A colleague of mine was visiting my office from another state recently. It had been a few months since I last saw him. I was walking through the parking lot when he and another co-worker got out of their car and greeted me. He looked at me intently and asked "Are you back?" He asked if I had gotten through the grief of losing my wife and had returned to being my "old self". I was caught off guard and had no quick reply. I greeted him and continued on into my work.

That evening as I sat alone remembering the events of the day my little dog came to sit in my lap. Before he settled in he stopped and stared into my face. I think I could hear him also asking "Are you back? Have you returned from sitting in your own mind crying?"

I must say again I was taken back by the question. What do you mean am I back? Just where do you think I've been? And how do you imagine that after just a few months I could be back to my old self to carry on? Has my distance made you uncomfortable to the point where you somehow need me to just shake it off and move on? Will I ever be my old self - the man I was before my wife died? And do I even want to come back?

With these thoughts racing around in my head I thought carefully about my journey. You see this is a place I've never been before and it is a place I never want to visit again. But having walked on this path I will never be able to go back. I will never go back again to where I was even a few short months ago.

My life's journey isn't like a day trip where I leave some base-camp to return again later. The experiences and work of climbing the mountains aren't forgotten when I return to the valleys. The chill and exposure from last night's storm makes today's sunshine warmer, but the warmth doesn't allow me to forget the vulnerability I learned when the thunder rolled. My world has been forever changed by the events of the journey.

I thought for a moment longer about what questions seem more appropriate. I would rather be asked about how I survived after I fell over the cliff when you last saw me. Or let me tell you about fighting the bear, staring at it eye to eye feeling its hot breath threatening my life. I can show you the cut on my leg or the rips in my clothes from trail blazing back onto the path more traveled to find you. I have tales of sleepless nights and terrible tear-filled days. And I would like to feel your interest in my heroic adventure. But don't ask me if I'm back to my old self again. Instead I'm forward to a wiser more experienced self.

Thankfully God nudged me a little that evening while I was thinking to get me to lighten up. It is unfair to expect someone to understand my dark journey that hasn't had a similar experience. Indeed it is flattering that some people are uncomfortable enough with my pain that they want things to return to how they used to be. They will be encouraged by my ability to smile again and have some good moments. And that is enough.

And it is enough that God and I remember. After all, some of what I saw these past few months still makes no sense to me. And though I'm back on the path with others for the moment I tend to keep taking detours through some pretty scary places. I've been through the impossible facing unimaginable pain. And with God I survived.

Indeed, that is enough.

There are times in my recovery when I become troubled about why I can’t cry. Just 6 months ago my wife and partner of many decades left me to death. There were certainly times when I cried uncontrollably. Comfortable without feelings I have become most uncomfortable in grief. But there are times when I worry that I’m doing it wrong. There are times when some around me wonder how I can sit quiet and seemingly at peace with my pain.

I asked Webster to define “cry” for me. It means “to shed tears often noisily.” Webster says see also weep and sob. Weep is “to pour forth (tears) from the eyes. Sob is “to catch the breath audibly in a spasmodic contraction of the throat.” It seems that crying is a very physical business. I am hung up on the literal definition. I am frustrated at times when I can’t cry in a traditional way. I poke myself, “Cry, damn it!” Nothing. But wait, what’s that?

A tear rolls down my cheek. No one saw it. I brush it away. Another. I quit wiping my cheek because it only draws attention to what is otherwise unnoticed. But I notice. My tears are screaming. They are loud. They are noisy! I notice my breathing. It is irregular and labored. I catch my breath with a spasmodic contraction in my throat. Suddenly I get it.

It is like the old question if a trees falls in the woods when no one is around does it make a noise? (A more contemporary version of that asks: if a man says something when no woman is around, is he still wrong?). Yeah, I think crying is a male hang-up. We feel like real men shouldn’t cry. We actually believe we don’t cry. But then there are those noisy tears rolling down our cheek when nobody sees. Webster would be proud!

Grieving the loss of my wife is for me a very physical thing. Every nerve in my body longs in pain missing her familiar presence. Every beat of my heart bellows in agony over her death. Every sound in my ears distorts in the amplification of my listening for her voice. Each step I take without her tires my legs in exhaustion and fatigue. Indeed my laughter since her death is colored with a loud sadness and spasmodic breathing.

It’s okay. I am not crying. But I am shedding tears noisily almost constantly, even 6 months later. But Webster won’t tell on me. And, I’m a real man.

When my wife died a large room in my heart became vacant. Indeed it took a long time to tidy up the room and make it ready for occupancy again. The vacancy came suddenly and completely unplanned. Then my heart's house became lonely and lifeless.

In reflex I put up a "for rent" sign and tried to put another occupant in the room. It didn't seem to matter who I rented the room to as long as it was fast. Each week without a renter left me further in debt. Instinctively I felt I needed help underwriting the weekly debts that came my way. Surely getting a renter would solve the problem.

Indeed I found substitute occupants and placed them in the room one after another. Some were people, some were obsessions, and some were simply things that kept me very busy. But alas, no matter what or who I put in the room it was still empty. No matter what price I garnered from the renters each week I was still sinking further and further in my loss.

Of course with the coming and going of each new renter came a new mess for me to clean up. And each time I put the room back exactly as it was when it first became vacant. In fact I found myself putting back the dust and the lent, the dirty clothes and the everyday stuff lying around... putting it back exactly like it was.

After several tireless cycles of renting and cleaning I began to see the insanity of doing the same thing over and over again, each time expecting a different result. The fact is that no matter who or what I got to occupy the room - no matter what I collected in return for their rent payment - I was poorer at the end of the cycle than I was at the beginning. So I decided to try something new.

I brought in the "for rent" sign from outside of my heart's house and set it aside. I decided the room was no longer for rent - and in reality the room was not vacant. In its emptiness it was full. Where before I was uncomfortable spending time in the room, now I sit for hours enjoying the dust and lent, dirty clothes, and everyday stuff lying around. The room is exactly how it should be.

More significantly, I'm not sliding deeper and deeper in debt each week for the lack of rent payments. Somehow the weekly budget overhead of my grief and sorrow is diminished as the room pays back dividends beyond explanation. And the best part is I don't have to keep soliciting renters and cleaning up the mess!

I think next week I'll have a party in that room and bring in some of the tenants who tried unsuccessfully to live there. And we'll laugh, sing, dance and have fun in the room that before left us so uncomfortable. And my wife will laugh, sing dance, and have fun with us in her room knowing it will forever be... her room.

A lady asked me a very pointed question this week that let me look inside of myself again. "What kind of a relationship are you looking for?" Although I didn't recognize it at the time, that question is very closely related to one we often consider in recovery: "What one thing would make you happy?" The answers are very telling.

I have a "committee" of players in my head. In working my 12 step program I have become increasingly aware of their role in my thinking. Some of the players bring messages from my childhood, from past traumatic events, from my pride and fear, and from various experiences I have had along the way. Some sound strangely like my parents and strong characters that have influenced my life. Others sound a lot like my sponsor and people in the program who have taught me so much. The committee seems to automatically spring to life when a challenge or baffling question comes up. At other times the committee rattles on for what seems like hours distracting my focus or keeping me awake.

Recognizing the committee's noise has helped me pick up the gavel of leadership and take charge of the chorus to get me to a higher place. Nevertheless when something jars them into action it can take me a minute of two to rein them in.

"What are you looking for in a relationship?" Upon hearing that question one little committee member, “the projectionist", got all excited. It was as if he was running around closing the blinds and cooking the popcorn. In no time at all the entire committee was fixated on the big white screen as my mind looked years into the future at this idyllic couple who were enjoying a life-long embrace sharing love on every level. There flashing before us was the perfect relationship with two perfect people living out everyone's fantasy of enjoying perfect love with another human being.

Instantly I was enveloped with a warm fuzzy feeling of fulfillment. But just as fast there was an utterly hopeless feeling of loneliness and isolation. My serenity was gone and I reached for my “martyr's hat”. There was an uneasy tension inside of me and I was very uncomfortable. Projecting what I wanted took me light-years away from what I have today. And I became sad, lonely, and frustrated.

In the 10 seconds all of this took I had already begun to answer my lady friend with my long-term description of the relationship I was looking for. But then I stood up in the committee room, turned on the lights, and with my new found gavel of leadership I interrupted the show. Since my recovery box office sales have dwindled considerably!

You see the program tells me to live “One Day at a Time.” Yesterday is gone and tomorrow may never get here. This moment is what really counts. And that is true for the question that was posed to me as well. The kind of relationship I want takes years to fashion. It takes a lot of time, caring, and experience. So I can only completely envision what it looks like years from now. But my program asks me what does it look like here and now?

After stammering for a second with my friend I said something like "the relationship I want will be built little by little, slowly, over a long period of time... one step at a time. In this minute the relationship I want is exactly what I have... visiting with a nice lady and sharing my thoughts as we get to know each other a little better."

And I was ok inside. Actually I was better than ok. I was peaceful and content. I had real serenity. I didn't feel sorry for myself for what I didn't have and I wasn't building expectations to precede resentments. I was living in this moment. And that felt really good.

As I walked away from that conversation I had to chuckle as I told the projectionist to look for another job. Maybe he could keep my gavel polished?

The pain I've known with the loss of my wife has been unlike any other agonizing I've ever experienced. In a cruel way it beats me down until I surrender or submit and then mercilessly continues to kick and punch me.

The pain finds new ways everyday to hurt me, extracting a terrible price for the encounter. This foe delights in my cries, feeds on my fear, and drinks my tears. As time goes by I am stronger and slower to surrender or submit. But the pain stands fast too. It is a daily game.

Spending so much time with this adversary has brought me to a place of respect, if not a certain honor, in our relationship. My disdain and hatred slowly turns to fascination and curiosity. In mourning the dead even my nemesis offers healing if I remain open. Even as it smiles at my hurt I find strength to go another round. And this strength is new, something I didn't have in my earlier rounds.

While I swung at and fought this awful enemy I began to have questions I wanted it to answer. Never before in my life's journey have I had the need to speak to my pain as I do now. We have spent so much time together in battle and the work of my grief. My need for its message is as real as the need for my next breath. I wondered aloud "can we talk?"

"Talk is mere words," pain replied. "I don't use words, I use feelings. Let's speak feelings." At that moment pain hit me with a terrible blow, taking advantage of my pause to form words. "Let's speak feelings." But how, I wondered. How do I speak without words. Pain hit me again. I'm crying and bleeding. "Let's speak feelings."

"Ow!", I exclaimed. Pain replied by planting a dark image in my head. I cried loudly. Pain replied by jabbing my eyes so tears flowed. "Let's speak feelings."

"Who are you that you need to persist with this infliction?" I asked. My chest collapsed at pain's pressure taking my breath. I felt its answer "I am life."

I fell in desperation for the lack of oxygen as pain strangled me relentlessly. I felt in my inner being a strong denial of what pain said. "No you are death, not life." I felt its answer "I am life." Without thought my response was "Then let me live!"

Pain grabbed my heart and weighed down my limbs. "We're talking in feelings."

"Yes, I feel. I hurt. I am undone."

Pain replied "You are alive. You feel."