08/08

I don’t want to mark this day each month. I don’t want to feel it approaching, anticipating the flood of emotions that will come whether I want them to or not. I want to go back, to return to when we celebrated with joy 16th of each month, marking the day we met that July.

There is relief in nothing, and I now know there never will be. I can feel other things now, I learned it is possible to feel other emotions alongside the sadness, and I am grateful for that. But missing you never stops, it never lessens, I think about you every minute.

I have engaged in multiple forms of therapy, joined new activities, made friends, reached out (sometimes desperately) to old friends and even strangers, withdrew, attended grief groups, talked with mediums, gone to church, and meditated. I’ve done EFT, been to energy healers, acupuncture, reiki, and sacrocranial therapy. I prayed for death for six months. I’ve drank far too much and too often, distracted myself, and kept endlessly busy. I’ve talked and written to you endlessly and cried rivers of tears…

Still everything is unbearable without you.

I want to go back to the time when 8 was my number – my birthday month, my numerology number, my race number – my lucky number. I hate that I mark this day each month as the day you died. I hate all of this.

I will lie

Know that when you ask me how I am, I will lie.

I am not fine. I am nowhere near that.

I don’t need fixing. There is no solution, please don’t offer me any. Things are dark, but actually they need to be dark now.

Please just be present for me. Please speak Albert’s name. Acknowledge that he is missing from our daily life, our parties, our trips, our lives our future…

Grab me and hold me tight enough so for a split second I don’t have to be the only one holding together a million shattered pieces of the whole I used to be.

Say, “I am sorry.”

Say, “I don’t know what to say.”

Say nothing.

What if..?

I was I asking the Universe “Why?” Saying to myself, “I don’t understand WHY the Universe (or God or life) would have me go through this. Again. I went through this once already and spent many, many years learning to be open to love again and the risk of it. Why would the Universe give me Albert, from whom I learned so much and who changed my life so completely, only to take him away one short year later?

And one possible answer that I had not considered crossed my path today. And it is this:

“Albert he wasn’t given to you for you. He was given to you for him. It was going to be his time soon and the Universe wanted you to be there for him.”

“The Universe knew no one could love him like you would and wanted him to have that kind of love before he returned home. He was given to you so that he could experience the kind of happiness that only you could have brought to him before he had to go.”

What if this was his life path – and only his?

What if I am still living my life path and this – his death – had and has nothing to do with me?

What if?

2014 New Year resolution Part Two/Conclusion

I guess I should have titled this my New Year anti-resolution check-in/conclusion. Anyway, the original post is here, check-in part one is here, and this is part two, and actually the conclusion since it is now 2015 and there can be no more check ins.

In June we went to Aragon. A weekend riding little bikes and supermoto at the Motorland track and some site seeing around the old city of Alcañiz, which is a fascinating city. It’s worth reading about.

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Little bike in the garage

In July we went to the South of France to catch a few stages of Le Tour (that’s the Tour de France for the uniformed), plus Montpelier beforehand. I’ll admit, I was disappointed in Montpelier. Overall, I found it to be shoddier and dirtier than I expected, and the city relies entirely too much on cars for my taste, despite its overground tram system. It had some interesting historical monuments and relics though, including an enormous aqueduct built in the 1700s.

Aqueduct in Montpellier

Aqueduct in Montpelier

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Next stop was Nîmes, where we spent a day visiting all of the intact Roman structures all over the city. An entire, intact Roman amphitheater stands in the center of town and is used regularly–weekly–for events.

Nimes amphitheatre

GP riding toward his roots in Nimes

The Spanish influence is evident in this city, where local ferias, flamenco and Camargue bullfights (where the bulls are not harmed unlike the bloodthirsty Spanish version) are a regular part of life.

Nimes symbol - a croc leashed to a palm

Symbol of Nimes – a croc leashed to a palm

The ancient amphitheater, built in the the 4th century AD, is still in regular and frequent use. Here they hold the many, many bullfights held in Nimes, and also concerts, recreations of Roman games, city festivals and other big sho

Tour du France juxtaposition

Le Tour juxtaposition

Roman structures in Nimes

Riding around Roman ruins

Nimes river

Downtown Nimes river

Le Tour finish

Le Tour finish

After watching the Tour finish from Nimes, we took the train to Carcassonne, another historically significant city, this time for its intact Medieval city center. We stayed just outside the newer part of town, along with plenty of media and press people, and rode our bikes into town and up to the walled in city for a look around. It was a rest day for the tour and we actually saw a couple of riders touring around the tiny, ancient walled-in city.

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EPO, it’s what’s for breakfast.

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Pushing my bike through the slippery cobblestones of Carcassonne

The next day we saw the start of the Tour stage, then rode along the old horse trails lining the Canal du Midi. These are rooty, tree covered paths built for the horses that pulled the merchant barges from town to town. The trails are now bike and walking paths and the canals, that cover France, are now primarily used by pleasure boaters who like to see the country via the canals. Not a bad idea, actually.

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A boat waits for the water to rise at the lock

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Crossing a canal bridge

The next jaunt was to see the final of the big three bicycle races, the Vuelta de España in August. Taking our bikes by train to Pamplona was our first stop, where we had a day to ride around and found ourselves riding along the Camino de Santiago trail unintentionally but to our great satisfaction.

Camino de Santiago marker

Camino de Santiago marker, the shell

Bike trails just outside Pamplona

Bike trails just outside Pamplona

We had drinks with our neighbor in Barcelona who happened to be in Pamplona for work, then the next day we caught the stage start in a park at the edge of town. The city celebrated everywhere with decorations (though nothing like the Italians decorate for the Giro), including a display of Miguel Indurian’s time trail bike hanging in the Santander bank arches.

Indurian's timetrial bike

Indurian’s timetrial bike on display in the central Plaza of Pamplona for the stage start.

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GP’s stage start selfie

Alberto Contador Pamplona

The Vuelta leader and eventual winner, Contador

We then headed to Logroño, where the next stage actually started and finished. We stayed in town and hit the famous Laurel street for some serious tapas and pincho eating two nights in a row, and got up close and personal with the riders at the stage finish.

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Everyone’s favorite personality, ex-mountain biker Peter Sagan.

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In September I flew out to Rhode Island for a week to see my brother on his historical farm he is renovating, along with my father who met me there. I went to a dance performance on the grounds of one of the mansions out there, and crashed the after party. I had a nice long chat with the wife of the proprietor, a woman from Serbia, about Nikola Tesla, with whom she claimed to be related. I’m not sure I buy it but it was interesting none the less.

I then started to get quite busy with work so the traveling stopped until the years end (and yes, more or less broke my resolution to not ‘work hard’). We also moved and the new placed needed a LOT of work so that took precedence.

But for the last trip of the year, on December 25th we headed to New York. I had a real haircut in SoHo, visited museums, ate street food, finally saw the 911 memorial, paid way too much for a hotel room for six nights but didn’t am at peace with it because it was planned. (Next time I’ll stay at an AirBnB for half the price, and not in the theater district either!) New Years Eve we boarded a plane to Southern California for a week or two of sun (and dental appointments).

And that, my friends, concludes the 2014 New Year’s resolution updates.

The Piano

My grandfather played piano. He had a stately, sumptuously decorated house in the wealthiest part of San Diego, with an elaborately wood inlay grand piano in his front hall that he entertained with when asked. I think he was self-taught, and I know that he didn’t read music. He played by ear and could play many popular tunes, and very well. I never knew how he learned, though I suppose if I had asked him, he would have been happy to tell me.

I played piano as a child, starting young in a children’s group class. The teachers name way Cindy, which I thought was the most beautiful name, much more becoming than my own, one syllabled name that was frequently stretched into two by my mother, a DC native who drew out the B so my name sounded like bah-ritt. Or my brother, who frequently toyed, not unkindly, with my name, turning it into buuurrrrito. When I imagined myself on horseback, loping across the golf course to my best friends house, I was always Cindy, a pink skinned, curly haired beauty fashioned after my piano teacher. Cindy sang in a soprano voice, and had cascading blond curls that fell upon her giant bosom She wore frilly blouses and pink lipstick and metallic eyeshadow. Jewelry adorned her fingers and I thought her the picture of feminine idealism. Myself, I was thin and tan, not pink and curvy (although I was only about 6 years old) and very self conscious of my long skinny legs. Though I did get compliments on my long finger –piano fingers the teachers called them—and learned to be proud of those.

A neighbor boy my brothers age demonstrated an amazing rendition of Scott Joplin’s The Entertainer to my astonished young eyes. Here was a boy, maybe 9 years old, putting forth a complex and raucous piece of music that I never imagined myself being able to play. In fact, I never thought any further than the lesson that I went to once a week and the practice I did each afternoon. I had no plans for becoming a piano player—though I must have indicated that I enjoyed it. But he impressed me and I frequently thought of him when practicing.

At the age of 10, I performed in recitals. Local, small town events, held on Sundays in an aging community hall with a stage. There, a grand piano was pushed onstage and student after student from the piano instructor who organized the event shuffled out, took a bow, and sat down to plink out some memorized tune. One recital, I was given two tunes to play back to back and, while I don’t recall what they were, I do remember receiving an enthusiastic applause after the first piece before launching into my next number. I wore a peach and white dotted skirt and dress combo, likely from Kmart, and knee high socks and white sandals. I must have played with feeling on this particular day because I received another resounding applause. I think I carried music sheets with me. Why I was allowed two tunes and a sheet music accompaniment, I don’t recall. But my mother told me years later how awed she was that I could get on stage and play, without nervousness or faltering. All I remember was looking forward to sneaking around with my friend back stage, getting into the dressing rooms and prying open locked doors. That old performance hall was built in the 1920s and was full of interesting nooks and crannies. For me at the age of 10, the performance was the price to pay to be able to poke around in the back rooms of that hall.

Of course, with puberty came the refusal to practice or do anything my parents wanted me to do. They were about to divorce and were already living apart, in fact had been for 3 years, and had new relationships of their own. My interest in pleasing them waned and I looked for a new identity. Out went the piano playing along with my childhood photos and other things I deemed reminders of my childhood, which was now completely gone. I burned all my journals and childhood school photos in a pile on the front porch. My mother asked later what the black mark was and I don’t remember if I told her what I burned or not. There was never another mention of it.

Years later, I longed to play piano again and moved the old upright piano I had practiced on and stained with hot cups of soup into the house I had just purchased on my own at the age of 29. I attempted more lessons but only found lonely old men who required more commitment than I was willing to give, or awkward gay men in sweat pants with electronic pianos with the volume far too low in their crappy carpeted apartments. I became busy with other things.

Fast forward a couple of years. I have a broken leg and a new relationship with a man that would become my husband. I sat with my broken leg and slowly learned to plink out a version of The Entertainer. I picked through the music, note by note, my ability to read music not any better than it had been at age 10 (I still had said acronyms for each space and line to figure out which note was shown on the music). But I learned to play that tune haltingly, to my delight and surprise. Shortly thereafter, the husband moved in a nonoperational organ that had belonged to his great grandmother into our place, and I sold my piano to make room.

Now, a decade later, I live in Europe in a tiny apartment that couldn’t house a piano even if I could get it up the three flights of stairs to my floor. But I need a piano now. I need to master The Entertainer. I need to be able to sit down play for that wide eyed 6 year old whose photos and diaries I burned. So I am looking for a place where I can give a piano it’s own space. A place big enough for all of me.