Carnet of CA and MN: 05.12

Here is the article I was talking about it sums up some of the things I feel!

On April 22, 2004, I was in my office in Seattle, talking with a colleague about whether we should go for drinks, when the receptionist leaned into my work space. His gaze fell to the ground. I'll never forget the pause as he searched for words. "Marie? There are some people here to see you."

I didn't ask who they were. Maybe I was trying to spare myself, take a few more moments before the inevitable. I left for the conference room to find a chaplain and three soldiers standing in full-dress Army uniforms, and I knew instantly that my husband, former football player Pat Tillman, had been killed. He had been in Afghanistan for less than three weeks. I was a widow at 27.

It wasn't really logical for Pat to leave his NFL career with the Arizona Cardinals and enlist in the Army a few months before our wedding; his decision was emotional. Since 9/11, he'd talked about wanting to defend our country. Courage was in his DNA, passed down from his grandfather, who had been at Pearl Harbor. We'd already been a couple for nearly a decade—we had known each other since we were kids in a small town south of San Francisco—and we wanted to start a family as soon as possible. His enlisting interfered with that plan. In my angry moments, I felt he was being selfish. But deep down, I knew that by asking him not to go, I'd be asking him to be someone he wasn't. Plus, I didn't really think he could get hurt or killed. He was smart and strong; he'd figure out a way to get through. I told myself that the three years of his enlistment would be a blip in our life together. I could imagine us old, sitting in our rockers, reminiscing: "Remember when you were in the military? That was crazy!"

The night Pat died, I sifted through the papers on my dresser and found his "just in case" letter. He'd written it while on an earlier deployment to Iraq and left it in our bedroom during a hiatus. When he offhandedly told me what it was, I wondered if I should open it. But the subject felt too big to talk about. So it remained there, without another comment from either of us.

The letter was both precious and awful—the last communication I'd ever have with my husband. I sat holding it for a long time, then finally started reading Pat's familiar scrawl, hearing his voice as I read: "It's difficult to summarize my love for you, my hopes for your future, and pretend to be dead all at the same time…. I'm not ready, willing or able." Then these words: "Through the years, I've asked a great deal of you, therefore it should surprise you little that I have another favor to ask. I ask that you live."

The tears I'd so far withheld on that terrible day finally flowed so fast, I couldn't breathe. Like a child, I crawled into the corner, waiting for the sobs to subside, but they kept coming. "I ask that you live." His words burned in my head as I read them again, thinking that I didn't want to live without him. He was the strong one, not me. He knew my instinct would be to give up, that sometimes I needed a not-so-gentle push. He'd seen strength in me when I didn't see it myself, and as I sat huddled on the floor, I gave him this last request. I promised to live. I knew it would be the most difficult thing I would ever do.

In some ways, I had no choice. Pat's death set off a media storm. Complete strangers mourned the loss of something symbolic, and interview requests clogged our phone lines. Meanwhile, I felt disconnected from everyone—except my sister, Christine—isolated on an island of grief. Yet I acted fine, in an effort to break free from the stifling embraces and well-meaning advice. I went through the motions of my life. I'd wake up in the house I shared with Pat's brother Kevin, the day stretching ahead of me, put on my running shoes and explore the damp streets around my house, the grief hanging around me like a thick blanket, insulating me from the world.

One day, after roaming for hours, I came home and fell onto the bed. There were a few how-to-grieve books on the nightstand that people had sent to me. After reading one particularly unhelpful bit, I threw the book across the room. As I got up, my eye fell on another volume, wedged between the bed and the wall. It was Pat's copy of Ralph Waldo Emerson's collected writings; Pat had taken it with him to Iraq. As I eagerly scanned it, an underlined passage leaped out at me: "Be not the slave to your own past." For the first time, I felt a glimmer of faith, not in something mystical but in myself. I couldn't control what had happened, but I could control my reaction. I saw two roads ahead: one of self-pity, the other less certain but lighter and more open. When a friend called not long after that to see if I wanted to join her on a last-minute trip to Hawaii, I thought of the sand between my toes and booked my ticket.

The comfort I'd found in Emerson's words led me to read other great thinkers for insight, and, a year after Pat died, I sensed it was time for some big decisions. I had always wanted to live in New York City, and I decided to move there. It was different from anywhere I'd ever known, and I could heal in my own way—no inquisitive eyes wondering, How's Marie today? I wasn't after the Carrie Bradshaw experience. I needed an energy transfusion in the extreme privacy of an anonymous place. In New York, the news of Pat's death was already ancient history. I could try on a different persona. Back home, my childhood friends were all married, and I stood out as a tragic figure. In New York, women wouldn't necessarily be married at 22, or even 42. I found a job at ESPN, and my workdays were filled with traveling and putting out fires. There was never time to think. It was ideal.

Yet I still didn't know who I was. Not only had I lost Pat, I'd also lost my identity as his wife. Even getting dressed to go out brought up all kinds of tough identity issues. I was 29, not 59, but I felt like my prewidow wardrobe standby of skinny jeans and a slinky top suddenly wasn't appropriate. I didn't want to wear anything too revealing; dating was out of the question.

I was also worried that, as a widow, I'd be something of a broken girl in the social scene. But the more I talked with my single girlfriends, the more I realized that nearly everyone is a little damaged, one way or another. I had once had, and lost, a great love—maybe that was less damaging than having suffered a long string of less meaningful relationships. I knew how to give love and receive it—I kept this affirmation in my mind. I would not allow myself to be buried with my husband. Again and again, I'd unfold Pat's letter and let him tell me to please live.

And then, unexpectedly, I met someone through work, and his attention grew harder to cast aside. I didn't think I was remotely ready, but it did feel good to have a few butterflies. Texting led to group dinners, and one night, we kissed. I couldn't help comparing him with Pat, but I found myself leaning into the comfort of his body. I had missed this closeness, and even with this relative stranger, my body reacted. Yet from our initial meeting, I kept my life compartmentalized. We never spoke about Pat; I wanted things to stay light and fun. I wasn't ready to let someone into the deep, dark recesses of my life.

But over time, I began to feel as if I were lying: lying to the man I was dating by pretending I was carefree, lying to Pat's family about the light that was starting to shine in my life, and lying to myself, thinking I could keep things separate. How could I have a relationship without being honest about my past?

I couldn't, and eventually, this man and I parted. I was devastated but too embarrassed to talk to anyone about my feelings. Like always, I had maintained a cool front about the relationship. Now I realized that I really wanted a connection to another person, and the breakup caused me to mourn all over again. I felt I had no control: I might meet someone—or not. All I could do was open the door to the possibility of love.

New York City had done what I'd asked it to do. But I was a California girl at heart. My family was there. The Pat Tillman Foundation, the nonprofit we'd started to nurture student leaders, was in Arizona, and I wanted to get more involved. I felt a pull homeward, so I decided to move to Los Angeles. This time, though, I was relocating in anticipation of the future, not out of desperation to escape my past.

I found a house in L.A. and set about making it calm, comfortable, even a bit girly. Then, on my 31st birthday, I treated myself to a solo trip to Buenos Aires. Pat had loved nothing more than an adventure. He never let fear stand in his way, and neither would I. Traveling alone was a metaphor for my life, with all its sadness and freedom. I could set out for a destination but change course along the way. One night, I took a tango class at a community center in the middle of the city. As I danced through the early-morning hours, I thought about how happy Pat would be if he could see me.

Back at home, I still ducked the spotlight. The few speaking appearances I'd made since Pat's death had left me feeling horrible. It was bizarre having people applaud for me—Pat was the one who had gone to war. I hadn't done anything. Yet to them, I was his living representative. So I surprised myself when, between jobs, I offered to take over as director of the foundation, at least for a while. Once the words were out of my mouth, they felt right. My husband's life had been cut short; mine could be long. Why not try to have an impact?

First, though, I had to conquer my fear of public speaking and get past some other barriers as well. It had been nearly four years since Pat's death, but the foundation thrust me back into the role of widow. I was constantly approached by people who said, "I'm so sorry about what happened." But I wasn't sitting around crying each day. Worse, even though the foundation wasn't about Pat as much as the spirit of service he'd instilled in me and others, people invariably asked me, What was he like? Why did he enlist? Sometimes I wanted to snap, None of your business!

Yet if I left the foundation, I knew I'd be mad at myself for not moving past the roadblocks. I needed to manage the direction of the conversations to keep the questions from getting to me. I went for training in public speaking, but the shift really came during the question-and-answer period of one speech. I had always dreaded that part of the program most, but on that day, I shared more than I ever had about how it felt to lose Pat, focusing on the feelings I was comfortable revealing. I took charge of the situation, and afterward, military wives approached me to say how much they related to my speech and to me. After Pat died, I'd sought out stories about people who had been touched by tragedy—I couldn't read enough about how others had self expression overcome their circumstances. Now I could be the person who understood. My mask of privacy had given me control when I needed it most, but sharing myself with others gave me power.

Pat's last letter to me is now safely tucked away in a shoe box in the home I share with my husband, Joe, whom I married last year. I also met him through work, and while the conversation on our first date ranged from pop culture to the minutiae of our lives, we were communicating something very different: We had both weathered our share of disappointment and loss, but we remained open to life. I didn't know where that evening with a kind, interesting man would lead, but that night proved I had not been broken. I could travel alone, make decisions alone and kick myself out of a funk. I could contribute to the world.

I think that's what Pat meant when he asked me to live—not only to have fun but to understand that there is a weight to life, and he didn't want me to be frivolous with mine. It is a tragedy that Pat's life ended too soon. But it's also a tragedy to live a long life that isn't meaningful. A life should have depth, which means pushing yourself out of your comfort zone. It has taken years, but I am at that point now. I am truly and deeply living.

This is from Kathy Feston - I also read a good article on the plane that made me a mess - just once I would like to leave LA with out crying. The article from from the widow of Pat Tillman - I will post more about it but totally hit a cord with me - finally someone knows how I feel.

So much is possible when you put your mind to it. But it's not just your mind that matters; it's also about opening your heart and allowing the energy to FLOW.

Open. Invite flow. Be a conduit for good things to happen through you. Lean forward and into that magic you are helping to create.

Here is a two-minute meditation that you can read aloud to yourself it'll set you up for endless possibilities!Relax and get comfortable with your eyes closed. Feel your breathing become steady and full. Today, let all your doubt and worry drop away, and focus instead on what’s possible. What’s possible for you this year? What might you need to do or who might you need to be for it to happen? What’s possible for the world? How can you be a part of it? Feel in your bones that anything could happen in the best of ways. Breathe in what’s possible. And exhale as you pour your energy in to making it so.