A new year.  It’s a symbolic clean slate.  The chance to start fresh.  My husband gave me the most perfect
new year’s gift-- an empty desk just for me—in a clean, well lit, warm art space.  And with it, a chance to get back to back to being genuine.  I’m a goal-setter so new year’s resolutions come naturally to me.  I started thinking about resolutions at the Winter Solstice and realized I had left some of the most important parts of me behind.  My resolution this year is to be true to myself.  

How did I stray so far off course? It just so happens I’m also an adapter.  I have a mutable personality and that’s why, when my new husband and his sons moved into my house three years ago, I decided to make a big 
change.  So grateful that they were joining me in house I loved, I was eager to show my willingness to adapt.  Bear in mind my home was already overflowing.  My space was brimming.  It was stuffed with stuff.  I was hanging on tight to my childhood memories, my half of the detritus from a 20-year-marriage, and assorted boxes full of my children’s memories.  Did I mention that I’m a collector? 

Optimistically we shoehorned our new family into this space the best we could.  I spent weeks prior to our wedding day weeding through my art supplies.  The plan was to turn half of my basement art area into a bedroom.  It seemed logical to sacrifice some paper and paints to make three guys feel welcome.  I attacked my mission with zeal.  Meanwhile, my husband had the loathsome task of cramming all of his belongings into the remaining cracks and crevices.  

Enter the desk.  While I was occupied with giving up my cache of art supplies a crippling scenario was taking place in the sunroom.  After three moves and zero time or energy to organize papers, my husband had no choice but stack every important and seemingly important paper on a desk in the sunroom.   He had too much to handle.  Filing was risky.  Sorting was agonizing.  The fear of losing essential papers was paralyzing.   What's worse is the torture was apparent.  While the basement door could be shut, the desk in the sunroom was always in plain sight, groaning with the weight.  We were trapped.  I gave up part of my identity and his was lost somewhere in piles of papers.

The first year was really tough for all kinds of reasons.  After a year my stepsons moved on but me and my husband remained in "desk limbo."  What used to be a basement art haven became invisible.  My dusty drafting table was stacked with forgotten materials.  And the piles grew in the sunroom.  Turning opposite of true north, I gave my drafting table to my younger stepson.  Oddly enough, that might have been just the wake up call I needed.   Soon after, I dug out my art journal and went back to play.  

This past summer I asked to have the sunroom desk in exchange for a space in the basement.  Thus began a series of lessons that probably will be discussed in more detail on other days in other articles.  I had to confront my communications demons; it was not a pretty picture.  One day I figured out how to use my words and a lightbulb switched on above both our heads.  Suffice it to say it’s been a 3-year-long learning experience that was an effective teaching tool on so many levels.  

The happy news is the gift.  We came to a mutual agreement that has left us both happy, true to ourselves and most important, with usable space each of us to fill however we choose.  To my utter surprise and delight I looked into the sunroom yesterday and saw a completely empty desk.  And now, at the start of a new year I have a gleaming new art table just waiting for me to play.  I wonder if he knows his gift wasn't just a clean desk for me; it was a clean slate for us. Thanks to you, my darling! 

The words finally came to me on a run.  I've been struggling for days, even weeks anticipating the day.   The one year anniversary.  How could I write about it?   Yet, how could I not?  I very much wanted to put my feelings into words.  I wanted to continue what I had begun.  I've started this article half a dozen times.  Words weren't coming; my thoughts were conflicted.  After all, this was the most significant loss of my life to date.

I wondered what the day would bring.  Since my heart remembered the date each month even when my conscious brain did not, I braced for the worst.  Armoring myself was a way of life for the past 365 days.  What was one more day of emotional hiding?  All I could remember was last year's staggering pain.  What else could I possibly expect?

Would the day be a beginning or an end?  I'm not sure why I placed so much importance on the day.  Maybe my ordered mind wanted to hop across the line between last year and this year and land safely on the other side.  Mom's death was like a bolt out of the blue.  A shock.  A strike.  And the blow sent me reeling.  Months full of memories and tears.  How do you consolidate fragmented memories mixed with grief, anger and acceptance into a single day?  Then it occurred to me. My fear wasn't about the day; it was about the whole year.  I didn't want to do it all over again.

And that's when I decided to change.  I didn't hide.  I didn't pretend.  The day before the anniversary of Mom's death I asked for support.  I reached out to my friends, shared my loss and my fears, and asked for a hug.   What do you think happened?  Hugs!  Lots and lots of hugs.  Instead of lonely fear I had support.  The support I needed was always there--all I had to do was ask.

I woke up this morning qestioning my coping strategies. I know that they work beautifully for me when I'm functioning as an individual. There's another dimension to stress when you add a partner. How can I develop effective strategies to handle relationship stress? In challenging times I want to put more focus on asking for help.

We've been working hard these past few weeks. There have been rehearsals nearly every night. We've worked on the weekends. And more rehearsals for me during the day. My husband is up before the crack of dawn every day to teach school. It's been tough to talk and to connect. And even tougher to reach out.

I'm managing my stress during the day yet when evening comes around it feels familiar to retreat into my separate self. Hiding in my tortoise shell I feel lonely and alone. Despite my list of coping strategies and my best intentions somehow fear clouds my thinking.

This is exactly the time I could ask for help and receive much needed support. And I can do that if I plan ahead. I'll set an intention to make a request and trust that my needs will be met. Some gently whispered words of encouragement are what I need most. After a long day and an even longer night, when he's trudging up the stairs to fall into bed, I'll ask for help.