by Krista | Jun 4, 2024 | Winter
“I hope you believe that you can still make a beautiful life for yourself
even if you lost many years of it to grief,
or darkness,
or a wound that wouldn’t close.”
Bianca Sparacino
Many things are wondrous to me: love in a cruel world, plants that come back to life after drought, fire, or hail, and people who choose kindness when life has given them every possible excuse to go to the dark side.
This week my wonder has turned inward as I discover that the hope I’ve clung to that life might be good again has deepened into a belief so strong I can feel it in my bones.
I know I’m going to be OK.
I don’t know what it will look like, but that’s alright. For now, I’m just focused on slowly, steadily, and gently building a strong foundation.
I’ve discovered that rebuilding looks a whole lot like cleaning. Sorting through boxes, sheds, and shipping containers, clearing away what no longer suits, carting all the broken, unusable bits to the dump or the burn pile, and donating the good stuff that doesn’t fit my new life, trusting it will bring joy to someone else.
Rebuilding is decidedly non-glamorous and mostly involves days spent covered in dust and cobwebs, my skin an assortment of scrapes and bruises as I remove the old to make room for the new, honouring the old stories and my need to write new ones.
As I clear each shelf, each corner, each patch of earth, I feel an unexpected but most welcome excitement stirring as I envision new uses for those spaces.
I’ve turned the granny flat into a rustic bunkhouse for my loves to stay in when they visit, planted winter gardens full of artichokes, peas, cabbages, lettuces, leeks, garlic, and flowers, and I’ve made steady progress in transforming the sheds into usable spaces for sewing, wood-working, and all the fun foodie things I love to do like brewing, fermenting, and preserving.
For now, it’s mostly solitary work, but, it makes me smile to picture future days with medieval mates hanging out in the woodshop making furniture or shields, clustering around a big table with friends working on crafts of some sort, and gathering with dear ones around the bonfire, visiting for hours and making amazing memories.
Life will always hold challenges, but I’m doing my best to face them with shoulders squared and head held high, looking for ways to make even the hardest days a bit more beautiful and easier to bear. xo
by Krista | May 19, 2024 | Autumn
“I have been avoiding all society, skulking away at home in a kind of shame.
I am staying away from others because…I’m afraid,
and I don’t have the grace to conceal it.”
Katherine May, “Wintering”
When Bear died, I had no idea how long it would take to be part of the world again, how much time I would need to spend in solitude, how many shadows I would need to face and bring into the light so they could be seen, understood, and healed.
I didn’t realize how much this path would change me and that I would have to get to know myself again before I could even start to think about building a new life.
And I couldn’t foresee that more devastating circumstances would arise that would leave me financially destitute and physically shattered.
It has felt like everything that gives me a sense of security and safety in the world has been torn away, and I’ve been left sitting alone in the rubble wondering how on earth to keep going.
It’s an odd place to be in. Terrifying, heartbreaking, yet strangely liberating. When everything is broken, we have the chance, when we’re ready, to make something new. Yes, there’s fear to work through, grief to manage, and a lot of clearing to do, but then one day I’ll look up and all that work will be done and it will be time to create something good.
I’m not there yet.
I’m still in the scary, messy middle, doing my best to care for my body, rebuild my finances, and clear away the rubble. And that’s OK. The inner work I’ve done over the past 18 months has prepared me well for this. I know that no cycle of life, good or bad, lasts forever. This wintering of the soul will give way to spring one day, but for now, I need to live this pain and loss.
I try to make it as easy as possible for myself. I take myself outside for a walk every day and lift my face to the autumn sunshine. I pick flowers in my gardens and put them in bowls around my cottage to cheer me. I journal and read in the wee hours of each morning to make sure I give all my feelings and experiences a voice and then figure out the next right step for me.
I go to therapy and visit my doctor, I take the herbal remedies my lovely herbalist prescribes, I drink lots of water and rest and make nourishing food and spend time with beautiful people who make this scary, messy middle so much easier to bear. It all helps.
For a long time, I couldn’t envision a future for myself, but I hoped that if I was patient and did the healing work, I would figure something out.
Recently, I’ve felt a shift, and some beautiful ideas have started clarifying in my mind and heart.
I’m not ready to share them yet, but I’m so grateful for the hope they bring in this difficult time.
It’s become important to me to share stories while they’re still happening, while they’re still foggy and muddled and hurt like hell. That’s when we need each other most to provide love, support, comfort, or even just a tiny light in the darkness. So, from my messy middle to yours, I wish you deepest comfort, strength to hold on, and true rest in body, mind, and spirit.
Several of you have asked how you can help, and that means so much to me. xo If you’d like to help out financially, you can send funds via Paypal to ramblingtart@gmail.com Hearing from you always cheers me up, so, please keep sending messages or letters when you feel up to it. I love hearing about what you’re learning, going through, and discovering. xo
by Krista | Dec 3, 2023 | Summer
“Keep taking time for yourself until you’re you again.” Lalah Delia
For a long time after my Bear died last year, I didn’t think I’d ever be me again. The day he died, I went into shock. The following days, weeks, and months are a blur to me now, a hazy memory of trying to breathe, making myself eat, and doing the farm chores with tears streaming down my face as I told Bear over and over, “I can’t do this, babe, I can’t”.
My brain couldn’t accept the fact that my love was gone, that the creak I heard on the back steps wasn’t him coming up from the shed for a cuppa and chat, the ring of my phone wasn’t him calling to see how my day was going, that his side of the bed was empty when I’d reach for him in the night. It felt like nothing would ever be OK again.
And for a while, nothing was. Things got worse. Much worse.
Drought ravaged the farm creating cracks so big in the soil that I could slide my arm into them. Dogs and a fox got into my paddocks and killed half my herd and I spent days burning bodies. “Shiny, Happy People”, a documentary of the cult I was raised in, came out, triggering horrible dreams, PTSD, and severe flashbacks. Bushfires raged, I was hospitalised twice, and a nightmare litigation ensued.
I told Bear, “I can’t do this, babe, I can’t.” And felt him say in return, “I know, darlin’, it’s too much, but you will.”
So, I hung on. And when I couldn’t hang on, dear friends propped me up and gave me the love and support I needed to take another step forward. I went to therapy, read everything I could about grief, and sat with my shadows until I could see them for what they really were – my greatest strengths and the very things I needed to get through this life.
My neighbour helped me repair the irrigation so my plants and trees could have a fighting chance in the drought, I rebuilt fences and gates and made them dog and fox-proof, and I took ownership of my situation and studied Queensland law so I could navigate the litigation to the best of my ability.
In time, things got better. Rain came at last, putting out fires, filling in the cracks, and turning the whole region a dazzling green. Wounded animals recovered, rebuilt fences have done their job, and I’m no longer afraid of or intimidated by lawyers and litigation.
Even more precious is discovering that even though grief doesn’t go away, the soul/heart/spirit, whatever you want to call it, expands and stretches and makes room for peace and joy and love too. They’ve squeezed in alongside my loneliness and heartbreak and despair until they’re all nestled together quite cosily, enabling me somehow to live again. The pain of Bear’s death will always be with me, but as I care well for myself and stay close to my steadfastly loving people, I find that it gets cushioned, its sharp edges softened.
I understand now that I’ll never be me again, not the old me. She is gone. But I can be the new me, the now me, the ever-changing, never-give-up, plant-seeds-in-drought me.
I know bushfires will flare up again, drought will return, and I will lose people I love. Unkind people will need to be stood up to, animals will die, and life will go all sorts of wonky, but I will be OK. Now I know to my very bones that no matter what happens, even when I can’t do it, I will.
by Krista | Mar 13, 2023 | Autumn
Shortly after Bear died I found an article that said the opposite of a trigger is a glimmer.
Whereas triggers set in motion trauma responses such as fear, pain, anxiety, and panic, glimmers prompt feelings of wonder, connectedness, peace, and joy. The article went on to explain that while triggers are unpredictable, generally hitting us out of nowhere and sending us reeling, glimmers are something we can actively look for, collect, and treasure.
Those words were a light in my darkness, reminding me that although I had no control over the devastation I was experiencing, the pain ripping through me, or the triggers that seemed to be everywhere, I could control what I looked for in the world.
When I wake to an empty bed, I can cry, yes, of course, any time, but I can also notice the rising sun turning the branches of our favourite tree to gold and hear the call of the magpies that Bear said would always be a reminder that he loves me and is with me.
When I have to go into yet another government office with my sheaf of paperwork and tell them my husband is dead, I can cry, yes, of course, any time, I can shake and want to bolt for the parking lot, but I can also notice the cute baby grinning at me from his pram and breathe a quiet thanks in my heart for the kind receptionist who gives me a hug and makes the process as smooth as possible.
When something breaks on the farm and I don’t know how to fix it, I can feel overwhelmed and alone and wish with all my heart for Bear’s clever brain and innate ability to fix anything, but I can also shout hooray when I find a YouTube tutorial that actually works or say thank you to one of Bear’s amazing friends who are always willing to talk me through how to use a chainsaw safely, how to repair a busted irrigation pipe, and what parts I need to keep the lawnmower running.
Some glimmers are easy to find because they come right to me – cuddles from dear friends visiting, finding an old love letter from Bear, the wagging tails of four dogs and eight puppies overjoyed to see me.
But others must be purposely hunted for, especially in dark moments or dark days when life feels bleak and meaningless and I can’t rummage up hope no matter how hard I try. In those times I picture myself putting on a pith helmet like explorers of old, squaring my shoulders, and hoping against hope that I will find something to light my next step.
And some days, we need our loves to help us. This past week as I faced a particularly difficult situation and all hope seemed truly lost, beautiful friends stepped in and hugged me tight, validated the awfulness of the situation, then helped me look for the glimmers I needed to renew my strength for the battle to come. How I love them for that.
Good and bad, light and darkness, easy and hard. Life continues to be a baffling blend of all those things and we need each other to make it through. Sometimes we’re the needy ones, sometimes the needed, and both are good. xo
by Krista | Feb 17, 2023 | Summer
I haven’t been here for a long time. My beloved Bear died suddenly in October after a brief and brutal battle with cancer. My world collapsed that day, and I needed to pull my borders in close and care for my grief-stricken self.
I read once that grief cannot be fixed, it can only be tended. So, I’ve been tending to my grief the best I can. I give it all the space it needs, all the time and support it needs, and room for any expression it requires. No shame, no guilt, no judgment, no deadlines, just all the love, compassion, and patience I can muster so I can find my solid ground again.
After Bear died, I found an email he’d written me in response to the overwhelming fear and grief I felt at trying to imagine a life without him physically in it.
“My comfort is that, god forbid, should I precede you, I will leave a lady so in control of her destiny, so content in our love, that she will change what she has the power to change and rise above what she can’t. In this, I will give you the means to step up to the next stage in your life.”
I’m not ready to write here about his death and my grief. Maybe one day. But I am ready to gently ease my way back into the world again, slowly stepping up into this next stage of my life carrying with me the sure knowledge that Bear is always with me, my biggest champion and dearest love.
I treasure another note from him:
“My spirit is with you now, my love, and you know I am never too far away. Always a state of together, no question, just are. Two hearts as one.”
Those words are my comfort each day as I grieve the loss of physical Bear and breathe in gratitude for his spiritual presence that reminds me I am not alone or abandoned but always loved, always cared for, always supported. It doesn’t remove the grief, but it does ease my way through life.
After Bear’s death, I tried to hold my shattered heart together and find something, anything to help me keep living. One morning the grief overwhelmed me and I curled up in his big armchair and sobbed saying, “Babe, I can’t do it. I can’t find a purpose, I can’t find a reason, all I can see is pain.” And then I felt these words from him, “Darlin, what if you don’t need a purpose or a reason? What if you just get up each day and do something good and see what happens?”
I stopped crying and just sat there awhile. What if I don’t need a purpose or reason? What if it is enough to just do something good each day? It was the first time I could see a way forward, a glimmer of hope that perhaps I could survive this.
So, each morning I wake up and say, “Good morning, Bear!” and remind myself that I am safe and loved and supported. I have a cry if I need to, then get up and continue our tradition of a big cup of coffee and watching the sun come up. Then I figure out something good to do.
In the beginning, those good things weren’t much. The grief was too all-consuming to do more than the bare minimum of feeding animals and keeping plants alive and making sure I drank water and ate something and kept breathing.
But, as I adjusted to the understanding that death only stops physical life, it doesn’t stop love and connection, my brain made room for more and I was able to find good things to do not just for the present, but for the future.
I re-potted native edible plants we purchased for the food forest we planned, cuddled the eight puppies Bear’s dog gave birth to on New Year’s Day, picked and dried elderberries to put in the cordial blend I plan to sell at markets again one day, and harvested bundles of lemon verbena and lemon balm to dry on the back verandah for the workshops I hope to teach again when I’m ready.
I’ve mended fences, fixed broken water pipes, and coated the steps and verandahs with layers of Danish oil to keep the wood in good condition.
Sometimes I work alone with only our lovely dogs for company, while other times dear friends stop in to give big cuddles and fix machinery, help me figure out how to redo the irrigation system, or collect fallen trees and branches for the burn pile after epic summer storms make a mess of things.
Sometimes I do my good things with a peaceful heart feeling dearly loved and connected to my luvs, but others are fraught, laced with loneliness, sadness, and wondering what the point of it all is. And both reactions are OK. All of it is OK. It’s possible to be heartbroken and full of love at the same time, to be terrified of the future but delight in Bear’s favourite nasturtiums blooming, to feel hopeless yet grateful, lonely yet connected, purposeless while creating purpose by doing something good no matter what.
I don’t know what my future holds, but for now, tending my grief, doing something good each day, and loving myself, my loves, our land, and our animals is enough. xo
