It’s a beautiful spring day in Canberra, the type of which we have had quite a few of recently. The temperatures have dropped overnight again, and Wednesday was particularly cold and I was forced back to warmer clothing on my regular mid-week walk.
It’s the sort of day Linda would have loved. She always revelled in the better days and thinking of her on days like this give me some comfort despite the cloak of sadness which still clings to me.
Life goes on as it does in dribs and drabs. I’m feeling a little better, but grief is still casting its long shadow. It’s no longer particularly invasive, just an ache. I can take comfort in Linda’s memory and be thankful for my part in her life and her part in mine but the melancholy still grips, particularly when I wake in the mornings and at the end of another day that she hasn’t been here to see, when her voice doesn’t echo down the halls or in the rooms of our home like they had for two decades before.
In my mind’s eye I see her ambling down the hallway, or standing in the kitchen or hear the yell of “Hey Matt” as she reconciled her credit card from the computer room, checking each purchase forensically and of course figuring I had bought something without telling her when she couldn’t remember where that item had come from.
I sleep now with the blinds up in our bedroom which Linda would have hated. But it gives me a marvellous view of the Brindabella Ranges in the mornings to the south and the pink hues of the pre-dawn moments are beautiful from the east. As the first rays of sunlight peak over the Wanniassa Hills the room fills with warm light, bouncing off the twin shades of yellow in our room and I lie in bed much longer than I ever did soaking in the beauty and still finding comfort among Linda’s things, her clothes and jewellery, still hanging where she left them, the reminder of our blessed life together.
I do feel the stirrings of the “new normal” and I look at the blank canvas of my life ahead with some trepidation but also excitement, knowing Linda wanted me to be happy and do great things, which I will, always with her in mind.
I guess the shock has worn off and reality has set in. She’s not coming back and I move forward in this life alone.
It’s the anniversary of Robert Redford’s death today and, thinking about what I might write in this post this morning I remembered the last scene of his 1972 film “The Candidate”. His character is a dynamic and charismatic young lawyer who is recruited by the Democratic Party to run in a safe Republican seat. They don’t care that he won’t win, they just want a competitive race against the long standing, popular incumbent and Redford’s character is the son of a former three term governor so name recognition will get him a long way.
At the end of the movie, against the odds, Redford’s character wins the election, much to his dismay. He takes his campaign manager into a backroom, away from the celebrating party faithful and asks him, “What do I do now?” Both are then swept away by the celebrations before there is an answer and the movie ends.
It’s much the same for me. “What do I do now?”
The road ahead is open and I am starting the engine, but I feel the need to idle just a little longer. One day, I will open the throttle.
Until next time.
Strange Notations From a Laborious Life 