There is No Normality

Finally, a butterfly painting by self, in the previous blog. I have been trying for days to move it from my photo file. Not having anyone computer literate near me, this has been difficult.

It is the quiet week between Christmas and New Year when people vanish. New Year's Eve I had to face alone - I prepared myself by shopping for a special wine, and food. I took a CD from the library, three Mozart piano concertos, I lit candles, turned on Christmas tree lights, cooked the meal, poured the wine, laid a tray. Sat back with cabernet sauvignon in a crystal glass and listened to Mozart in candlelight. Quite amazingly blissful.

There is something to be said for the optical delight of a few simple massed candles and ruby red wine in sparkling glass. I enjoy, these days, using elements we used to keep for special occasions. There is hardly anything more special now than my survival and sanity, and nothing more special than contentment, if I can find it.

So I have to be inventive, and programme my day. Today is Friday and must be conquered. Recently I have been meeting a group of new friends - all local widows - on Friday evenings at the nearby golf driving range where there is a small restaurant. On Friday evenings there is live music. We meet there but, it has to be said, cringe at the volume of the music, which makes audible talking difficult - still, there is a certain buzz in the air and the food is not bad. I like these women. They have been wounded, like me, but have not given up, they show some fighting spirit. Unlike some at bowls, these women do not dress or think like old people, they look independent and elegant, and I have not given up on elegance.

But tonight it does not seem possible, too many are away. I find it hard to approach people for company and am finding this harder all the time. I cringe at the thought of being the instigator, I hate the thought of cap in hand asking whether someone would like to meet, have tea, lunch.

Certain friends have drifted away, without doubt. Being widowed assures one of a slow and deepening invisibility. It is assumed that after all this time there has been healing - other people's imagination does not stretch this far. They do not realise, or care, or even comprehend that after "all this time" one is still in that most bizarre place where one's inner voice is the only audible thing. There is no normality for the bereaved. The clamour of grief has been quietened but whispers on.

So, today: yet another visit to the library for me - my choice of six books last week was all bad. And a walk for Bella on the lead - my choice a walk round the gated community where I am living (nobody is around, perhaps one car will pass by, perhaps there will be one child on a skate board or one yapping dog through a picket fence); a walk on the brick path above the beach, if I can find parking among the holidaymakers; or a walk along a nearby golf course, which is beautiful but daunting, peopled with the well dressed and busy in golf carts - all of the above leaving me with more of a sense of isolation than ever, so that I return to my quiet house and virtually pull covers over my head.

I can recognise other bereaved souls; the quiet of a figure walking a small dog, the wavering steps of a well dressed lone woman in a mall - I can recognise but not approach these people. Makes no sense, but there you are. I am obstinately incapable of being logical, outgoing, or brave.