So this is how it is….

So this is how it is. I have been writing online since the early 2000s. That’s when it all came apart for me, for the second time. All of you know my story, more than likely. At this point I could write in my sleep. Last night Bob was in the dream. We were out in the British countryside somewhere and were with our children. Water was running everywhere, over paths as well as in the streams. It was beautiful. Only the children were strangers to me. That is how my life often feels, and so does yours. Like at night you became a different person altogether.

Usually in dreams I am trying to get home or I have just lost my purse. I am trying to call home but the phone doesn’t work or I can’t see the numbers or people won’t let me borrow theirs. I wake up realizing it was just a garden variety “lost in life” dream.

And on rare occasions, the spirit speaks to me. But it hasn’t in a very long time because I find myself in a rut. Not an inner one but an outer one. Not my essence but my personality. I should sell the house and find a more sociable place to live. Suburbia is isolating for a widow. But this is our home and once it is gone, I can’t get it back.

Things like that roam across the sub-flooring of my mind like they do in everyone’s. There is no rest for the weary. There is distraction but no true rest. And yet a part of me is frolicking in unknown realms where clear water is running abundantly. And I wake up thirsty for what used to be.

God help me, but I still miss being married; I always will. And yet I have done remarkably well. I see myself getting fuzzier around the edges, as if a stronger lens would help my mind’s eye. Sometimes I think I am still young (my house is dark). At other times I fear my life is being measured out in doses that may run out.

When I found out that Jeff Belyea had died suddenly, I was wracked with real grief. He was such a good friend to so many. All of us are hanging by a thread and yet we are running eternally through clear water. This is our human situation and a Friday night finds me growing nostalgic.

So much for the marriage vows,
till death do us part.
Death could no more part us
than it could part God and His Son.

That body of yours lay in the casket
your hands with the hairs still so
alive I could see them growing.
And yet this cord around my heart
is binding me tighter and tighter.

Writing the words is not singing
the music and the angels are
waiting for me to not only sing
but get up and dance.

The night is long and the musician
has only begun to run the scales.
Now the clear water is running
everywhere and no one is
afraid in this dream of forever.
Now it is time to wake up
from the dream so the angels
can take some time off.

Vicki Woodyard

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