am me........

The Same

Image can be found here:

It was near blizzard conditions this morning.  Watching the snow fall took me back in time....

January 10, 2007.  It was the day of "the" blizzard.  It was also the first time I had invited Kurt over for supper.  The city was shut down.  You couldn't see your hand in front of your face.  I had spare ribs in the crock pot, hoping things would clear up and he would make it.  Knowing he wouldn't.  But I sat at the window watching that day anyway.  And left some ribs cooking.  Just in case.

I thought about that day today with every snowflake that hit the window.  Every scrape of my shovel on the cold pavement.  As I threw the supper leftovers in the bag with the trash.  Giddy anticipation replaced with empty longing.

Hoping he would come up the drive.  Knowing he wouldn't.

Some things will never change.....

Write On...

They come from way down in my soul
The core of my spirit.
In succession they rise,
to help express.

To help the frown emerge from the root of my being.
May salt water
Splash
Down cheeks of scarlet.
To express the feelings inside....

I wrote that in grade 5.  I would have been about 11.  It would form the base of my first published poem, "Feelings".

It was my fifth grade teacher who really encouraged me to write - to explore words and their relationship to paper... and to me.  Ever since those moments, I have found something cathartic in the written word - putting pen to paper in an effort to express things which may otherwise go unsaid.

I've had people ask me what this blog does to me.  Why I write if it forces me to remember.  And if remembering forces me to be sad.

Truth is, I'd remember anyway.  Writing doesn't make me sad.  It does, however, force me to acknowledge my sadness.  To put words to thoughts and emotions that appear ineffable.  And to share the burden those emotions create with you - whomever you are.  Its said that a shared load is a lighter load.

I have two other collections of writing.  One is letters to Kurtis.  I started them when he was alive - writing him notes at both significant and also spontaneous times, just to express what I cannot say.  I continue to do that today.

My second collection is a series of letters to Gavin.  I wrote the first one the day I found out I was pregnant, and continued through my pregnancy, and his life.  The tone of those letters has changed in the past 18 months.  But I continue to write to my son.  Each letter starting simply with "Dear Gavin".  And ending just as simply with "I love you.  Mom."  Some day I hope he'll read those letters and realize how his mom tried.  How she hurt.  And how she survived.  And how much he really means to her.

Putting pen to paper continues to be one of the best therapies I have.  My writing is both a mirror on myself and a vessel to the outside world.  Its my way of deciphering whether I'm happy, sad, lonely, or all of the above.  Of simultaneously patting my back for where I have come to and kicking myself in the pants to push me farther.  Of sharing a little piece of myself with everyone else.

It makes me feel bad, yet better at the same time.

As the last line of my poem feelings puts it, it "helps express.  To help show the real me."

In the raw.  Its what I need right now.

Thats why I write.....