The healing journey of a widowed, unschooling badass in Delaware.
My girlfriend spent quiet time coloring a mandala the same day I picked up Abbie Headon’s Build Yourself Happy, which suggests composing mandalas made of Lego elements.
I was excited to play with different building techniques and stick to a predetermined color scheme.
I’m exceedingly pleased with the result and will surely be building more mandalas this month.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
Ideas were flowing as we got to work on the first of twenty-nine Lego sculptures we’re building for Delaware Fun-A-Day.
It seems this project may be more about speed and focus than consensus as my older son ran with his inspiration for a naval battle scene in Rock ’em Sock ’em colors.
I got a head start on Day 2’s creation and we’re all excited about the number of ideas we already have.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
It’s made me angry to hear those words. Of course you don’t know what to say. This is my pain, you can’t know it and have no right to comment on it.
I flipped that on myself to start to understand other people. Accepting their pain for what it is, finding the bravery to shut up and let it touch me. I’ve gotten better at listening and, on rare occasion, having something useful to say.
I’ve also discovered that bravery is the right word. This week I experienced loss through friends and it shook me. I didn’t know what to say, I could hardly listen, and the pain was so great I couldn’t think. I was, and still am to a degree, trapped in that pain.
There are moments that can’t be helped or fixed, they must be felt. That sucks. That really sucks when laundry and dishes call, when someone you love is coming to dinner, and when your beautifully nerdy sons are asking to go to the library.
So here I feel. I know the path through, I’m finding the patience and trust to continue.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
I love this part.
Every time we set up the Lego workshop it gets better, more organized, and more fun. We’ve upgraded to a larger table, raised it to a less back-breaking-for-adults height, and added steps for smaller guest builders.
I sink myself into the sorting. I get inspired by piles of translucent dots (single-stud, round plates to some) and new colors in the collection. I never get it to where I want it before it’s time to pack away again, but I love the process.
Every day in February I’ll get to add a little order to the chaos and there’ll be a few nights where I make my own mess. We’re at a place where any build seems possible and the more parameters imposed, the more creativity ensues.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
It was almost a year after losing my wife that I went on my first date. It was a friendship that became romantic. We eased my sons into the idea by holding hands and hugging a little longer than usual. I saw my older, Westen, nine at the time, watching closely. We stole kisses here and there. We weren’t very careful and didn’t think much of it. He saw us once. His reaction seemed exaggerated and we thought it was a game, so we kissed again. It wasn’t a game. He was upset to the point of angry, despaired crying. I feel guilt over mismanaging that moment.
He said it wasn’t the kiss, but how we kissed, “You didn’t kiss Mom like that.”
“Fuuuck.” The word consumed my brain so that I almost spoke it. He was right. I loved Mary with everything I had and she loved me with all that she had. I was passionate for her, but she couldn’t reciprocate. We talked and agonized over it for years, looking for a place to meet and be happy in romance. We didn’t get the chance to figure it out. It’s the only question I have left about our marriage.
What do our children need to know about that? I want them to know that relationships take work and that you can love someone and have differences and you will have obstacles to master. I want them to be comfortable with the physical expression of love. To know their own needs and ask for them to be met. I want to show them all the things that love means: faith, communication, passion, patience, nurturing, empathy…
When I was a little younger than Westen, my parents were openly passionate for each other. I loved that. When I was his age I watched the passion disappear. I told myself I wanted that previous state, even if I didn’t understand it. I wanted kids and a wife I couldn’t keep my hands off. I’m the luckiest guy, I got my childhood dream.
Now I get to dream again. I get to love after love. I get to model what it means to be a gentleman, to be kind and strong, to have boundaries, to love oneself, to court a beautiful woman, and show as much care for myself as I do for her.
It all feels so damn right, then a year passes, then another kiss, then another meltdown.
I came here writing hoping to find my tragic flaw. Hamlet’s indecisiveness? Lear’s hubris? Othello’s jealousy? But I’m not a tragic figure. I’ve journeyed into the hinterlands, slayed the dragons, and come back with the girl.
Maybe it’s time to accept that Westen’s journey is his own. He’s been through hell. He’s slayed his own dragons. He’s as brave and strong as anyone I know. Maybe I can’t help him through his next steps.
It’s really hard to say that about a ten-year-old boy. It takes all the love and trust and faith I write about.
Thank you for taking the time to read this. I’ve been waiting a year to write it and couldn’t have done it until now. The problem feels less intractable now. This one was really just for me, but I sure hope it can help someone else.
God bless,
Jason
After this weekend’s Othello at New Light Theater my sons will have seen 11 full length Shakespeare productions, acted in several, and been participants in each of Delaware Shakespeare‘s Shakespeare Day events.
We’ve discussed the plot and watched Kenneth Branagh’s 1995 film adaptation. It’s a challenging story for anyone who pays attention, even more so for 8- and 10-year-old boys.
They’ve thumbed through the various graphic novels and children’s versions we found at the library and I have no doubt they are well prepared.
I love experiencing live theater by their sides. They disappear into the story, as if they were sitting right there on the stage (nearly the case at times). Even better is to hear their analyses of a production. From costumes and lighting to comedic choices and character portrayals, they come up with magnificent observations, criticisms, and wonderings.
So will they see all 37 (39?) of Shakespeare’s plays one day? I don’t know, but they’ve got a heck of a start.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
The workshop is taking shape for our next projects.
Each day in February we’ll be creating Lego sculptures to be featured in the Delaware Fun-A-Day exhibition at Center for Creative Arts. We’ve started brainstorming favorite local landmarks to recreate and how to work within the physical limitations. We’re welcoming home-educated friends to join us in creating something that represents the Delaware homeschooling community. It should be a grand adventure.
Our personal kickoff included a haul of loosely sorted Lego Friends sets that came with manuals. We sorted the sets as we built them and created a little town to adorn the work table before serious creativity ensues.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
Maybe is was straight loneliness. Or the cacophonous din of our unschooling life set against the heavy silences of morning and night. It was largely a recognition that my mind was broken.
I was blessed that Mary’s death didn’t break my heart or spirit. She didn’t betray me, our love was immortalized in her final moments. But my mind, the map that made sense of the world…that was torn and crumpled. I had visions of it shattered into a million purple shards, spinning away into blackness. I was lost. My identity was cast into the darkness and I could not find it. My mind had not solely been my own. Mary and I mapped our world together. The patterns in our brains coincided, meshed, intertwined, even stopped and started somewhere between us. Each of those connections were snapped at jagged angles. A lifetime of two minds working in accordance dashed against the rocks.
I could still reliably play “father.” And I found myself playing “husband” with ease, but without intention. We weren’t even dating, but I found a woman to play house. Like a child I was all too ready to be an avatar of “dad.” That was when I saw that I was a shell, a marionette being played by ideas that were no longer true (Were they ever true?).
Alcoholism, identity, a psychological break…I took them all on at the same time. Affirmations, guided meditations, books, AA meetings and coffee meetups, workshops, webinars, yoga, support groups, traditional therapy, prayer…I tried it all, often desperately seeking a silver bullet for my lack of self awareness.
There was something in each effort. I remember the pieces slowly appearing in each labyrinth walk and each awkward attempt at quieting my mind. I needed all the trys. It was the slowest and most painful attempt I had made at anything in my life. It’s not over, but I’ve come up for air to recognize the progress I’ve made. I love myself more each day. The journey has simplified to a couple affirmations (I love myself, I approve of myself, I trust myself) and an unending mantra of gratitude for all that I have been gifted by God.
I have learned that my Self does not need a name, but it does need love. Every day, as often as I can give it.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
We are a hyper active unschooling family. Museums, parks, nature hikes, library programs, live theater and music, Brazillian jiu-jitsu, church gatherings, and gymnastics make up most weeks for us.
Although our lifestyle allows for sleeping in, mutiple breaks in the action, and the occasional nap, it can get intense.
A Saturday morning downpour provided the perfect opportunity to take a day off from adventuring. We built Lego most of the day and watched a couple movies. Granted, one of those movies was Othello, in preparation for a stage production we’ll see next week, but we ate ice cream and chips for nearly two hours, so I’ll call that rest.
A necessary component of unschooling is rest. Keeping up with my sons’ energy is no joke. Feeding their curiosity; exposing them to new ideas, people and places; and encouraging their multiple passions is a thrill ride. It’s a ride that needs to go offline for maintence on a regular basis. “Regular” may not look like a standard schedule, but the rest must come at the right times. My advantage as their educational facilitator and father is that I can read their signals and know when to put the brakes on. I already know we need another day of rest tomorrow. It’s an unusual way for us to spend a weekend, but it’s right and I know they’ll be ready for another exciting week of exploring our inner and outer worlds.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason
I regularly reach out to widows and frequently write about widowhood, so it’s no surprise that I’m also approached by the widowed who are looking for answers and understanding.
Part of my mission in this life is to share my experiences and help those in similar circumstances learn their own courage.
So when a friend came to me with the horrible news that her friend had suddenly lost her young husband, it was no surprise that I was the one getting the message.
I wasn’t ready. I was high on enjoying a rare, quiet moment without my sons before a night out.
It became instant tears, anger, and sadness. Why must I be reminded while I’m trying to live a partially normal life?
Life works better when I own up to the odd turns of fate that brought me to this moment. Everything is more coherent under the lens of particularity.
It’s a weird thing to be a widower with children. It’s a weirder thing to be an unschooling father in those conditions.
I’m better off when I embrace the weird.
God bless and thank you for reading,
Jason