Returning to Joyville

I've been a drop out from the University of Happiness. I missed the Joy express. I've been standing at the station with my calendar of activities in my hand - frozen, tired, overwhelmed - just grateful that no one on the train seems to have realized that I didn't get on board.

It isn't that I didn't show up. I've belly danced, clogged, zumba'd and gentle yoga'd myself all over the place. There is a new sculpture on my counter and an awesome piece of fused glass sitting in the sun, bragging on itself, actually (glass can be so smug).

What made me slip my ticket to Nirvana back into my pocket was the door-slamming realization that doing fun things doesn't fix broken hearts. It makes you seem like you're doing a lot better, and it makes other people breathe out giant sighs of relief, but inside, it's still me missing Tom to Latin music, me making him a memorial sculpture, me choosing pieces of colored glass to melt and mold - and all the time wishing I could tell him about it.

I'm sure there will ultimately be a shift in me. The art or the movement or the music will start to feel like a warm reminder of him. In the meantime, I'm walking this strange path that is filled with beauty and pain, paralyzing grief and the miracle of melted glass.