Mary, it has been one of the great joys of my substack experience to read your writing. I look forward with anticipation to your work. I know that it comes from a place of deep emotion. It is so raw, so real, so genuine, and oh so very good. You are an amazing human with a heart of gold. Keep sharing your beautiful, painful, wonderfully unique story with the world. Thank you dear Mary.
Matthew, what a lovely thing to say. I don’t know about gold; my children have compared me to other substances.😊I do try to write honestly and from my lived experience, and to find my way around this new landscape of grief. Thank you for sharing your kind words.
SOOOO Seconded. Beautifully said. Especially the 'oh so very good'—like savouring the intensely rich goodness of her writing and wishing it wouldn't end...umm yes I'm addicted.
You have captured the frustrations of missing a partner so well. “Why can’t you fix this?” I’ve asked that question many times. It does get better, but it takes a long time when you’ve lost the one you shared everything with.
Thank you, Lou. It does seem easier at times. But then a birthday or holiday or comes along, or the window won’t close, and the pain comes back. May we all learn to care for each other in grief.
This was just what I needed before heading to the surgery center for ankle reconstruction... a dose of MARY ROBLYN BRILLIANCE. Thank you for using your significant skill and uncanny talent to share your story. Until Part Two... 🫶🏻
Kim, surgery! It’s been quite the journey for you. I hope all goes well. Many thanks for your incredibly kind comments. Part two is coming. Not in the rearview mirror yet, but closing the distance.🙏
The ground coffee and your husband's ashes left behind at home! That I didn't see coming.
Though I was with you along the route to the headwaters of the Mighty River. Your concrete descriptions and sensory details felt eerily familiar. (And Ozawindib was a Swede; in Ojibwe it means Yellow Head; he married a Metis woman and lived among the Ojibwe and did show Schoolcraft where to find the source of the Mississippi).
Jill, it’s great to have a Minnesota historian in the house! I learn so much from you. It’s always just the bare-bones summaries in the information that’s given out at the state parks or on Wikipedia. And you never know if there’s an agenda, or how much scrutiny of the records has been done. I had no idea that Ozawindib was a Swede, but given the settlement history of the area it makes sense.
I think very little has changed with the headwaters since I was a kid. That wooden log post from the 1930s. The rocks. The signs. The park is different, with the visitor center and gift shop.
And oh yes, the coffee and the ashes. Insomnia really messes with the brain.
Finding your cabin with GPS is always a scary proposition, but this was really scary! The north woods alone with grief seemed a sacred trip anyway. It is only recently that historians have understood Schoolcraft's guide to have been the first Swede in Minnesota. https://jillswenson.substack.com/p/ozaawindib-yellow-head
Jill, I was so grateful to have arrived before sundown! The rental had a no-refunds policy, and I was terrified that I’d broken the car. I did intend it as a sacred journey, and ultimately, it felt that way. Thank you for the link; I will check it out.
Mary! You've added the art of the cliffhanger to your writing arsenal - you are unstoppable! You are far braver than I to go out into the wilderness alone, and the way you describe the trip, I was right there with you (yes, I would like the side by the window, thank you), and I had the urge to slap myself on the forehead when you realized you forgot the coffee - nooooo! I remember that black box, a slightly larger version of an index card filing organizer for recipes. I'm familiar with the fetal position as well, but I'm usually on the floor. I should try the couch. I can't wait to read part 2. Love you ❤️❤️❤️
Dear Amy, So good to know I’m not crazy, “just” grieving, and not alone. As for bravery, I think it was mostly fatigue, and a loss of critical thinking skills when it came to Siri. Like: how many times have I turned into the “car park” instead of making a right at the intersection up ahead? And the cliffhanger wasn’t intentional; I just got to a certain number of words and it seemed like a good place to stop. Love you too.💕❤️🫶
Eliza, lack of sleep does strange things to the brain. I’m embarrassed about forgetting the two most important things, though. Like, okay, should I just go home and start over? Good to hear that I’m not alone.❤️
Mary, as always this is a poignant, personal account written with sensitivity and emotion. I am a painter. Some years ago, a beloved teacher in an art class I was taking would begin every session by writing on the white board “Art=Emotion.” I keep that close and observe it not only in paintings I make and observe but in every art form: dance, music, writing, culinary and so on. You keep the emotion in your writing and it is very affecting. I am there with you though I have yet to experience the ultimate loss you have. Many around me, now in our 70s or 80’s, are going through their own journeys in their own ways. While I hope I am supportive, I will not know how my own will be and that feels humbling and a bit scary. Thank you for sharing this. Part Two, please, when you are up to it.
Dear Mary, your writing took me through so many emotions.
Admiration for your bravery, setting off alone on a journey ,having given so much careful thought to the perfect venue , to scatter your husband's ashes.
Anger at the pickup driver and the rest of the world for not being aware of you heartache
Fear at being alone and not being able to find your destination
Terror at being alone and afraid of mechanical disaster with the car
Exhaustion at finally arriving in unfamiliar surroundings
And finally such disappointment.
My husband died in 2006, I still have his ashes in a box beside my bed, it gives me some comfort and I can't make up my mind where he would like to have been . Now I tell my children that when I go to scatter us both together, Still no destination decided .
Basically I am a coward .
So well done and I do hope that you are able to do the right thing for you in the end.
Jenny, my deepest condolences for the loss of your husband. You are not alone, and in no way are you a coward. I believe that there is a reason why I forgot the ashes. It wasn’t the right time or place. I’m thinking, now, of Lake Superior. That was my original thought, but the seasonal tourism argued against it. It is a place that means a lot to us as a family. Lots of vacations there, my son’s wedding, and there is a spiritual connection that runs deep. So: just as well.
It was a scary trip in a lot of ways. My husband was always the driver when we went anywhere; it was a huge stress when I had to drive with him in the passenger seat. So there was some residual anxiety about that. But I made it there and back, didn’t break the car, no catastrophes. The place where I stayed was nice. Glad I got out of the house. But it took me eighteen months!
Dearest Mary, now I understand what you meant in your message.
Heart-cinched tight at 'husband-size hole in my life', and I gasped, 'noooo' at the ending...sending hugs and love.
As I commented to Matthew below, I know I'm addicted to your writing! But NOT for a fast quick fix, oh no, I must have quiet space and time to really savour your words because in every piece you gift to us, you highlight the humaning bittersweetness of life.
Gentle hugs to Mini, hellos to your daughter and I'll try not to get too impatient for part 2! xo
Oh, Victoria! You are so kind. I am deeply grateful to have you as a guide and companion on this journey. Mini is hanging in there, as sweet as ever. My daughter is turning forty - gasp! - next week. Part two is almost ready to hit the road.🙏❤️💕
Mary, this beautifully limned account of the saddest journey you could take is proof that sad stories told by a true writer are anything but depressing. There’s pleasure to be found in the rhythm of the words and in the impressions they conjure. I look forward to part 2.
Rona, thank you. Coming from a writer I admire so much, I am honored. It did take some time to wash the feeling of despair out of this; despair is not a good place to write from. With part two, I’ve proceeded to the route.
Gorgeous and riveting. Now I need Part Two.
Thank you, Laura! It’s coming soon.
So human, thank you.
Thank you, Abby.🙏
Mary, it has been one of the great joys of my substack experience to read your writing. I look forward with anticipation to your work. I know that it comes from a place of deep emotion. It is so raw, so real, so genuine, and oh so very good. You are an amazing human with a heart of gold. Keep sharing your beautiful, painful, wonderfully unique story with the world. Thank you dear Mary.
Matthew, what a lovely thing to say. I don’t know about gold; my children have compared me to other substances.😊I do try to write honestly and from my lived experience, and to find my way around this new landscape of grief. Thank you for sharing your kind words.
SOOOO Seconded. Beautifully said. Especially the 'oh so very good'—like savouring the intensely rich goodness of her writing and wishing it wouldn't end...umm yes I'm addicted.
Victoria, hugs to you and an espresso martini 🍸 or two. But not while I’m driving!🥰
You have captured the frustrations of missing a partner so well. “Why can’t you fix this?” I’ve asked that question many times. It does get better, but it takes a long time when you’ve lost the one you shared everything with.
Thank you, Lou. It does seem easier at times. But then a birthday or holiday or comes along, or the window won’t close, and the pain comes back. May we all learn to care for each other in grief.
I think grieving is like a spiral — you return to those old memories and pain, but from a different place. I know how hard that is.
Lou, my condolences on your loss. I write to connect; I’m glad we’ve connected here.
This was just what I needed before heading to the surgery center for ankle reconstruction... a dose of MARY ROBLYN BRILLIANCE. Thank you for using your significant skill and uncanny talent to share your story. Until Part Two... 🫶🏻
Kim, surgery! It’s been quite the journey for you. I hope all goes well. Many thanks for your incredibly kind comments. Part two is coming. Not in the rearview mirror yet, but closing the distance.🙏
Thank you as always, Mary, for your lovely writing.
Shell, thank you. You are very kind.🙏
Compelling and truly human, Mary. Thank you for sharing your gift of writing.
Sonya, you are so generous. I’m grateful for your kind comment.
Oh, dear. That ending.
Zina,❤️🙏
The ground coffee and your husband's ashes left behind at home! That I didn't see coming.
Though I was with you along the route to the headwaters of the Mighty River. Your concrete descriptions and sensory details felt eerily familiar. (And Ozawindib was a Swede; in Ojibwe it means Yellow Head; he married a Metis woman and lived among the Ojibwe and did show Schoolcraft where to find the source of the Mississippi).
Jill, it’s great to have a Minnesota historian in the house! I learn so much from you. It’s always just the bare-bones summaries in the information that’s given out at the state parks or on Wikipedia. And you never know if there’s an agenda, or how much scrutiny of the records has been done. I had no idea that Ozawindib was a Swede, but given the settlement history of the area it makes sense.
I think very little has changed with the headwaters since I was a kid. That wooden log post from the 1930s. The rocks. The signs. The park is different, with the visitor center and gift shop.
And oh yes, the coffee and the ashes. Insomnia really messes with the brain.
Finding your cabin with GPS is always a scary proposition, but this was really scary! The north woods alone with grief seemed a sacred trip anyway. It is only recently that historians have understood Schoolcraft's guide to have been the first Swede in Minnesota. https://jillswenson.substack.com/p/ozaawindib-yellow-head
Jill, I was so grateful to have arrived before sundown! The rental had a no-refunds policy, and I was terrified that I’d broken the car. I did intend it as a sacred journey, and ultimately, it felt that way. Thank you for the link; I will check it out.
Mary! You've added the art of the cliffhanger to your writing arsenal - you are unstoppable! You are far braver than I to go out into the wilderness alone, and the way you describe the trip, I was right there with you (yes, I would like the side by the window, thank you), and I had the urge to slap myself on the forehead when you realized you forgot the coffee - nooooo! I remember that black box, a slightly larger version of an index card filing organizer for recipes. I'm familiar with the fetal position as well, but I'm usually on the floor. I should try the couch. I can't wait to read part 2. Love you ❤️❤️❤️
Dear Amy, So good to know I’m not crazy, “just” grieving, and not alone. As for bravery, I think it was mostly fatigue, and a loss of critical thinking skills when it came to Siri. Like: how many times have I turned into the “car park” instead of making a right at the intersection up ahead? And the cliffhanger wasn’t intentional; I just got to a certain number of words and it seemed like a good place to stop. Love you too.💕❤️🫶
As far as I'm concerned, it's bravery and cliffhangers. XO 🥰
❤️🫶💕
I’m so so sorry. That ending is such a punch. And easy to identify with. I’d have definitely forgotten the ashes..♥️
Eliza, lack of sleep does strange things to the brain. I’m embarrassed about forgetting the two most important things, though. Like, okay, should I just go home and start over? Good to hear that I’m not alone.❤️
I’ve struggled with sleep for decades, so I relate very much.
I’m sorry to hear that. Sleep is so critical to our well-being. Here’s hoping we get better.🤞
Mary, as always this is a poignant, personal account written with sensitivity and emotion. I am a painter. Some years ago, a beloved teacher in an art class I was taking would begin every session by writing on the white board “Art=Emotion.” I keep that close and observe it not only in paintings I make and observe but in every art form: dance, music, writing, culinary and so on. You keep the emotion in your writing and it is very affecting. I am there with you though I have yet to experience the ultimate loss you have. Many around me, now in our 70s or 80’s, are going through their own journeys in their own ways. While I hope I am supportive, I will not know how my own will be and that feels humbling and a bit scary. Thank you for sharing this. Part Two, please, when you are up to it.
Sorry, Debra, my response scooted to the bottom of the thread! I may have dropped my phone one too many times.
Mary, your words take on such feelings. Thank you for sharing yourself with us.
Monica, thank you.🙏
Dear Mary, your writing took me through so many emotions.
Admiration for your bravery, setting off alone on a journey ,having given so much careful thought to the perfect venue , to scatter your husband's ashes.
Anger at the pickup driver and the rest of the world for not being aware of you heartache
Fear at being alone and not being able to find your destination
Terror at being alone and afraid of mechanical disaster with the car
Exhaustion at finally arriving in unfamiliar surroundings
And finally such disappointment.
My husband died in 2006, I still have his ashes in a box beside my bed, it gives me some comfort and I can't make up my mind where he would like to have been . Now I tell my children that when I go to scatter us both together, Still no destination decided .
Basically I am a coward .
So well done and I do hope that you are able to do the right thing for you in the end.
Much love
jenny
Jenny, my deepest condolences for the loss of your husband. You are not alone, and in no way are you a coward. I believe that there is a reason why I forgot the ashes. It wasn’t the right time or place. I’m thinking, now, of Lake Superior. That was my original thought, but the seasonal tourism argued against it. It is a place that means a lot to us as a family. Lots of vacations there, my son’s wedding, and there is a spiritual connection that runs deep. So: just as well.
It was a scary trip in a lot of ways. My husband was always the driver when we went anywhere; it was a huge stress when I had to drive with him in the passenger seat. So there was some residual anxiety about that. But I made it there and back, didn’t break the car, no catastrophes. The place where I stayed was nice. Glad I got out of the house. But it took me eighteen months!
You will find your way, on your own time.❤️
Dearest Mary, now I understand what you meant in your message.
Heart-cinched tight at 'husband-size hole in my life', and I gasped, 'noooo' at the ending...sending hugs and love.
As I commented to Matthew below, I know I'm addicted to your writing! But NOT for a fast quick fix, oh no, I must have quiet space and time to really savour your words because in every piece you gift to us, you highlight the humaning bittersweetness of life.
Gentle hugs to Mini, hellos to your daughter and I'll try not to get too impatient for part 2! xo
Oh, Victoria! You are so kind. I am deeply grateful to have you as a guide and companion on this journey. Mini is hanging in there, as sweet as ever. My daughter is turning forty - gasp! - next week. Part two is almost ready to hit the road.🙏❤️💕
Awww - Happy early birthday to your daughter, if I forget to say that next week!
xo hugs
🥰💕🫶
Mary, this beautifully limned account of the saddest journey you could take is proof that sad stories told by a true writer are anything but depressing. There’s pleasure to be found in the rhythm of the words and in the impressions they conjure. I look forward to part 2.
Rona, thank you. Coming from a writer I admire so much, I am honored. It did take some time to wash the feeling of despair out of this; despair is not a good place to write from. With part two, I’ve proceeded to the route.