Heavy wool and feathered down

Dear Blog,

I have missed you. I have thought of you often in the middle of the night, incapable of jotting down words in my bedside notebook which remains empty.

I have been unable to write, to document the last 19 months since his death. Plans to read books have gone unmet. My fingers cannot remember how to knit. Not one art project has been completed, let alone started. My mind is muddled and my spirit is dulled. My closest companions have been foreign Netflix and Amazon shows. Grand Hotel. Ekaterina. Morocco.

An easy way to numb myself until sleep arrives.

Six months after his death I faced my own mortality.  No one said it and no one really wanted to talk about it. That is what happens when one hears the word CANCER. And surgery, hurry up Anne, get thee to the hospital. Chemotherapy followed by radiation. Surrounded by family and friends support, there was a strong sense of pulling inward and away. I had strength only to go to treatment, hoping to survive.  Although, there were days I would gladly have died. It would have been much easier. Less complicated.

Thinking about life. Sometimes thinking about dying.


Disconnected from others and myself, unable to put a hand out, to ask for help.

Sinking into a familiar depression, no longer called situational anxiety.

Alone, wrapped in heavy wool and feathered down, snuggled deep in my own bed. Blackness and damp air seeps in and surrounds and fills every window and crevice inviting me to trust, to let go into darkness.

I woke, startled, talking out loud. I had a voice that rose up from the darkness, from and out of deep sleep.

The water is calm, like glass, morning mist clinging to the banks. A sparrow, disoriented in the garage, can’t find an escape. Sometimes it is better to be left alone to find the way out. Geese fly in formation, instinct guiding them.

He died over a year ago. I have not shed tears or felt sadness.

There was relief. Freedom. The lifting of a dark, secret burden.

Yet something did change. Something shifted.


There is a new calling. Finding words for my grief. Discovering new ways of creative expression. Noticing the changes in myself and learning to uncover the meaning of beginnings and endings.

Really, the calling is the same. It has not changed. It is not new.

I am the one who has changed.