grief, memories, Photograph by Ken Gehle, Photography, travel
I’m not sure why this popped into my head – grief will bring up random memories unbidden – but I was thinking about the last trip that my husband took to shoot landscapes. It was September 15th. The prior September on the night before that trip to Maine had originally been planned, he got the call that the eating problems he had been having were due to esophageal cancer. He cancelled the trip even though the first appointments with the medical team were after he would have returned. My anxiety was already through the roof and would have only been made worse if he was gone. He knew that. He painted the house that week instead. Travel is beginning to look like a possibility again now that I’m fully vaccinated against COVID-19 and restrictions are being eased. Maybe that’s what brought this memory to the front. The relief I felt booking a trip might have been similar for Ken when he could, once again, make those plans to go to Maine. He purposely set the flight out for the 1-year anniversary of his cancer diagnosis to make it a real celebration. Not being able to travel at all the last year was difficult. I had a glimpse of what it was like for him in some small way. Of course, he had the real possibility that he would not travel again while my situation has been temporary. I’m glad he didn’t know it was to be his last trip. Remission ended less than two months later and the images from that trip live in 1s and 0s on his...
art, creativity, grief, loss, Love Lives On, moving forward, openness, Photograph by Ken Gehle, Photography, Products, transformation, widow
The last decade has involved quite a bit of figuring out who I am now. Any time we have a big loss in our lives we eventually come to this point: who am I now that my children are no longer at home, who am I now that I no longer work in my previous occupation, who am I now that now that I will not have my own biological children? The list is endless. The evolution of who I am today even after being widowed has had its twists and turns. Leaving a corporate job that no longer fit. Remarriage and figuring out the role of bonus mom. My children growing up and leaving home to live their own lives. Even my pottery avocation has shifted and evolved into a bigger part of my vocation. I’ve talked about vocation some before. These days I still lead the widow social support group but we’ve added a co-leader so it’s not all on me. I spend more time in the pottery studio than out of it (when there’s not a pandemic, that is). I’m finding a new balance and a new me. There is an equilibrium that, if you’d asked me 10 years ago, I would have told you I would likely never experience again. So how did I find that equilibrium? Interesting question to consider. There was no one technique that did the trick. I’ve had some great coaches and mentors. There has been some natural evolution in my work life (nothing is constant but change, as they say.) I’ve done values surveys to try to figure out what...
grief, letting go, loss, memories, Pottery
When we moved into this house almost 30 years ago there was a beautiful Dogwood tree in the center of the backyard. The previous owners warned us that it was over 50 years old and not to expect too much more life out of it. But here it is still. I have images in my minds eye and a few photos of my late husband in the hammock under it with each of our babies on his chest, of our kids swinging underneath it in their own swings later, of my son passing by as he learned to mow the lawn for the first time, of my daughter’s prom photos being taken with the tree’s branches as the filter. And there has been my own time sitting in its shade with a good book, in prayer or in mourning. In the richness of its mid-life, the full moon and the Dogwood conspired to create a magic light reflected off of its shock of white blooms. The glow filled our family room every spring. I can picture the shadow it casts on the side of the studio in the early mornings of the fall. It has more dead branches than live ones now. I’m anticipating its loss. I know I can’t keep it forever…and maybe not even for another year. Some trees aren’t just trees though; they are members of the family. Recently, it sacrificed a small tip of a branch to me and I memorized it in clay. I’ll be able to keep it a little bit longer...
fly fishing, grief, living forward, memories, moving forward, Photograph by Tamara Beachum, Remembering, saudade
Well, that was a tangled mess. Somehow I’d managed to get my fishing line wrapped around itself in a knot that reminded me of the tangles I used to get in my hair as a child. I sat down on the bank with our fly fishing guide as he cut line and retied flies. Watching him use the clamp and clippers dangling from his vest, I had a flash of memory of watching Ken in similar motion. “You have two kids?” I asked, suddenly thinking about fathers. “Two boys, 19 months and 5 weeks.” The second son had been injured during childbirth. Nothing too serious but painful for the little guy. We talked about nursing; it’s the only thing that soothes him. His wife has struggled more with the demands after this birth. I told him about my own nursing experience as a new mom and the time the young man fishing downstream seemed to have turned me into his own personal pacifier. How hard it was and how important at the same time. “Sometimes you feel like you just need five minutes of the old you,” I said. “I can understand that,” he replied. His wife had agreed that he needed some time to go fishing when she was safely harbored in the hospital. He took an hour and caught 30 fish in that same spot. He was fully himself in that moment. My son created his own tangle so the guide left me holding my partially repaired line and went to help him. Our conversation had given me a glimpse back to that early life when the...
grief, Kenwinks, letting go, living forward, parenting, Photograph by Ken Gehle, widow
I helped my daughter move from the Grand Canyon to Bozeman, MT outside Yellowstone this week. I followed in her car while she drove a U-Haul across 4 states with her life inside. Once again, I couldn’t help but think that her dad should be here so I had a little chat with him to stay close. As we entered into Page, AZ I got a little choked up. The last time we were all there her father was in remission. Pulling out of town, a hawk flew close between our vehicles. If I didn’t know better I would swear he could see me when he looked right down toward me through the windshield. The next day in Idaho I had to open the windows and keep sipping water to fight off a wave of panic. There was no present reason to be that stressed out except that, again, he should be here. As we dropped out of a mountain range into a valley, The Valley by k.d. lang came up on my iPod. That song sustained me and in that place with the sunset casting a warm glow on the mountains, I heard it in a new way. I really felt like he was with us. But sometimes I doubt theses signs, you know? Dismiss them. I didn’t find any dimes though, I thought. That’s one that happens pretty frequently when something significant is happening. Sometimes I feel like he’s telling me “pay attention to this moment” when they appear. Surely, this would be an event I should pay attention to, right? But no dimes. At last, we...
ALAL on Facebook
ALAL on Pinterest
Tamara on LinkedIn
Follow on Twitter
