I forget why I told someone a few days (or was it weeks?) ago that maybe I should have majored in philosophy. I was somewhat serious. The lessons grief has taught me and the unanswerable questions it raises really does make you appreciate the study of elusive ideas and concepts. It seems impossible to me that Chuck has been gone for two whole years. I can still hear his voice. I know what he would say in almost every situation. And yet, some days, I can’t believe it has only been two years. Because there seem to be a lifetime of discoveries, big and tiny, that I have not been able to share. Questions that remain to be asked and answered. So at the same moment that I have learned to treasure life and each day, time itself seems different and less measurable.
I should have been ready for this bending of time. I often speculate if Chuck could have chosen a date to die it would have been the winter solstice. He hated the lack of daylight, the shorter hours to work on the farm. Yet, even that dislike held contradiction. He also cherished quiet solitude better than anyone I’ve ever met. He could also listen attentively to his daughters’ unedited thoughts for hours at a time - an activity well suited to long winter nights in front of the fire.
One of the questions I’ve resolved myself to be incapable of answering - today, last year, and likely forever: “How are you and the girls doing?” It is kind of comical. My press secretary when I was Governor, Jason, once asked me in complete seriousness with more than a bit of exasperation, “When the press asks how you/the girls are - is it at all possible to just say ‘good.’?” The one word answer that would have saved everyone so much trouble always eluded me. Except, now. I often find myself today using the inadequate answer “good.”
What would be the accurate one word answer? Maybe “wiser.” Of the many lessons I have learned the one that resonates on this second anniversary is that in matters of grief and love, time means nothing and it means everything. I accept it as a gift that today is the winter solstice, the darkest and longest day of the year. Because I know with certainty that each year on this day there will be one thing I can count on. Tomorrow and the days that follow will bring more light. Chuck’s final wink at the universe.
Hello Jane. I have been following you since my husband died on June 9 of this year after a major heart attack. I so appreciate your candid writing expressing what is taking place during your grief. Your recent piece on the elasticity of time is so powerful. Thank you. My husband was a lover of quantum physics. He always tried to wrap his head around the past, present and future happening all at once. I felt like I was living that in the early months. I was deep in the present, waves of the past never stopped, and I could only see void looking into the future. The experience was deeply surreal. I, too, can hear my husband and know what he would say in each situation. Yes, so many unanswered questions. I so appreciate you articulating all of this. Peace to you and your family. Barbara
Jane, As always, your writing is beautiful. The mystery of time and grief...I was about to write how accurately portrayed you've said it, but of course, the handling of both time and grief is so individual...so, instead, I will say how wonderfully and beautifully you portray yourself and how much perspective it gives all of us. Sending warm wishes for a peaceful new year. xo, Jen