Celebrating the Journey at Hole 8

This week is a big week for the widows in my life- the military widows of The American Widow Project. Wednesday, we had our first annual charity golf tournament for the organization. Each golf hole was dedicated to the soul mate of an AWP member.

I spent the entire day on a golf course in North Carolina with about 120 supporters and 15 military widows. It was most definitely one of those days when you have to take a step back and shake your head in disbelief. So many supporter. So many survivors. And I am both.

I watched these 15 widows play golf, interact with strangers, hand out prizes, and laugh out loud. They were living life. Something I, at one point, thought I'd never be able to do again. Time and time again "life" surprises me. Shocks me, even. And pushes me. All 15 of us have very different stories in comparison. We're at different points in our journeys. But there we were in one place celebrating one thing... Life. The lives of our soul mates and our lives as survivors.

At hole 8 I found myself smiling from ear to ear... because if I must walk this journey... that was exactly where I wanted to be on that day at that moment with those women. I was celebrating this journey... as were they.

Next Box

I've moved twice since David passed. Both moves necessary, emotional, and exhausting. I moved into this house 3 months ago. I had unopened boxes from both moves and at some point I just stopped unpacking. Those that remained were shoved into the guest bedroom with the door shut. From time to time I would consider opening the door and organizing the crap I piled on the bed and in the closet... Until this week, it was only a thought. I had completely forgotten what was even in the boxes I kept hidden away.

As I opened the boxes of items that sparked memories of what now seems like my "previous life," a nauseous feeling swept over me. I took deep breaths and forged on. One box contained books... financial books I was reading and saving for David to read when he got home from Iraq, and a journal. My teenage journal. My journal of "I got to see David today," "I think I love David," and "I told my mom I'm going to marry David" days. Seems like such a long time ago. Again, the nauseous feeling came... more deep breaths. I read the journal from start to finish before I continued through the room.

Next box.

Office supplies, photos, Cd's, and a really old computer. I had several flat rate envelopes in the box and I couldn't remember why I had kept them... I was about to throw them away when I realized an envelope had papers in it. I held the envelope upside down and out came the pre-addressed labels and customs forms... To David... From Me. I sent David a package and an envelope filled with letters every week while he was deployed. He looked forward to them every week. How could I forget what the envelopes had been for? I froze for what felt like minutes but had probably only been a few moments. Again, I took a deep breath and just starred at David's name printed on 20 pieces of paper. In that moment I felt like I shrunk a whole foot because the sadness was just... so heavy. I stuffed the papers back into the envelope and put the envelope aside.

Next Box.

In the midst of binders and papers to reorganize and file, I came across a thin red folder. I didn't recognize the red folder and without hesitation I opened it, quickly thumbing through what looked like school notes. How old are these? The date on the last page: January 8, 2008... my handwriting. I went to take in a deep breath...and... nothing... my lungs forgot how to work. My eyes we blinking back tears and my mind fought, fought hard to hold on to something... anything. It was only minutes after writing those notes I got the phone call that changed my life... the day David died... the day I never went back.

These boxes revealed traces of my previous life... a life I loved. A life filled with joy and promise. It was like searching through the clues of a cold case file... evidence after evidence... all leading to nothing. A dead end. To January 8Th. Everything I was familiar with stopped that day. Every plan for our future... gone. Cruel evidence.

Our life together now isn't what we ever imagined it would be. But I'm trying my best to make it one that I'd be proud to one day recount. I had put these items into boxes knowing that one day I'd open them... So again, I did the same. I put the items that drew so much emotion out of me into new boxes... Maybe one day I'll feel differently about them. Maybe one day they wont hurt me so much.

A Journal Entry

I've been glancing at David's journal for the past week. It sits on a special bookshelf in our living room. I used to read it every night before my pathetic attempt at sleep but it's been a while since I've opened the pages. This small, brown, soft leather journal is emenently special to me. His hands have touched every page of the tattered book, on a good day or bad day this journal was his connection to me. His outlet when I couldn't be. Finally, today, I opened it... for the hundredth time.

David's front journal entry, November 24, 2005:

"Baby, not everything in this book is going to be easy to read. These are my thoughts and feelings. My fears and Love notes. I am going to spill my guts, try to write songs and pour out my heart. When I'm done... this is for you.

I love you with all my heart, Nicole.

David Hart."


Lately, I've felt like life has been asking more of me. Not in an overwhelming way... but that soft, almost silent knock on at my conscience. I've been surpressing that gentle push, thinking what more can I possible do?! What more can life want... expect... of me? Somehow, I can get myself to sleep every night knowing very well that I'll wake up in the morning. And then somehow... I get myself up everyday. I've become comfortable with my routine... Warmed the seat I'm sitting on. But even though my seat is warm... it's become quit lumpy.

Raw. Honest. Real. Were emotions that jumped out to me from this entry. That was David. That was us. His opening page was all I had to read to set my perspective straight. His words, "when I'm done... this is for you," sparked a thought: Am I living a life worthy of such devotion? Am I being honest with myself? Do I recognize who I've become? If I was being as honest with myself as David always was with himself... I'd say, No. I'd say, life as been asking more of me, and I've chosen to ignore it. This request... may only be an inch... but an inch in which direction?? At the moment, I can't be sure. But I can no longer ignore it. David wouldn't want me to. He'd be the first to enourage me to find myself... to listen to the silent knock... to take the inch and find out where it leads me. But even though the journey might only be a simple inch farther... from experience, it might not be scenic getting there. Maybe that's where my hesitation stems from. The expecting of the ugly. The bad to get to the good. Either way, I have to try.

"Baby, this journey I take may not always be easy for you to watch... because pain will get the better of me at times. I will always still be learning, but I promise to be as honest with myself as you would be with me. You already know my thoughts, feelings, fears and love notes. I will try to dance for you, My Love, and enjoy this life. When I'm done... You'll know... that it was all for you.

I love you with all my heart, David.
Nicole Hart."

To Survive...

It feels as though it doesn't take much to get me tired these days. I could be doing the same tasks I did before, only now, it takes everything out me. I'm exhausted to the core. Emotionally, I'm fine. Physically, I'm spent. I wonder if it'll always be like this... If it'll always take quadruple the strength to get through a day and all that it entails. When I woke up this morning, I thought "I survived." Survived yesterday.

What does it really mean, anyway, to survive? Surviving could seem more like a curse than an attribute at times. When the words "You are strong" were said to me, I'd almost gag. I was disgusted. Strong? Did I ever really choose to be strong? Merely existing was a betrayal in itself. So, to tell me that on top of existing I was "strong" and a "survivor" ...I was appalled.

But... I guess I am a survivor. Out of all things to survive from, I survive through this?! Did I know that I was capable of surviving such a reality? Hell no. But what shocks me, even now as I lay in my bed with a bleary view of my day, is that I am more... more than a survivor. I'm exhausted because I am living... breathing... prevailing. In those first few months, existing was more than I thought possible... More than what should have been asked of me. Still, there are days, sometimes weeks, when existing and "being" is all I can muster. Then there are mornings like now, when I can recognize the weeks that have past me by so quickly and why...

I'm grateful this morning. Grateful, for the chance to meet so many vigorous women who, in the face of their worst reality, do more than survive... unknowingly, they've inspired me to do the same.