precious scars ...

the Japanese have an artistic technique called kintsugi, in which broken ceramics are pieced back together with seams that include precious metals, mostly gold

the result is a work of art that draws from the original but transforms to a new and unique piece

I have realised recently that the technique applies equally to people, ourselves uniquely flawed works of art, and that the precious metal that creates our golden seams is sprinkled by our friends

I am privileged to have truly special friends in my life who have been the gold that helps heal my breaks and embrace the damage life bestows

as the moon reflects the sun's radiance, my golden seams are a reflection of the luminescent love those friends provide me

I thank you all

Six weeks out ...

... or is that six weeks in?

Six weeks out from losing him, six weeks into life without him.

Six weeks since I lost my love and the pain is still razor-sharp and raw.

I am sleeping better, finally, and talk with him before bed each night and awake accepting that he is no longer there but feeling blessed to have known him.

He was the gentlest, most generous, loving and empathetic person I have ever met, not just to me but to all he met, and I would gladly have given my life in place of his.

That's not a deal I was offered.

I feel honoured to have been with him in his last days, to have brought light and laughter back to his life and to be moving with him toward health and happiness. To have cooked together for each other and our friends, to have amused those same friends with teasing each other and them.

And as hard as it was, I'm glad I was with him at the end, to know he passed so peacefully and without any pain and to be able to assure his family of that. I hate to think of what would have been if we had not met.

But the knife stabs of missing him are continuous - each time I type the day's date, as I do multiple times each working day, I think of the date we met, the date I lost hime, the dates of his funeral services here and in the UK.

The knife twists savagely each evening, as I leave work and realise freshly that I am not going home to meet him, and never will again. The emptiness of evenings and weekends is a yawning and inevitable void that I have to consciously cross each day, each week.

I'm doing my best not to fall into that void, as I know that is not what he would want.

I'm spending evenings walking on the beach, or sitting watching the waves, or walking beside the river on my way home. I haven't done that in a while, being in a hurry to get to him instead.

I'm doing yoga, and checked out a gym nearby where I'll probably start a six-week kettle bell challenge next month. That will give me a positive focus for my evenings and  weekends as well as tiring me in a way yoga doesn't.

I've stopped drinking for now - I was being careful not to drink much after he passed but was going to my local simply for human company. I've always been content with my solitude but since losing him, I've needed kind words and friendly faces.

I'm still stopping by those places, but ordering soda water instead of wine, as I know alcohol won't make me feel better. But I still want to see our friends, to laugh with them and share stories of him. I don't think I'll ever tire of that.

As much as I grieve for him, I grieve for our unrealised future and unfulfilled plans. I know he is at peace and suffered no pain, but I also know how much it would pain him to see how those who love him are suffering.

I'm trying to respect those who were part of his entire life, and and those who shared much longer parts of it than I but find myself inadvertantly bumping up against them at times as we all negotiate our way forward while not knowing what that entails. The lines of communication are unclear and it is my nature to ask for clarification when that occurs, but that is not the way of those he has loved far longer than I.

I'm doing my best to move forward carrying his wairua with me and and to honour him by doing so.

Step by painful step, day by painful day.

Others' reactions ...

When my love and I had been together a few weeks and were already deeply in, he mentioned that he was getting approached a lot more by other women, "hit on" as he put it.

His rescue greyhound was a great conversation starter and I seldom walked him without striking up conversations with others, but these were more than just conversations, he said.

I replied that I wasn't surprised, that when one is loved and in love, their whole demeanour changes. Confidence increases, there's an air of contentment that was previously missing and a new spring in the step.

It wouldn't have hurt either that he had this constant, slightly goofy grin after we got together that made his already handsome face even more lovable.

One's whole demeanour changes with grief also, but not for the better, I would say.

So I'm surprised to find myself being hit on a lot lately, as if there's something attractive about my new vulnerability. The flirtation usually stops as soon as I mention my partner recently died, but it's something I never expected.

Also something I don't understand.

Supercut

in my head

i play a supercut of us

the magic we gave off

all the love we had and lost 

and in my head

the visions never stop

these ribbons wrap me up

but when i reach for you

there's just a supercut

Lorde, Supercut from Melodrama 

Grief colours everything.

The most mundane activities are imbued with meaning - catching a tram, shopping, cooking (I haven't really managed cooking for the past month, it was something we did together and for friends. I'm concentrating on feeding myself regularly instead).

More important matters than bare survival have greater meaning.

Music was a large part of our time together.

My love would quiz me on who songs were by, but his background was Brit boy bands so I seldom knew.

I did recognise Spandau Ballet but that was from my misspent late teens as a roadie for touring cover bands in Aotearoa.

I tried to expand his musical knowledge with a Kiwi flavour, concentrating on meaningful lyrics, harmonies and the good old "Maori strum."

I introduced him to Dave Dobbyn (Welcome Home), the Mutton Birds (Dominion Road), and the Runga gals.

He already knew Crowded House and Better Be Home Soon, and we were talking about him going home to recover with his family.

The brevity of our time together makes everything a Supercut, although not in the literal sense.

There's no need to pick the best clips of our time together - that was our time together.

'cause in my head I do everything right

when you call I'll forgive and not fight

because ours are the moments I play in the dark

we were wild and flouorescent

come home to my heart

I took him to Breakup Karaoke at the premiere for The Breaker Upperers 

I was relying on my dear friend Zach to be there, but he forgot, so it was only me.

"Lovely" (his pet name for me when it wasn't "helpie horsie") got up to sing first, because somebody has to.

I came back to him telling me my voice was awful, but he loved my spirit. I could live with that.

i'm someone you maybe might love

i'll be your quiet afternoon crush

be your violent overnight rush

make you crazy over my touch

I also introduced him to Lorde.

I miss him so very, very much

an indifferent God

another trigger warning, another in "Essays on Grief"

I have a friend from Aoteara/New Zealand who was a Buddhist monk for nigh on 30 years,

Then left.

Not because he had lost faith in a supreme being, but because he had come to believe that supreme being was indifferent to the fate of humans.

Personally, I wonder if whatever god or gods there are get bored with their omnipotence and omniscience, and just mess around with us to relieve that boredom.

So I guess I'm at the phase at railing at god (or God, if we allow upper case) but that's hard to do when I don't really believe.

I kinda want to hedge my bets, and ask a putative god to look after my love, but that seems false and manipulative.

I'm not sure that is a god/God I wish to believe in.

Lists ...

My beloved loved making lists.

Ticking things off those lists, not so much, but he made wonderful lists.

Early in our relationship, I asked him to make a list of what he wanted. A few days later, he pulled two sheets of paper from his pocket and commenced what was more like a job interview for the position of being his partner.

Future plans, where I wanted to live, how to introduce me to his son to be sure we liked each other.

Not inappropriate considering his former job as a high-flying management consultant.

The evening before he died, we made a list together. I wrote as by then it had become a joke between us that I was his much-needed Personal Assistant, his "helpie horse" as we termed it.

It's time to start making my own lists.

Make the bed

I sent this video to my love, to inspire and encourage him. He changed the lives of many people, not only mine.

(Though he did have a little insecurity about Navy SEALs and my military networks.)

It's Saturday, so I've begun by not only making my bed, but making it with fresh linen. That doesn't seem much if you don't know raw grief, but is a huge achievement if you do.

Upgrade the job

The reasons for taking a non-challenging job no longer apply, so it's time to step up to something more challenging. I like the company I work for and my colleagues have nursed me through the most difficult time of my life so I'm looking at options there first.

I'm also looking at other options, mostly working in communications for organisations that deal with mental health and other challenges. It's a field we both wanted to work in, and the few disagreements my love and I had were over how much of other people's pain he took on himself.

Move

Moving back to my apartment has been hard, and has made me realise it's not where I want to be.

I think I'll move to Richmond, as we intended to do together, but there's no urgency to do so. My lease here runs til February, so I have till then to make a decision.

That decision needs to include whether I stay in Melbourne, or even Australia, where I don't have much of a support system, and work on building one.

I'm giving myself until February for that decision also.

Unpack

There's one more box to put away, but it's full of very personal things so I can only handle one piece at a time, and then I have to decide what to do with it. There's no timeline for that as each is different and unexpected.

There are personal letters and notes, both from and to him, and other items that spark deeply visceral feelings.

That may also take until February, or perhaps beyond.

Forgive

Forgive the world, forgive whatever supreme beings or consciousness are so capricious as to bring the perfect person into my life, have him love me for who I am and love who I am, then snatch him away so quickly.

Forgive my love, for leaving before we had really begun. For passing so peacefully and so at peace but so much sooner than he should have.

I envy him his end - going to bed with positive plans for the future, and in the loving embrace of the partner he had chosen to venture forth with. But his race ended painfully soon, and I was in it for a marathon, not a sprint.

We'd been joking about which nursing home I would put him in. He liked the idea of the Club facilities at Regis, particularly the aperitif trolley.

Forgive myself, for all the "what ifs" and "if onlys", and understand I could not have changed the fact of his leaving, but I was able to change the manner of it and his final weeks.

Learn to value money

This seems counterintuitive, and counter to my very essence, but one thing I have learned from my love is that money actually matters.

That it can be used as a tool for good as well as evil.

That the scripture speaks of the love of money as the root of evil, not the money itself.

I've lived my life on social currency, adventure stories and strong-forged friendships.

My love's passing, in a manner I envisioned for myself, makes me realise it may not be so gentle for me (is unlikely to be, if the rest of my life is anything to judge by) and I need to put things in place for that.

Or board a yacht and sail to Palmerston atoll where my friend Sherrin is the school Principal, and become an unofficial writer-in-residence and chronicle the locals' stories.

Be an illegal migrant in the last place anyone would expect an illegal migrant to choose.

Channel my inner Hemingway, but in an Irish-Maori Wahine Toa manner.

Not such a bad idea, when I think of it, but I need to view money as a tool in doing that also. There are friends and backers I need to repay.

Play

This is so hard and so important - I need to honour him by continuing to play.

Laugh with friends, share silly stories, sit with Dave and admire the beautiful people walking past and point out those he might have missed.

Take my time deciding if I want to continue with my love's sport, and I am on a practice team today.

The new coach is being my ideal of what a US High School coach would be and championing and protecting me as the club implodes around us.

Steve would be shaking his head at the shenanigans.

Eat, Sleep, Yoga

I'm having difficulty eating and sleeping, even with regular yoga practice.

I probably need more exercise. Yoga aids my mental health but doesn't exhaust me.

I'm seeing my doctor on Tuesday. Ironically, exactly four weeks from the appointment my love had with him, the morning he did not wake.

I'll ask his advice and listen.

He's not a miracle worker, but he has been for me. I was hoping he would be for my beloved also.

I plan to cook tomorrow. Prepare a week of lunches, make a soup or stew, bake cookies or brownies as a thank you to my colleagues for bearing with me and being kind to me.

Write

Part of the planned move was setting aside a room for a joint office, for me to write in the early mornings and him to work when he woke.

There are a couple of Children's Books I had in mind, including the tale of how Raf found his tribe.

 but now, it's time to play ...