tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79575346476830530982024-02-08T03:02:48.061-08:00Quiet Little Sack of SadnessA journey through grief with artist Katherine Dunn - using her art making, sewing, doll making and silent comforts to help heal, process and journey through grief after the death of her mother. Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comBlogger129125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-74455758201389703902014-05-14T16:24:00.004-07:002014-05-14T16:24:50.485-07:00This week I had a tuna fish sandwich with my mother <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>There is no photo for this post because sometimes, there is no person to photograph anymore.</i></span><br />
<br />
I was thinking of what I wanted-or if I wanted-to write a special post on Mother's Day. Not only am I surrounded by working mothers here at the farm, but I admire so many human mothers I know, including my departed one. I opened up Facebook this morning to a sea of mother photos and can't say I got depressed, but perhaps at this stage of grieving I just felt like I didn't want to participate. And how many times can a person say, and be heard, that they miss their mother.<br />
<br />
But I did have an experience this past week and thought it might give encouragement to those who recently lost a mother. This idea that our loved ones never leave, in my experience, is half true. The hard fact to us left as land dwellers is, they do leave. The body goes and with it the smells, voice, clothes, favorite meals, telephone chats, and motherly glances. Can't get around it.<br />
<br />
But after a year now, I have recreated my mother, without even really knowing it. And I have her "on call".<br />
<br />
This all dawned on me just last week. I had been suffering with a cold, not a horrible one, but enough that my spirit was slightly off, my feet were heavy and it took me forever to focus on one task. I had to eventually go to town and do a lot of catch-up shopping and tasks. I went to the grocery store first. I hate grocery shopping. I got to the parking lot, and just sat for awhile. My mom and I would often sit in the car and wait for my father when he was doing errands. So I sat and watched all the funny people-we are all funny people when watched doing daily tasks like unloading groceries into a car-and I thought how my mom and I would chuckle at this one or that one. I went into to do my shopping and almost instantly I was hit with this desire for a tuna fish sandwich with chopped celery and dill pickles. I rarely eat tuna fish anymore but we had it a lot growing up and my mother loved a tuna fish sandwich even into her twilight years. She always added chopped celery and pickle. It was about noon so I gave in and bought tuna. And for the next 2 hours of shopping, I kept thinking of the tuna fish sandwich I would make when I got home.<br />
<br />
Back at the farm, while making my sandwich, I remembered how my mom would cut the bread at an angle, so the sandwich parts were triangles. As a young child, I loved that. So I made my sandwich into two triangles.<br />
<br />
And then I ate my sandwich. And it was as if I was feeding her. I sensed that somehow where ever she was, whatever realm, galaxy or whatever form she was in, she was getting to taste a tuna fish sandwich again–something she no longer needed in her current state. I sensed her enjoyment of it–like someone who spent a year in another country where they couldn't get a favorite food arriving home and relishing it on arrival.<br />
<br />
This experience was not the same as having a memory of her, and feeling kind of sad, and then shaking it off, moving on with the day. I literally felt she had dialed into me that day, and urged me to get a good old tuna fish sandwich made, for both of us.<br />
<br />
Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-6517113469853773232014-03-27T16:17:00.001-07:002014-03-27T16:17:12.166-07:00What becomes of the face?<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/blogpics2014/3.28a.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/blogpics2014/3.28a.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 518px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
I have not painted in earnest since my mother died a year ago this coming week. While I've been creating images for the book, I have not worked on a body of canvases since my last show, which I was painting for when my mother suddenly died. I didn't consciously stop, I just couldn't bring myself to sit in the same spot of a year ago and look at the paints and other views that I remember while I tried to absorb the shock of that moment. I'm the boss of me, as Neil Young once said, and I didn't care if I wasn't painting. Everyday is a painting here, but sometimes my medium is the land, or animals, or sewing, baking, writing or thinking. I quit worrying about 'shoulds' from others a long time ago.<br />
<br />
It was Boone's birthday. I told you then how it seemed unfair that she died on his birthday, but I quickly saw it as a little note from her and others, reminding me that life is for the living. After all, I had waited so long to get my horse, there was no need to wallow in the past or death. I had to get in the saddle. So on April 4th, I'll be with Boone.<br />
<br />
But I can now say with all honesty I've had depression. Internally. I'll mention it to Martyn when I feel it, then I move on. We have such a good life together with so much laughter, nature, good meals and wine, and our garden and farm, that I can't wallow in any kind of sadness. But it is still there, the <a href="http://quiet-little-sack-of-sadness.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">quiet little sack of sadness</a>. But then every day I'm happy too. But then I'm depressed...while being happy. I think it is important to remember this about loss–it does not go away. the loss is always a loss and it manifests itself forever, in different ways. Others who have had loss, on any given day, might be struggling even if they appear happy. There is also this pressure online-for me anyway- to not dwell on the negative, to share the positive, the upbeat. I'm not looking for advice from anyone I just think it is helpful that others see that even someone like me, surrounded by donkeys and sweet pigs, and one grumpy one, folds her wings in and takes a sit down.<br />
<br />
The mounting pressure of the arrival of April 4th really started around Martyn's birthday. Then mine came and went. All the 'firsts' of the first year after her death-first holiday season, first birthday, first spring, etc- are now almost past. There is something freeing about it being a year. But I still can go into shock, briefly, when I remember she is dead, or remember that day. I have been pondering why it is hitting me hardest right about now and I think it is because spring itself is so raw in so many ways-our senses are ready and open for the aromas of spring flowers and fruit blossoms, the seeds are percolating beneath us-we are vibrating in a spring. Our hearts are eager and open to new life. It's a visceral time.<br />
<br />
I have a voice message saved from my mother and in the days after she died, I played it all the time. Now I play it every few weeks or less. But I still talk to that recording. "Hope everything is okay, talk to you later," she ends her message. "Talk to you later," I say out loud.<br />
<br />
I was thinking that if one is lucky enough to grow old, there perhaps comes a day when a thought enters your head, "I sure do miss a lot of friends and family, maybe eternal rest isn't so bad after all." I don't know, but that must be what letting go is all about in the end-the end to suffering, whatever your personal suffering is.<br />
<br />
After a year of not seeing her, I think the other reality is still-okay, it's been a year, now there are 40 to go.<br />
<br />
So today I started some warm ups to paint again. I'm taking back the studio, taking back the paint. I painted a face trying to remember my mother's hair and features in the end and all I could see was her face is lit up like stars. I didn't make much of anything but I started again. The other two faces only remote resemble her. Perhaps I'm not ready to see her from my soul yet.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/blogpics2014/3.28b.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/blogpics2014/3.28b.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 518px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/blogpics2014/3.28c.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/blogpics2014/3.28c.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 518px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a>Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-25746460018568073242013-11-07T17:33:00.005-08:002013-11-07T17:34:44.773-08:00The lingering scent of love expandingI think of my mother every day, in quiet ways, sad ways– but now happy ways.<br />
<br />
The biggest lesson I can share-and I knew it, but I relearn each time a creature I love dies, or a friend departs–is that with death comes an expansion of love. The expansion is on both ends–I think the person dying somehow bursts open and the person left behind gathers and breathes all that came before, and all that spills over in that burst of death.<br />
<br />
Love lives.<br />
<br />
There are intense moments. Anyone who has grieved knows this experience. I find they are short now, usually, and intense, but I go on about the day. Recently I was looking for a sweater in my closet and came upon one that I'd brought back from my mother's after I cleaned out her house. I immediately smelled it-just like a sheep or equine would do–seeking a known scent to make everything seem normal and safe.<br />
<br />
I could still smell her scent in the sweater. It was fainter than when I brought it home, as it has mixed with my scent for 7 months now. But I could still smell her. At first I winced slightly remembering the reality, but I buried my face into the wool and lived with it for many seconds, in silence. <br />
<br />
Those moments are really interactions of two spirits-one still in her body, one not. It was pleasurable, really–like smelling vanilla out of the jar or cinnamon in a baking cake.<br />
<br />
I think that is what I want to pass on today–there is grief and shock and horrible jagged waves in the initial weeks of loss. But there are moments of intense love. That is what is really left–love.<br />
<br />
Love expands after death.<br />
<br />
Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-83269589502570901052013-09-16T11:14:00.003-07:002013-09-16T11:14:52.697-07:00Journal: The fog returns as does grief<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/blogpics2013/9.16a.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/blogpics2013/9.16a.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 602px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
The cooler air has returned to us and our friend the fog blanketed the upper hills yesterday. It is welcome. I love the fog - when I can be home anyway as it is not fun to drive in and I worry about Martyn in it at night.<br />
<br />
But when it settles in over the farm I feel I'm being embraced by something much bigger than me.<br />
<br />
I need the fog right now. I seem to have taken a dip in sadness. I'm happy, but sad. I am not a person who sinks into long periods of depression, and I feel for those who do. But I would never say never. Perhaps some of life's events could propel me into that, I hope not, but I am human.<br />
<br />
I think it is the shuffling of my immediate family - what's left of it. I have lost my mother and two close aunts in less than six months. My father is gone, all my uncles and aunts are dead except one. The elders that made up my daily memories and family gatherings - the core people in my life for years - are all gone except a few. Maybe it was the phone call I had on Sunday - an old family friend now about ninety, who called to say hello. He is in assisted living with his wife. They knew my parents since before I was born. He sounded good, but it was a touching message.<br />
<br />
The old family dynamic is gone. A new one made up of only me and my brother must be recreated.<br />
<br />
I miss my mother.<br />
<br />
I want to sew and as soon as <a href="http://www.gofundme.com/Misfits-of-Love" target="_blank">"Misfits" is at the printer</a>, I plan to start making my comfort blankets out of my mother's sweaters. The blanket will be like the fog, a wrap to cover myself in. <br />
<br />
Professor sat at the top of the compost heap warming his bones, I worked below, contently, but with a sense of a hole somewhere in my gut.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/blogpics2013/9.16b.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/blogpics2013/9.16b.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 602px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-76162898407365234082013-09-09T14:19:00.003-07:002013-09-09T14:20:05.965-07:00Like leaves returning to earthI haven't written here for a month. It hasn't felt necessary. Although the other day I began thinking that the busy tasks of my life keep me from diving into a deep hole. Every time I do something I love, enjoy or that makes me feel like I've added something to the world - I think of my mother. I think of her face hearing me tell her about something I've done, and I can hear her say,<br />
<br />
"Oh good!"<br />
<br />
I also missed her in a very deep way a few weeks back when I was involved in a rather upsetting situation, one that left me feeling beaten up emotionally. I really missed not being able to talk to her. There was a specific moment that day where I just wanted to...dissipate and blend with her and my father. It was a real visceral moment of understanding she was not there this time either. And only my mother could say some of the things I wanted to hear that day. <br />
<br />
Our mothers - or at least mine, and many of the mothers I've known in my world - want us to be happy. They don't want to see us suffer. I think of the times my mother would come over to my house some 12 years ago, before I met Martyn, and I had a real broken heart over someone. I am the kind of person who suffers hard and intensely, but then I get it out of my system. But I remember how she suffered seeing me so sad. <br />
<br />
When I miss my mother on a daily basis, I think of her smiling, talking on the phone, showing me how she is happy I am happy.<br />
<br />
When I see the leaves falling, I think of my parent's bodies and ashes returning to the earth. It is helpful to know they are right here under my feet somehow.<br />
<br />
I have had so many happy days, more happy than sad. I hope people that are suffering a loss can hold onto the belief they will have great joys again.Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-69182573338318534352013-08-12T17:07:00.000-07:002013-08-12T17:07:29.647-07:00Empty Chair for Two<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/chair.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/chair.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 602px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
Outside the back of my studio is a small bistro chair and table. It is where I used to sit in the morning and have coffee, chatting with my mother - at least three to four times a week. We talked about mundane things like weather, politics or how to fix a spot in a white shirt. We laughed a lot. Sometimes got a bit catty. Sometimes there was nothing going on, we just felt like taking a break from the day and calling one another.<br />
<br />
More than anything, I miss those chats. I only got to see my mother twice a year due to logistics of the farm and financial restraint. It was impossible for her to travel those last few years. So our chats were our time together.<br />
<br />
The last time I sat in that chair and had a talk with her was the morning she went into the hospital. We had a routine, mundane chat. We thought it was just another little visit to have blood work. No drama. My mother hated drama. But she was dead 48 hours later.<br />
<br />
The day after my mother died, I looked out on the beautiful world and saw my little chair and table. I sat down, but cold not stay there. I look out at them now - like abandoned friends of the past. I want to reach out and sit with them and have it be like it was. But it can't be, so I won't sit there. It's been 4 months and I think more than any other place, it is where the rawest sadness still resides. Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-80020959174583370482013-08-01T15:55:00.002-07:002013-08-01T15:59:25.184-07:00Mother over the house<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/art_motherhouse.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/art_motherhouse.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 484px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a>Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-71714555631279958332013-07-30T15:28:00.002-07:002013-07-30T15:28:50.024-07:00I rode in my first horse show Saturday and I asked her to make an appearance somehow. When I drove up to the show barn, there was a dove in the middle of the road. It looked at me, waited, and flew.<br />
<br />
I got a blue ribbon my first class and I remembered I'd just had her ribbons out from the 1940 fair. <br />
<br />
Part of me sees the connection. The other part of me is ready to move forward. I'm feeling like words aren't as needed right now for me to grieve.<br />
<br />
I feel like I'm ready to create in textures again. Soon I'll start my Blankets of Comfort.<br />
<br />
Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-50335709600129812872013-07-26T12:28:00.000-07:002013-07-26T12:28:12.342-07:00When I learn a new technique with my horse, the teacher explains it, then I try it, work on it, the next day or week I might forget parts of it, then I have to go back and remember the nuances and do it again and again until it becomes part of me. <br />
<br />
That's what getting through this is like.Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-73216345894384714352013-07-25T18:01:00.001-07:002013-07-26T12:24:32.052-07:00<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/fair.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/fair.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 602px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
She would have been 14. One has to digest the path of those we lose before we move on.Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-38529140752397539352013-07-20T12:29:00.003-07:002013-07-26T12:24:56.352-07:00JournalI haven't felt her energy much in the past couple weeks. I've been so busy, working on my new publishing venture, getting ready for my first parade and horse show...when I think of her it's quick thoughts during the day, but I'm busy living and loving life.<br />
<br />
Still, when I rode in the parade today - I've always wanted to ride my horse in a parade and did at age 55 this morning - there was a second where I got verklempt, just a second. I know she was there, just checking in.Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-80931701509211215962013-07-16T16:15:00.001-07:002013-07-16T16:15:06.468-07:00Elder matriarch<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/blogpics2013/7.15.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/blogpics2013/7.15.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 602px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a>Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-17799722154362205662013-07-14T11:01:00.000-07:002013-07-16T16:13:34.022-07:00PoemIn every room of this house<br />
<br />
I run into you.<br />
<br />
<br />
In a closet <br />
<br />
of your old sweaters,<br />
<br />
<br />
In a kitchen<br />
<br />
with recipe cards from your hand<br />
<br />
or a mixing bowl we made my first cake in<br />
<br />
It was white with chocolate frosting, I remember.<br />
<br />
<br />
In a bathroom with your emory board<br />
<br />
an emery board that went to each and every<br />
<br />
house you lived in, I remember.<br />
<br />
<br />
In every room I run into you<br />
<br />
Because you go where I go now.<br />
<br />
Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-86254512348469683232013-07-14T10:53:00.002-07:002013-07-16T16:13:22.535-07:00<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/mommy.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/mommy.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 273px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
I found this in her closet.Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-85043718474974480442013-07-10T16:23:00.003-07:002013-07-10T16:23:44.006-07:00I simply<br />
So simply<br />
Miss her.Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-83070300989851645622013-07-06T16:04:00.000-07:002013-07-06T16:04:06.049-07:00JournalI haven't had nightly dreams of her in the past couple weeks. But last night I dreampt Martyn and I left the West Coast to move to Minnesota, I guess to be near my elderly parents. In the dream I kept thinking that we might have made a mistake by leaving the West, but my mother seemed happy, and I knew she was not going to be alive forever.<br />
<br />
We went out, my father was there too. In all the dreams he is in he sits slightly apart from us, and doesn't speak. We were outside and wanted to go see the service - Easter, I think - of a church I'd been to years earlier. It looked more like Norway to me. We get to the church and there were no stairs to get up the building and you had to climb it straight up.<br />
<br />
"My mother will never be able to do this, " I thought. But then I look up and she and my father are sitting on a terrace way up by the doors, and they wave for me to come up the side steps, which I do.<br />
<br />
"This isn't the same church I remember, it's not the one I wanted to see, " I tell them.<br />
<br />
My mother laughs, she seems happy and says with humor, <br />
<br />
"It's okay, I already died once."<br />
<br />
Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-89852381813866213222013-07-06T15:20:00.001-07:002013-07-06T15:20:37.650-07:00All that remains: The box<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/box1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/box1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 602px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
It's small leather box that sat on my father's dressing table as long as I can remember. <br />
<br />
I loved looking into it as a child, it held his cufflings. I found it in my mother's dresser after she died. In it was a photo of me as a child and a photo I'd given her of my dog. It seemed incredibly sweet and heartbreaking to find it with those little treasures she put in long ago.<br />
<br />
I was given the watch she wore daily including the day she died. Her date of death, the 4th, is recorded forever on the face and the time was about an hour after she died. The watch continued to move slowly, over days, to 5 PM range, and then it stopped. I always surmised her energy had melted into the time piece from her once live wrist keeping it going like an invisible battery. They gave me her two rings and I put all the items in the little leather box to keep at my bedside. I press them against my skin sometimes. I know she's in there. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/box2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/box2.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 602px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/box3.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/box3.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 602px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/box4.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/box4.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 602px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/box5.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/box5.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 602px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/box6.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/box6.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 602px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-35344466935021287122013-07-02T14:03:00.002-07:002013-07-02T14:03:40.422-07:00No words<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/words_thistle.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/words_thistle.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 602px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a>Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-4811864373816477362013-07-02T13:55:00.001-07:002013-07-02T13:55:39.272-07:00JournalThe fourth is the third month to the day since she died.<br />
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I'm finding less of a need to write these snippets- or not as manically. This is god - I guess. Today it was very hot and nearing 95+ degrees and I got up earlier than normal to go for a trail ride. I was tempted not to go, it was so hot. But I did and am glad.<br />
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On my way in from the barn, I looked up at the sky and said, <br />
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"I did it."<br />
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I am learning new ways to speak to her, to continue the conversation, to accept she is not hear in outward voice - but I can hear her in my head.<br />
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It is a New Way.<br />
<br />Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-83503578346716636262013-06-29T15:55:00.000-07:002013-06-29T15:55:04.269-07:00<a href="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/6.29.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://www.katherinedunn.com/sack/6.29.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 602px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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It is so hot today. I sat in a chair to cool myself, and the fabric hanging outside and some vines left a shadow on the wall in front of me. It was beautiful. Arranged by nature, it was in and of itself a being that would only live as long as the sun was in a specific position. Come sundown, it will be gone. So I capture it in a photo. I experienced it and it is gone in this form.<br />
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Just like my mother. We all take on other forms. Over and over and over.Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-75307260903901478042013-06-28T14:20:00.003-07:002013-06-28T14:20:55.365-07:00I've been thinking about why, even though I am spiritual and believe energy and love never die, then why do we grieve?<br />
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I am human. I am not spirit. I am spirit in a human body.<br />
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So the past weeks the thought that comes to me is I can not share with her as a human being anymore. Every little thing - mundane or exciting - things I would normally pick up the phone and share with her, I can't. It's sad.<br />
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I am still enjoying those things though. But I can't share them and have her reaction.<br />
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And of course I share them in other ways, with Martyn, friends. But it was fun sharing with her.Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-24156262411005093962013-06-28T08:53:00.002-07:002013-06-28T08:53:39.640-07:00Note about commenting to readersSorry, there have been some snafus with readers leaving comments. I think it is fixed. I don't have comments on each post, but you can leave comments on the right hand sidebar link or go tot he top tab and got "Share'.<br />
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Would love to hear your own grieving rituals and stories.Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-29669963485628942732013-06-24T16:15:00.002-07:002013-06-24T16:15:33.117-07:00"It seems to me that organized creeds are collections of words around a wish. I feel no need for such. I know that nothing is destructible; things merely change forms. When the consciousness we know as life ceases, I know that I shall still be part and parcel of the world."<br />
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-Zora Neale HurstonKatherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-5245405865648767562013-06-24T13:11:00.003-07:002013-06-24T16:15:50.200-07:00I am just so down today. <br />
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I have learned a skill in the past years to ask myself, <br />
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"What do I need right now?"<br />
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That is the thing, this morning, after a night of dreams where I kept getting on a bus with my mother, we were off to lunch or somewhere, I awoke so listless. I had planned to ride but it was cold and rainy.<br />
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And I don't know what I need right now, this moment.<br />
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I will work through it.Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7957534647683053098.post-9988253465130754112013-06-24T13:05:00.005-07:002013-06-24T16:16:01.660-07:00I wrote a post today on my blog but it is pertinent for here. Here is part of it, and the entire post can be found <a href="http://apiferafarm.blogspot.com/2013/06/the-end-of-day.html">here</a>.<br />
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I read another author's blog post yesterday about his thoughts on losing a good friend and he said there was no need to be sad about his death but instead he was going to spend the day celebrating the person's life - each time he thought of this person that day, he smiled. I am not opposed to that, and I'm sure his friend would want his living companions to carry on with life not mired in sadness about his passing. Everyone gets to grieve in their own way, dance their own beat, but, it kind of made me....irritated. I'm not sure why. Maybe I was being over analytical, it was not as if this person reached out just to me to say,<br />
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"Come on, there is nothing to be sad about with your mother's death."<br />
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But that's what it felt like. Words on the screen can do that. Words have power, or can be given power when one least means to give them power. I suppose my words have affected somebody in an irritable way without meaning to. I smile a lot all day, I laugh a lot, I am not weeping in the bushes. But I miss my mother's human presence and I am saddened by her death. I celebrate her life simply by breathing, but I am saddened by her death. I am not smiling at her memory right now - I miss her.Katherine Dunn/Apifera Farmhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12992031770736061288noreply@blogger.com