This morning, I was feeling #grateful for #solitude. I'd gotten up around 5:30, walked the dogs in the relative cool of the desert air, fed them their breakfasts, then headed out on my bike for 13 miles on the road as the sun rose.

When I returned home, I stripped off my shoes and biking shorts and dove into the pool to swim a few cooling laps. I came inside and made coffee and a breakfast sandwich (sourdough English muffin, sausage, Swiss, and egg) and read a bit of my current book, FORENZER.

As I set my book aside, I looked out the French doors at the sun coming into the family room, Joaquin asleep on the rug at my feet, soft classical music emerging from my sound system--and thought how blessed I am.

And then I had the thought that usually intrudes these days during moments of peace, contentment, and joy--"This isn't right. Bruce isn't here."

No, my beloved husband has transitioned into a different realm and different form of being. I love and miss him daily. I cry daily at the hole in my being his absence has left in his wake.

And yet, and yet... I love my quiet mornings. I felt a little ashamed and guilty that I enjoy them so much, even though the person I loved most in the world is gone. 

And I had to wonder, am I better off without him? After all, this peace and contentment arises from solitude.

The answer came back swiftly, from deep within my soul. No, I'm not better off. One of the things that will cause tears to well up with lightning speed is the dream of him returning to me, that his being gone was nothing more than some cosmic error or a bad dream. 

I would give anything to have him back.

So how/why do I enjoy the peace I feel at being alone so much?

I believe the answer lies in the truth that nothing in life is all one way. Paradoxes exist in every waking moment. I can miss Bruce with all my heart and love my aloneness with all of that same heart. One doesn't negate the other.

And my bottom line is always this reminder, "Rick, he would want you to be happy."