Words and numbers

I never had an aptitude for numbers. Joe used to laugh at me. He had his Master’s in math from Villanova. I have a checkered career in journalism and writing, lover of Jane Eyre and Where the Crawdads Sing and all else in between.

Numbers are our friends, Joe would tease. Nope, I’d counter. Words are our friends.

Now, in the wake of his death and my father’s, I find that neither words or numbers are my friends.

I can’t seem to write these days and it’s more than writer’s block. I could always find solace in my writing, the comfort of words in spinning tales or dredging into the depths of my heart to share with others.

As to numbers, they always stymied me, my brain struggling to fit those equations into some slot that didn’t fit. In hindsight, I wish the good sisters had instilled a love of math.

But truth be told, their efforts wouldn’t have worked. I seemed to be wired for the artsy and creative. While I love to indulge in poetry, Joe would relish Sudoku.

Now, I hate numbers worse then before.

Sixteen. Those are the number of months since Joe died. Eight. That’s the number of weeks since dad died. 

Seventy. That’s how old I’ll be on August 18.

Numbers and time. They weigh heavy on me these days. I want them to go away. I tell myself they are simply human contrivances, measures that dictate a season, an age, a passing.

Time also presses on me in that I want to find words again, need to be writing. I’m aging. How is it I’ve reached a new decade, yet again?

More numbers. How much time do I have left to write that novel, get it published? Will I ever write words that befriend and comfort others along life’s uncertain journey?

In the wake of two deaths within a little more than a year, I understand how time is deceptive, sand trickling down that hourglass faster than we realize.

Various friends have told me, start anywhere with your writing. Put down words. It doesn’t matter. Just write something. Anything.

So here it is. The something. The anything. Is it making any sense at all?

I feel as if I’m looking out of a dull and dirty window. Nothing is clear and even these words feel skeletal and meaningless.

My bereavement counselor asks me to be patient, to “be with” whatever I’m feeling. Sadness and grief erupt at odd moments and I keep struggling to find joy, moments of light. Sometimes they come, but with dulled edges.

I loved Joe. I loved dad. Since their deaths — Joe’s unexpected and dad’s lingering on — I have cocooned myself in a fetal position, protected myself from any more sorrow.

But I also know when I armor my heart like this, no joy can get in either.

So I’m taking steps. Small ones.

Joe’s unexpected death blindsided me and the aftermath of clearing out the house and arranging his finances sucked out my soul. Caring for dad took a toll and for six years I wasn’t free to meet friends. Go to workshops. Take naps. Or a walk. I’m beginning again, as if someone coming out from a deep sleep.

I feel groggy in my soul even as I take these steps. But I know I must.

After dad’s stroke, I had asked him once how I would ever cope with his death. He wasn’t able to speak clearly then, but he did reply, and only as dad could: I want you to go out and live your life.

I want to do this. Live my life. Out loud. With drums and bells and rainbow colors. I want the life I had before. Before, before, before. But the path ahead isn’t clear. Sages and gurus might say this is an incredible space to inhabit, one full of opportunities because anything is possible. Dad would have said that.

The truth is, where I am right now is sad. And that’s OK. I’m not yet where I’d like to be. But for the first time — ever in these 70 years — I am living what I only gave lip service to before: I’m staying in the moment.

In this moment, I listen to my heart and it says, go gently. Be patient with your precious self. All will unfold in Divine right time. The drums. The bells. The rainbow.

So, in this moment, I write. One. Word. At a time.