Looking Back

After I wrote the last post earlier this week, I took the time to edit some of the photos I have on the blog. They've remained the same since I moved. There's a list where the photos are on the side of the blog that shows the most popular posts. As I scrolled down it one caught my eye.




It was A Leap of Faith. It was written almost a year ago, in September of last year. I opened it and reread it. It described how I felt when I first decided to sell the ranch and move to Colorado. It brought back the feelings just as if it was happening to me again. How I felt being there without the life I once had when Rickie was alive. It was a feeling of drowning, where you can't catch your breath. You want to just double over and scream, and sometimes you do, but you know that won't save you. There's no hand to reach out and pull you to safety.

And it made me realize how much better I am now after the move. Time passing has helped also. But I feel like if I was still there the time wouldn't have made much difference. I would still be drowning with no hope of being saved.



It's not that I'm forgetting or letting go of the loss and the sadness. I carry that with me inside, and sometimes outside, and always will. It's that the day to day living in a new place, a peaceful and beautiful place, has helped me to heal. It's removed some of the despair and replaced it with hope. Hope that I can and have found some moments of joy. Some on the days my loved ones have been here. And some on the days I'm alone, maybe hiking along the river or driving the roads surrounded by the majesty of the mountains.



I've made some friends that have been kind to me and I'm feeling less like an outsider when I'm with them. Shortly after I moved my new friend Angie, who is my sons' age, invited me to go hear live music every week at one of the places in town. She knows everyone and has a group she is close to that meets up. I don't always go but I've tried to be consistent and go enough that they don't forget me. It's not easy. It often makes the fact that I'm alone more obvious. But I go anyway because I know it's good to go out among people. And I know it takes time to feel at home with new friends. Except for Angie who makes everyone feel at home the minute you meet her.

This past week when I left, Angie's boyfriend, a kind young man, took my hand to say goodbye and tell me he loved me, as a dear friend or one of my kids would do. Our friend Beth stopped me as I was leaving to hug me and tell me she likes it when I come join them. The older gentleman that is also a client of Angie's came with another caregiver. Though he can barely walk, he always asks me to dance and insists on walking me back to my seat. I'm beginning to feel like I fit in a bit more.

I have a rule in these gatherings that makes it easier for me to go. My drink rule is "one and done" and I only stay about an hour. So if I'm feeling out of place, I know it won't last for long.

I've still not found that friend yet that I can call up and say hey, I'm going hiking, want to come. But I'm feeling less like a visitor and more like a resident. And I still like to be alone a lot. I've always been that way, which has come in handy since I am alone a lot.



After reading the post about my decision to sell, I also reread the one when I balked at going and couldn't sign the papers to list the ranch, and then the later one when I got past that and did list and started to look forward.



Looking forward, I guess, is the thing that made the move right for me. While we can't or shouldn't ever forget the past, especially when it was the best part of our life, we can't live there. Life is constantly changing and we have to adapt to that. Things will never get better on their own. We have to try and make them better. Even when the trying is painful also.

I'm glad I've written down my feelings over the years. It helps to go back and look at it and see how far I've come. It makes me appreciate what I have and shows me that I am getting better. With a little help from my friends.

And with thanks to my family, who not knowing if it was the right decision or the worse one ever, fought down whatever feelings of loss they had, and said what the hell, let's do it.