WRITING is a solitary occupation and one of its hazards is loneliness. But the advantage to loneliness is privacy, autonomy, and freedom.
WIDOWHOOD is also a solitary occupation, but most of us don’t welcome the autonomy and freedom that comes with it. We’re in a club that no one joins willingly, but instead are initiated into after a husband or wife dies—after our best friend and lover passes. We turn to each other for understanding, companionship, and hope.
My writings don’t omit much of the personal, so I ask readers to accept the uncensored thoughts and conclusions of one widow as she begins her journey of change.
Writing about loss digs deep into uncharted territory. It takes risks, and in exchange brings about a greater range and depth to our artistic expression. A deep immersion into our reading and writing has a quiet, calming, and healthful effect—our heart rate slows, our immune system strengthens, and we feel a general sense of being. By confronting our most difficult memories and translating them into a cohesive form of narrative—we begin to accept and heal.
I invite all widows, widowers, and their loved ones to follow my journey and write alongside with me. Please take the time to start at the beginning and read about one widow’s journey through widowhood. I hope you find solace and inspiration.
REMEMBER, one must tell the story slowly and carefully; how their loved one fell ill, the depths of their suffering, what was said before they died, and how they died. One must describe the journey to the hospital, gathering of their personal belongings, every detail of the funeral, and the aftermath. The specifics must be told. And then—that gasp—that sigh—from the listener.
Perhaps what grief requires, as much as anything, is that the process not be interrupted—that it find a time and a place in which to unfold and without (too much) interruption.