Freedom

I raced through the final pages of “Freedom” by Jonathan Franzen last night. I was reading it in bed cocooned under the mosquito net, the rest of the house in darkness around me. I shut the book at about midnight but it took me a while to get to sleep. I was too excited and to wrapped up in the characters to let it go. What an achievement—a book written on a grand scale about big ideas and requiring a serious commitment from the reader to pay attention.

Okay, Ladies, What are We Going to Do?

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/26/opinion/26sat1.html

Carpe Diem

I’m trying my best to live in the here-and-now, to enjoy the present moment. It’s not hard here in Jamaica with the sound of the sea roaring in the background drawing me from vista to vista. But every once in a while with no real warning, sadness creeps in and takes me over, reminding me that the loss is permanent and will go on forever. When that happens I take a deep breath, maybe I even cry, and wait for the feeling to gradually dissipate.

When I was at camp and learning how to swim, I was afraid to dive down to the bottom of the lake, sure I would run out of breath before I could safely get back to the surface. I tried and tried but always I would start to panic and pop back up gasping for breath. Finally one day a counselor told me the secret: not to let out my breath all at once but to blow it out slowly, bubble by bubble. Good advice.

The War Against Women

Lets face facts: The Republicans hate women. They hate sex except when it's not with their partner. They want us barefoot and pregnant and locked in the kitchen or cringing in the bedroom. The vendetta against Planned Parenthood is a war against women. We have to speak out, fight back, get angry. Representative Jackie Speier did just that last night.

In Residence

I am officially in residence in Jamaica. My toes are painted turquoise. I’m drinking rum cocktails at sunset and sleeping under a mosquito net with the sound of the ocean lulling me into dreamland.

I must be relaxed. I keep dreaming about Steve. Good dreams and funny ones too, like home movies that make you smile and feel sad at the same time, but still are more happy than sad. I’m almost looking forward to going to bed and watching tonight’s installment.

Shakti House is unchanged, thank goodness. But I have discovered a new favorite place to read and write—propped up on pillows on the window seat in my bedroom. The windows open wide to the sky and the sea. During the day, the view is all blue and gold and white. At sunset I can watch the sun move through huge puffy purple clouds until it disappears into the ocean in a blaze of red. In a way, it reminds me of being in Maine where I like to lay propped up on pillows on the living room sofa reading a book and looking out at the lake and acres of diamonds. I am so lucky.

Out of the Cold

On Monday morning I will be heading down to Jamaica for almost a month. And this is what I am not taking with me: a parka, a wool hat and lined gloves, a heavy scarf and my Uggs. What I’d really like to do is build a huge fire and burn all those things along with several pairs of winter weight leggings and wool sweaters that I have gotten way too familiar with this winter. I can’t wait to slip my feet into flipflops and have my toenails painted some outrageous color.

I’m also leaving Steve’s closet behind. When I come home in March, there will no longer be a closet, redolent of marijuana and crowded with all the clothes he hardly ever wore. Shelves and shelves of shirts he bought in every country we visited and then forgot he owned. Racks of ties he gave up wearing years ago. Beautiful suits he wore to funerals or the occasional meeting at a bank. While I’m gone, his closet will be ripped out and remade into an extension of my study.

My therapist says he admires how practical I am about being a widow, creating a new life, a new space for myself as a woman living alone. It does make sense but it is a struggle—like putting on the leggings, the sweater, the parka, the hat, the scarf, the gloves, the boots, everything you need to keep yourself warm and safe on a bitterly cold day. I’ll be glad when it’s spring.

Epic

We had an epic party this weekend for Eric and Amira. I didn’t go to bed until 4 am. And I remember everything. . .at least I think I do.

The apartment was filled with over 90 people. We danced until 2:30. We drank a lot but nobody got wasted, just happy. The “Amira,” a lovely mix of champagne and elderflower liqueur is now my favorite drink of all time.

It felt weird but wonderful to be celebrating without Steve, so often the life of the party, the center of attention. He would have been so happy talking to everyone—Amira’s family, Eric’s family and especially all the young people. But it felt good to know I could do it alone, that people would still come to the apartment to have fun. Life does go on. This morning I had the hangover to prove it.

Preparing for Super Bowl

I woke up in a good mood this morning. Don’t know why. It certainly wasn’t the amount of sleep I got. And it’s not the lovely weather we’re having. Maybe its because I had a dream about Steve last night. We were arguing but happily. Isn’t that what married people do? Actually, I was nagging him about his eating, berating him for filling our refrigerator with large amounts of chocolate milk and pepperoni. What a combination. And he was promising, promising, promising to not overdo it. I almost believed him.

I must have been thinking of his annual Super Bowl cholesterol fest in Maine. His cronies are heading up there tomorrow, blizzard permitting, to continue the tradition. When he left for the weekend I would always tell Steve, “Don’t overdo it.” “Don’t worry,” he’d say to me. “We eat lots of salad.” I never believed him.