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
by Krista | Jun 23, 2022 | Winter
I love the quiet darkness of winter mornings before the rising sun turns the frosted fields into shimmering gold laced with mist.
I wrap cold fingers around my coffee mug and close my eyes, listening to the steady ticking of the cuckoo clock, the rhythmic thumping of wagging tails outside the back door from dogs eager to come in for a snuggle, my heartbeat.
A few weeks ago there was no heartbeat.
I had taken my badly injured husband into the hospital to have his knee tended. We winced and grimaced together as the doctor probed and bent, figuring out the best way to get him back to fighting strength. The doc turned to update me on the plan then asked, “Are you OK? You don’t look good.”
I don’t remember much after that, but they told me later I scared the hell out of them when I collapsed, turned blue, was unresponsive, and had no pulse. They thought they’d lost me. Thankfully, ten rounds of CPR brought me back and I remember a woman saying, “There she is. We’ve got her.”
I’m so glad they didn’t lose me that day. So glad they fought for me and won.
The last month has been a flurry of hospital and doctor visits, ambulance runs, and innumerable tests, more collapses and more tests as we tried to figure out what on earth is happening with my dear ol’ heart.
Bear has been a rock through it all, teasing me about being his zombie wife in the good moments, hugging me tight during the weepy, scary ones. My luvs have been wonderful, cheering and comforting, calling or messaging to ask the all-important question, “Are you alive??!!” YES!
We don’t have all the answers yet, but I started on medication last week that is working wonders. Before, just walking to the car or into a shop had me shaky and breaking out into a sweat, needing to lay down before I toppled over. Not anymore. I’m able to garden again and run errands and work in the newsroom with no more zombie moments.
Such experiences have a big impact. It’s been scary and overwhelming, frustrating and exhausting. The what ifs haunt us now and then. What if it had happened while I was working on the farm or on the road for work and no one had been there to bring me back? We have much to be grateful for.
My world has slowed and quieted as I’ve made the changes necessary to bring my life back into alignment with my clarified values and priorities. Boundaries have been strengthened to make ample space for what I want to fill my days with, money invested in the tools and ingredients needed to do the things I love.
I’m off work today, so we have plans for adding purple asparagus, sugar snap peas, artichokes, and rainbow silverbeet to our winter gardens, making a run to the dump, and slow-cooking carnitas with cumin and orange juice. They’re just little things, but they make life beautiful to us.
What is making your life beautiful today? xo
by Krista | May 6, 2022 | Autumn
I spent the first 36 years of my life in a culture that regarded females as belonging to someone else from cradle to grave.
From the time a girl was born, she belonged to her father. He decided what she wore, how she behaved, and who she spent time with. He dictated her goals, responsibilities, and dreams. Everything she was and did was a reflection on him. She either honoured him or shamed him. There was no middle ground.
She was her father’s servant, housekeeper, nanny for the other siblings, cook, hostess, the works. She was Wife Part Two minus the sex. If she was lucky. If she was unlucky, she was also raped, molested, or sexualised in some perverse way.
If she had brothers, they were also given authority over her as second fathers, keeping watch when the father wasn’t there, and reporting back to the father on any infractions so she could be disciplined and retrained. This authority and control over a girl or woman were also extended to other males including, but not limited to, grandfathers, pastors, and church leaders.
This didn’t change until the father found the right man to transfer ownership of his daughter to. Then she was given to a husband and the rituals continued. She belonged to him.
At no time, in that world, does a girl or woman belong to herself. Not her mind, not her body, not her heart, not her vagina or her uterus. None of her. She is placed on a pedestal, a lump of clay to be moulded according to the wishes of whoever happens to own her at the time. Her value rests in her submission and obedience and intact hymen until she is handed over to the one man who is allowed to break that hymen and take ownership of her.
She must provide willing sex on demand.
She must get pregnant and give birth regardless of whether that has a detrimental effect on her health and wellbeing. If she loses her life in the process, so be it.
She must obey.
And through it all she must smile and convey joy, for to do anything less is to dishonour her father, her husband, her God. In that culture, there is nothing worse than shaming a male.
Even in this abusive culture, there were decent men who tried to value, respect, and love their daughters, wives, sisters, and mothers within those hellish parameters. Although I honour their efforts and am grateful for the light they shone in my darkness, this does not make the culture OK.
It is evil. Inhuman. Abusive, horrific, and utterly deplorable.
Girls belong to themselves. No one else.
Women belong to themselves. No one else.
I belong to myself. No one else. My body, my mind, my vagina, my uterus, my choices, my beliefs, they are all mine, and mine alone.
I remember the day I learned that I belong to me. My therapist and I had been talking when all of a sudden I said, “Do you mean I belong to me? My mind belongs to me? My body belongs to ME???” She stared at me in shock, trying to grasp that this was new information to me.
But it was. Mind-blowing, gut-wrenching, life-giving truth. I was 38 years old.
I returned to our farm in a daze. I sat in Bear’s big, green armchair for the next three days, basking in the utter wonder of belonging to myself. I felt safe and secure for the first time in my life, and that is when true healing began.
I will never return to the lies of my past. Never.
My body is mine. My mind is mine. My heart is mine.
Never again will someone decide for me what to think, believe, or be. Not a deity, not a church, not a government, not a father, husband, brother, or friend.
I belong to me, forever and always. And I trust me implicitly.
