Dining With A Ghost

An oh-so close yet oh-so far shadow sits with me

He would have enjoyed the meal I was having - a spinach salad with cranberries, pears, pecans, and warm bacon dressing, a crab and shrimp stuffed ravioli with a sherry cream sauce, and a glass of Albarino. Had he really been at the restaurant with me, we likely would have shared the entree because…well, that’s what we used to do. I’m getting used to dining out alone, but this meal and this restaurant unsettled me because of its close proximity to the place I used to call home.

When I signed up for this writer’s retreat a few months ago, I knew its location would likely rattle the chains of my previous life. I knew I’d feel the familiar ache in my heart and the longing in my being, but I didn’t know how strong the desire would be to leave as soon as I arrived here. The cold, damp weather didn’t help any and the hotel wasn’t as flash as I thought it would be, but I didn’t come here for the climate or the accommodations. I returned to the Oregon coast to remember a part of me who didn’t die when my marriage did.

I am the one who still believes dreams can be made real.

I’ve just had a helluva time the last few years feeling motivated enough to do anything about achieving them because I didn’t want to let the old dreams go. After spending a few days less than 90 miles away from one of those old dreams (the dream of “and they lived happily ever after”), I clearly see that this place represents my past. My future and my new dreams do not live here in the shadow of the white-gray skies, the cold Pacific Ocean, and the memories of a man I thought I’d be married to for the rest of my life.

And I…

I am not waiting any more. I don’t want to dine with ghosts.

---

I’ve been to other writing workshops and retreats over the last two decades, but this one feels different than anything I’ve attended in the past because I’m different. The woman whose memoir I read several years ago is the same woman who’s in the room with me right now and she’s different. She’s writing as I am writing, along with the other two dozen or so people. She also swears as much as I do which is probably another reason why I like her writing/speaking style so much. We’re all misfits gathered here together finding ways to bring ourselves and our stories to the blank page and the blinking cursor. Hearing others share their tales of loss and grief, I don’t feel so alone anymore.

I’m ready to return home to Kauai a different woman with different dreams living into ‘a different kind of happy’ story.

I’ll be sharing next Sunday what some of those different dreams are. What’s your different kind of happy story? I’d love to hear it.