Everyone tells me to do what I want these days. I'm the boss, the decider. I'm fortunate that I don't have an office I have to get back to or crushing medical bills to pay (thank you, Medicare). If I feel like staying in bed until noon - or all day for that matter - no one is going to berate me. I don't even have to walk my dog, Charlie, if I don't feel like going outside because (lucky me) she is litterbox trained. If I choose to revert to the pandemic lifestyle and order my groceries online, I don't even have to go to the store. And make work? I can do that at home, too. Draw and paint, write, photograph from my balcony... it's all at my beck and call without having to step one foot out in the world.

I have to admit there are plenty of days when being alone and quiet suits me just fine.

I've been told by others in the “club" that this is perfectly normal. The “club,” by the way, expands daily as I hear from old friends who I haven't talked to in a long time. Several have called to say that they, too, have lost their partner. It's comforting to hear their take on this journey. How are they navigating the ups and downs of each hour, each day? Have they been able to carve out a safe space in their new life for this huge, pulsating mound of grief? How do they answer the constant question "Are you doing OK?"

 

What about their partner's shoes that are still sitting by the front door?

I can't tell you how many times I've actually picked up my phone to call Eddie. It happened just last weekend at my open studio. The crowd was swelling, people were responding positively to my new work and Gloaster Coasters were flying off the shelf. Eddie would have been beaming. I left my studio for a lunch break and reached in my pocket for my phone, so excited to tell him how well things were going.

It's surprisingly easy to imagine he's nearby. Sometimes I find myself trying hard to conjure him up so that he'll actually, physically walk into the room. It's not unusual for me to think he's just at the gym or the grocery or having coffee with his buddy Fred. Joan Didion called it the "year of magical thinking." 

It's magical until it's not.

That's when it's crappy and lonely and sad and disorienting.

Eddie’s fingerprints are everywhere, His clothes still hang in the closet and his toothbrush is still by the sink. His energy is with me in so many ways. Acknowledging that presence takes persistence and practice and a creative suspension of reality. I'm down for that. After all, that's part of what helps me get out from under the covers each morning.

One of the other things that motivate me is expressing myself through one of my creative outlets. Thank g-d for each of them.

John Prine's music wove its way through the many years Eddie and I spent together. His songs sum up so much about life as we knew it and believed it and lived it. So many occasions, so many feelings, so many heartaches, so much love, so much yearning, so much happiness and goofiness. It's all there. I asked my son-in-law to sing and play Prine's song "I Remember Everything" at Eddie's funeral. I don't know how he got through it, but he did. His rendition was perfect in every way and turned out to be a pretty great sendoff. It's a song already encrusted in sadness, as it was the last song JP recorded before he died of COVID in April, 2020. Alongside the pain, though, there is tenderness and wonder and gratitude.

 

I remember everythingThings I can't forgetThe way you turned and smiled on meOn the night that we first metAnd I remember every nightYour ocean eyes of blueHow I miss you in the morning lightLike roses miss the dew

 

Music is everywhere. In the car, in every room of my apartment, in the shower, walking down the street, in my dreams. After Eddie died, I bought a turntable and have been relishing the warm, rich textures of the music we listened to together for over 50 years.

 

That has led me back to a set of drawings I started a couple years ago. They illustrate many of my favorite John Prine songs, including “I Remember Everything.” I’ve reworked some of them and am now offering them for sale as prints (and of course, coasters). If you’re interested in seeing all 18 of them, you can do so at www[dot]gloasters[dot]com.  You can also purchase them for a song (ha-ha).

 

Here are some of them.

 

I’m just doing what I feel like doing.


My Blog

doing what i want to do + john prine drawings

12/14/2024

Everyone tells me to do what I want these days. I'm the boss, the decider. I'm fortunate that I don't have an office I have to get back to or crushing medical bills to pay (thank you, Medicare). If I feel like staying in bed until noon - or all day for that matter - no one is going to berate me. I don't even have to walk my dog, Charlie, if I don't feel like going outside because (lucky me) she is litterbox trained. If I choose to revert to the pandemic lifestyle and order my groceries online, I don't even have to go to the store. And make work? I can do that at home, too. Draw and paint, write, photograph from my balcony... it's all at my beck and call without having to step one foot out in the world.

I have to admit there are plenty of days when being alone and quiet suits me just fine.

I've been told by others in the “club" that this is perfectly normal. The “club,” by the way, expands daily as I hear from old friends who I haven't talked to in a long time. Several have called to say that they, too, have lost their partner. It's comforting to hear their take on this journey. How are they navigating the ups and downs of each hour, each day? Have they been able to carve out a safe space in their new life for this huge, pulsating mound of grief? How do they answer the constant question "Are you doing OK?"

 

What about their partner's shoes that are still sitting by the front door?

I can't tell you how many times I've actually picked up my phone to call Eddie. It happened just last weekend at my open studio. The crowd was swelling, people were responding positively to my new work and Gloaster Coasters were flying off the shelf. Eddie would have been beaming. I left my studio for a lunch break and reached in my pocket for my phone, so excited to tell him how well things were going.

It's surprisingly easy to imagine he's nearby. Sometimes I find myself trying hard to conjure him up so that he'll actually, physically walk into the room. It's not unusual for me to think he's just at the gym or the grocery or having coffee with his buddy Fred. Joan Didion called it the "year of magical thinking." 

It's magical until it's not.

That's when it's crappy and lonely and sad and disorienting.

Eddie’s fingerprints are everywhere, His clothes still hang in the closet and his toothbrush is still by the sink. His energy is with me in so many ways. Acknowledging that presence takes persistence and practice and a creative suspension of reality. I'm down for that. After all, that's part of what helps me get out from under the covers each morning.

One of the other things that motivate me is expressing myself through one of my creative outlets. Thank g-d for each of them.

John Prine's music wove its way through the many years Eddie and I spent together. His songs sum up so much about life as we knew it and believed it and lived it. So many occasions, so many feelings, so many heartaches, so much love, so much yearning, so much happiness and goofiness. It's all there. I asked my son-in-law to sing and play Prine's song "I Remember Everything" at Eddie's funeral. I don't know how he got through it, but he did. His rendition was perfect in every way and turned out to be a pretty great sendoff. It's a song already encrusted in sadness, as it was the last song JP recorded before he died of COVID in April, 2020. Alongside the pain, though, there is tenderness and wonder and gratitude.

 

I remember everythingThings I can't forgetThe way you turned and smiled on meOn the night that we first metAnd I remember every nightYour ocean eyes of blueHow I miss you in the morning lightLike roses miss the dew

 

Music is everywhere. In the car, in every room of my apartment, in the shower, walking down the street, in my dreams. After Eddie died, I bought a turntable and have been relishing the warm, rich textures of the music we listened to together for over 50 years.

 

That has led me back to a set of drawings I started a couple years ago. They illustrate many of my favorite John Prine songs, including “I Remember Everything.” I’ve reworked some of them and am now offering them for sale as prints (and of course, coasters). If you’re interested in seeing all 18 of them, you can do so at www[dot]gloasters[dot]com.  You can also purchase them for a song (ha-ha).

 

Here are some of them.

 

I’m just doing what I feel like doing.