Archive for October, 2010

Where do I go from here? From Mourning to Conversations with Kenny

I was going to write about the huge impact having an attitude of gratitude plays in my life because in those months of caring for Kenny, there were so many miracles to be thankful for, and so many people who ministered to us on a daily basis. That would have been very uplifting and genuinely sweet and touching, after all, writing about being grateful to people for their generosity of Spirit and being grateful to God for the many moments of perfection we experienced, opens not only my heart, but most likely your heart as well. Only since my last entry, it’s taken weeks of self-reflection, giving in to the never-ending tears, and beginning somatic therapy to even write the first sentence here. Having the notion of learning about perfection on my life path, I squander energy racing back and forth between feeling sorry for myself, grieving all by myself, putting on a face for my friends and coworkers so I won’t appear self-indulgent, feeling guilty that I haven’t gotten past some fake and made up idea of a corner-turning stage of grief into a happier, more productive, more social, more likable, all healed up widow ready to put Kenny in his rightful place in my memories and moving on in my life to new beginnings. Widow! Always was a disturbing term, not it’s downright mean.

I’ve intimated in previous posts that Kenny had a lot to hide. And he was a master at it. But what I didn’t know is how much I was hiding. Throughout our marriage and probably throughout my entire life and all the other relationships I’ve had, I spent an inordinate amount of time and energy “fixing” my partners. This resulted in the ironic effect of keeping understanding and healing my own traumas at bay, avoiding any resolution for the last six decades. I thought of myself as the healthy one and I thought of the other as the helpless one, the sick one, the disturbed one, the one that needed “fixing.” And if I only did this and such, they would mend their ways and emerge 100% recovered. Oh, and did I forget to say, in the emerging they would love me.

Where in the world did this come from? What made me the “fixer?” Well I can only speak to this lifetime, though I’m sure it stems from others. And I’m about to launch into psycho-babble, so bear with me. When I was six months old, my father was called to World War II. So in November 1943, we packed all our gear, and Mommy and her “little monkey” as I was called, followed Daddy across country as far west as we could go before he was shipped off to the China/Burma/India theater. It was a brutal two years of ugly hand-to-hand combat, but he survived (only physically) and came home in 1945 a broken man. Friends and family whispered that Luddy used to be so happy-go-lucky, and now, poor man, he sleeps a lot and his eyes look so sad, and he doesn’t talk much any more.

Somehow it was while Daddy was at war that I began to know myself as the “fixer.” I was there to fix my mother’s grief and fear of the ever-pending notice of injury or God forbid, death of her soldier-husband. I was glued to her side as if I hadn’t been born yet. I absorbed her thoughts and feelings. I made her feel better just by giving her someone special to love. This would be a beautiful ministry for a little baby, but the bond became so impenetrable that when Daddy came home, there were no threads to unravel, no holes to peek into, not a smidgen of dust to indicate a draft where he might discover the path to relate to me.

Being the only child (a girl child) and wanting desperately to win my father’s love, I remember following him around, asking to do things with him. I’d go up on the roof to hammer shingles down. I’d help him carry bricks when he built the outdoor barbecue, I’d ride with him in this ’52 Ford pick-up to “colored town” to pay his helpers or pick them up on Monday morning after a weekend of bingeing. I’d try to be a boy to see if that would work. And I’d buy him presents I thought he would love for his birthday and Christmas, which by the way were the same day. Lodovico Natale Colombi. Luddy (Christmas) Colombi.

There it was, the beginning of a pattern of relating to men–who needed help. And it didn’t stop there. My mother was sick most of my childhood with recurring bouts of Crone’s disease that required multiple surgeries almost like clockwork. If it was February, she was almost always in the hospital–her birthday month. Me, I had my share of childhood diseases, but nothing that didn’t mend quickly and easily. There’s so much history around so many childhood experiences, suffice it to say here that no wonder my darling Kenny was with me for only thirteen years and agreed in Spirit to leave me after the most traumatic year of our lives, but to leave me, never to be seen again on this earth. No calling to say I’m sorry, I’m coming home. No letters to say what he couldn’t say in person, no repairing our marriage, no coming home from the war, just the end of all ends–death–the thing my mother feared the most. The thing I absorbed through my skin. In the end in my pores, I knew they would all leave me.

See I told you I feel self-indulgent, wallowing in my loss, stuck on repeat with no end in sight. And don’t you wonder what somatic therapy will do for me? It’s supposed to heal one of traumas, physical, emotional, mental, all of them. And I’ve had many more than the average first world citizen. So while some people get sick as a result of karmic patterns, others hurt themselves or allow others to hurt them. So my goal? To heal the hurts and change the karmic flow to create more balance–eh, maybe add to be happier, to experience more joy, and receive more love, and to absolutely know that God and I are one.

Meanwhile, I pour over the thousands of pictures my photographer-husband took over his lifetime, culling out the most beautiful and spectacular landscape photos and portraits of all his work in order to find a representative selection to include in the book I’m compiling. Not only do I want to convey his magnificent transformation and transcendence through his own blog entries, but my own experiences of caring for him, grieving for him, growing my Self and learning to tune in to his messages from the Spirit world. I am convinced his ministry continues, and I want to know how and why and what he wants you, dear readers, to know about conscious death and conscious dying and the after life.

I am blessed to have this medium to share our precious story. God bless you and all your loved ones. I’d promise you that the next entry will be on gratitude, but we’ll see. In the meantime, my dear friend who introduced me to Liz who introduced me to Ruthie, who is able to communicate with Kenny and all those who will teach me the same, encouraged me to include a picture of Kenny and me. Underneath, surrounding, and overriding all our challenges, is a deep and abiding love that no trauma could or would shake. It’s there for eternity–a spiritual promise–our heritage as initiates and ministers of God. Look for it in these photos. And soon I’ll be chatting away with Kenny myself.

Sending you all deepest love and gratitude for hanging in here with me, sending your love and Light, and witnessing the transformation of consciousness into the Heart of God.

Carol & Kenny Aug 1996 at the Beloved Island House

Carol, Ken, and our Valentine Tiger March 2010

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