Pinot, Bretzels, and Cathedrals

We’re already two-thirds of the way through April and I’m blocked creatively- I don’t know what to write. Sure, spring is well and truly upon us. The pom-pom pink blossom trees are rapidly finding their greenery and for the most part, the wisterias are out in abundance, ready to show off their purple finery. Crocuses, Daffodils, Magnolias are already but a memory, and the Tulips are wide-eyed and bursting with splendour. I suspect the wild garlic is a picture out in the forest- something I may be too late to observe by the time I get there later this week.

And 13 weeks have passed since I was widowed. I’m finding this change of season a little less welcoming than usual if I’m honest with you. It’s as if the joy of the longer sunnier warmer days lie in stark contrast to my pain. My grief. I find myself longing for winter as if it allows me the space to feel sad. Winter mirrors my emotions. Spring doesn’t. Spring means open terraces, social occasions, clinking glasses of refreshing beverages. Laughter. Meet-ups. Friendships and relationships, all out in the open. Even me for a change. And for a brief interlude, I feel welcomed. Whole. Like my personality deserves the smile I manage to affix. Why then can I not observe these joyful moments? Why then am I weary to share a photo of myself smiling?

On the other hand, those pervading images are so deeply personal, and as I read them back from an outsiders perspective I realise how unimportant they are. Sure, grief manifests in so many ways, and perhaps angsty poetry is really all that’s left, because unfettered scribblings to fulfil a goal isn’t what you came here for.

What is my news since I wrote to you last month? How am I holding up, you might ask? The truth is I’m “okay”. I’ve not taken to wearing black (all the time) and walking the streets at midnight like a ghost because sleep evades me. I’ve not taken to bed to lie-in all day long with my curtains closed – even though there are days that I really want to.

In fact, for the month of March and half of April I was more social than ever. Lunch dates with beautiful friends. Extremely demotivating French lessons that meant I was out of the house for 3 days every week. In all honesty- it was lovely to have an actual reason to leave the house those afternoons, and even better that I was in town for AfterWork drinks occasionally when I didn’t have to go home to cook dinner ;-).

However, it’s like the early days after Anton passed. Rose-tinted, surreal unreality. My life wasn’t ever about flitting around from restaurant to terrace, Sundays hikes and St Paddy’s Day celebrations or Ukrainian Scouts Egg Painting traditions.

I am wholly grateful for every single invite, for every single reason to leave my home and for every single car trip I’m offered. For every single person who has sent a message. For the taps that have been repaired. For the outpouring of support. I don’t know where I would be without you. But I can’t help but shake the idea that it’s quite unrealistic, this life I now live in the pockets of my friends. Non-sustainable even. I should be able to stand up and do the things on my own.

I’m not ready, and I don’t know how to.

Self-inflicted barriers. My ability to over-think everything. A weariness of trust because society dictates that we all have a hidden agenda. A complete lack of self esteem.

To branch off slightly, I saw a friend share something on Insta yesterday. She had achieved a fantastic feat, and was able to share the pride at how she’s overcome things to achieve that feat.

It shouldn’t have triggered my own sense of self-worth, but right now I cannot begin to imagine a journey for myself where I need to overcome challenges to attain a goal like she did.

Obviously I’ll need to overcome this period of grief, but aside from that, I don’t really know where I want to be.

Ideally, if I had a goal in mind, I could start to work at it and there’s a little part of me that thinks life would be easier if I gave it all up and returned to South Africa, but the yang to that yin: it knows I would miss France. And I suspect I’d end up with regrets.

To be honest, I haven’t actually considered life beyond this period of grieving. I do have to think about Alex and Beth’s needs first and foremost. The truth is, I do have that goal in the forefront of my mind. We came here 12 years ago to try obtain French citizenship and be able to put the girls through university.

Alex is 18 months away from starting university. She has submitted an application for nationality. And while Beth is still 4 and a bit years from university, she loves her life here, and even though she loves South Africa too, she wants to stay here for now.

Beyond that, I don’t know what I want. Perhaps I feel lost in this new body. This Widowhood. There’s a part of me that wants Widowhood to be free and liberating. That I don’t have to answer to anybody. That I can pick up and go wherever I want when I want. But my Widowhood is still attached to Motherhood and the inability to turn trees into money.

You see. None of this is coherent.

I’m lost.

I have lost a part of me that had been my identity for 20 years. And I know people will tell me that I am whole on my own. That no other person can be part of me, but that’s not true.

You wake up every morning to the same grizzly face. The same sleep breath. You stand up and make a coffee for that grizzly face. You ask them how they slept. You make sure there is a meal to be had. You kiss them goodbye as you part for work. You say I Love You. You feel their touch because you’re not looking in the mirror, being at One with Yourself. Sure, you can and should love yourself. Nourish yourself. Care for yourself especially.

But I am no longer Whole. And I don’t know how to go through this life as a Half. Sure, I can be a mom. It’s easier now that the girls are pretty self-reliant, but I am terrified for when I’ll have to make a decision: the kids university choices for example. What if it’s the wrong one, and it will be left to me, and me only to pick up the pieces?

Understandably, I need to weigh up the matters that I can control or not control, and take ownership of the ones I can control NOW. And obviously to try not allow the anxiety of the future get me down until I need to. All the platitudes rest somewhere in the part of me that knows how to handle them so instead of letting my heart race a million beats a minute into an ocean of anxiety, I overdramatise my reality.

13 weeks of widowhood. Every morning renders a new dawn, with a new thought. This weeks’, in case you’re curious what’s keeping me awake at night? I may be a widow, but am I married?